Chapter 3
Harper
The moment Dean's footsteps fade, I slide down the door and bury my face in his coat. It smells like pine and woodsmoke and man, and I'm officially in trouble. The kind of trouble that would make my best friend Josie squeal with delight and my ex... well, he wouldn't be happy about any of this.
"Get it together, Harper," I mutter, forcing myself to stand. "He's just being nice. Doing his mountain man duty. Probably rescues helpless women every Tuesday."
But the way he'd touched my shoulder, rough fingers grazing my skin... that hadn't felt like duty.
I shake off the thought and explore my temporary shelter.
The cabin is gorgeous. All warm wood and natural stone, with windows that probably offer amazing views when they're not obscured by biblical amounts of snow.
A narrow staircase leads to the loft, where I find a queen-sized bed topped with what looks like a handmade quilt.
Everything here feels solid. Real. The opposite of my carefully curated IKEA life in Seattle.
I'm halfway through investigating the small kitchen's cabinets (fully stocked, because of course mountain man is prepared) when three sharp knocks make me jump.
"Harper?" His voice is muffled by the storm. "It's me."
I definitely don't run to the door. Power walk, maybe.
He steps in with a blast of cold air and snow, carrying supplies and radiating that intense energy that makes the cabin feel suddenly smaller. His dark hair is dusted with white, his cheeks red from the wind, and it's completely unfair how good he looks.
"Brought food," he says, setting down a box and taking off a jacket he must have grabbed in his cabin. "Extra blankets. Firewood. Water. There's a landline if you need it. Cell service is usually weak up here, even in good conditions."
I try not to stare as he efficiently unloads everything. The t-shirt he's wearing pulls across his shoulders with each movement, and I'm starting to understand why all those romance novels feature lumberjacks.
"Thank you." I clear my throat. "Really. I know this isn't how you planned to spend your evening."
He straightens, and suddenly the kitchen feels very small. "Plans change."
"Do they? You strike me as someone who likes his routine."
His eyes narrow slightly. "You trying to figure me out?"
"Maybe." I lean against the counter, aware I'm still wearing his coat, aware of every inch of space between us. "Is it working?"
"No." But his mouth quirks up slightly. "How's the fire holding up?"
"Good! I mean, I think. I haven't actually checked. Or, um, ever maintained a real fire before."
He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "city girls" and moves to the fireplace. I definitely don't watch the way his jeans tighten as he crouches down to add another log.
"Come here," he says, and my heart definitely doesn't skip, either. "You need to learn this."
I approach cautiously, kneeling beside him. He explains about airflow and log placement, demonstrating with steady hands. I try to focus on the lesson, but he's radiating heat, and when he reaches past me to grab the poker, his arm brushes mine.
"Got it?" he asks, his voice rougher than before.
"Absolutely not. I was completely distracted by..." I snap my mouth shut, feeling heat crawl up my neck.
"By?"
"The... technical complexity of fire maintenance?"
He makes that sound again, the one that's almost a laugh but not quite. "Try again."
"I'd rather not." I stand quickly, nearly tripping over myself. "So! Is the generator good? Storm still bad? Any other survival skills I should know about? Bear wrestling? Moose taming?"
"Harper." He rises slowly, all coiled grace, and suddenly I'm very aware that I've backed myself into a corner. "What are you really running from?"
The question hits like ice water. "I'm not—"
"Bullshit." But his voice is gentle. "Nobody buys a bookstore two thousand miles from home, in November, unless they're running from something."
Or someone. But I'm not ready for that conversation. Not with this stranger who doesn't feel like a stranger at all.
"Maybe I just really like books," I say lightly. "Maybe I'm pursuing my dream of becoming a small-town bookstore owner who solves mysteries in her spare time."
"And names her vehicles?"
"That's just a quirky character trait to make me more endearing to readers."
This time he does laugh, the sound rich and unexpected. "That what I am? A reader?"
No. He's the love interest. The plot twist. The complication I definitely don't need right now.
But before I can answer, the lights flicker once, twice, and go out.
Perfect.
"Don't move," Dean says in the darkness. "There's a lantern under the sink."
I hear him moving with sure steps, the click of cabinets, then soft light fills the room. He sets the lantern on the counter, and the shadows it casts make him look even more dangerous. More compelling.
"Generator's probably iced up," he says. "I should—"
"Don't." The word comes out before I can stop it. "I mean... it's getting worse out there. And we have the fire. And I..." I take a breath. "I don't want to be alone."
He goes very still. The lantern throws shadows across his face, making his expression unreadable. For a long moment, the only sound is the crackling fire and the howling wind.
"Harper," he says finally, my name like a warning. "I'm not good at being around people."
"Good thing I'm not people." I shrug off his coat, draping it over a chair. "I'm just a quirky bookstore owner. In training."
He takes a step closer, and the air changes, charges. "This isn't a book."
"No?" I lift my chin. "Stranded in a snowstorm with a gorgeous, grumpy mountain man? Seems pretty on-brand for a romance book to me."
His eyes darken. "You think this is romantic?"
"I think..." I wet my lips, watching his gaze track the movement. Be bold, Harper . "I think you're still here. Even though you keep saying you should go."
Another step. He's close enough now that I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes. "Maybe I'm just worried about you burning the place down."
"Maybe." I smile. "Or maybe you're not as alone-loving as you pretend to be."
His hand comes up, callused fingers brushing my cheek so lightly I might have imagined it. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you stopped to help a stranger." I lean into his touch, just slightly. "I know you gave me your coat. I know you—"
The fire pops loudly, making us both jump. Dean steps back like he's been burned, running a hand through his hair.
"I'll heat up some soup for dinner," he says roughly.
Then he's across the room, putting safe distance between us, leaving me breathless and confused and more intrigued than ever.
So much for not getting involved in any more complications.
*****
Sleep isn't happening.
Not with the wind howling outside like a lost soul. Not with the unfamiliar creaks of a cabin settling. And definitely not with the knowledge that Dean McKnight is downstairs, probably brooding magnificently on that leather couch.
By two AM, I give up. The fire's died down to embers, casting just enough light to navigate the stairs. I make it halfway down before freezing – Dean's sitting up, shirtless, staring into the dying fire.
I should go back upstairs. I should absolutely, definitely not notice how the faint light plays across his shoulders, or the way his hair is mussed from sleep, or—
"Can't sleep?" His voice is rough, lower than before.
Busted. "How did you know I was here?"
"Third step creaks."
Of course it does. I finish my descent, trying to look like I totally meant to get caught staring. "I was just getting water."
He gestures to the kitchen without looking at me. I'm halfway there when his sharp intake of breath makes me turn.
Oh. Right. I'm in sleep shorts and a thin t-shirt. No bra. Definitely not appropriate attire for late-night water missions.
"Sorry," I mumble, crossing my arms. "I didn't think..."
"Don't." His voice is strained. "Just... get your water."
I fill a glass with shaking hands, very aware of his presence behind me. When I turn back, he's added another log to the fire, sparks dancing up the chimney.
"You should go back to bed," he says, still not looking at me.
"Probably." I take a sip of water. "Want to know why I can't sleep?"
"No."
I sit on the opposite end of the couch anyway. "I keep thinking about how different this is. From Seattle, I mean. It's never this quiet there. Even at night, there's always sirens or traffic or drunk college students singing 'Sweet Caroline.'"
He finally looks at me, firelight catching the angles of his face. "You miss it?"
"I thought I would." I tuck my feet under me, careful to maintain distance between us. "But this kind of quiet... it feels honest, you know?"
"Honest," he repeats softly. "That why you came here? Looking for honesty?"
Something in his tone makes me brave. Or maybe it's just the late hour, the storm, the intimacy of firelight.
"My ex-fiancé was sleeping with his co-worker." The words come easier in the dark. "Classic, right? Like, couldn't he at least be original about destroying my trust?"
Dean goes very still. "When?"
"Three months ago. Right before the wedding." I attempt a laugh, but it comes out shaky. "We'd been together since college. I was... waiting. For marriage. For it to be special."
I wrap my arms tighter around myself. "Meanwhile, he was sleeping with half the office. Turns out everything was a lie. The faithful boyfriend act, his job, our future. He was good at making people believe things."
"He hurt you?"
The question is quiet, dangerous. There's something protective in his tone that makes my heart flutter.
"Not physically. Just made me doubt everything.
Every decision. Every instinct." I stare into the fire.
"I'd saved myself for what I thought was real love, and he couldn't even save himself for three more months until our wedding.
So I decided to do something he'd hate. Something impulsive and unrealistic and completely outside his perfect ten-year plan. "
"Buy a bookstore in Montana."
"Yep." I pop the 'p', trying to lighten the mood. "Show's what he knows about ten-year plans."
Dean shifts slightly, and suddenly we're closer, though I'm not sure which of us moved. "You didn't answer my question from before."
"Which one?"
"Are you running from him?"
I should lie. Should keep this conversation casual. But Dean's looking at me like he can see straight through me, and maybe it's time for some of that mountain honesty.
"He won't let it go," I whisper. "The texts, the calls, the emails... he keeps saying he can explain, that I'm overreacting, that I'm making a huge mistake..." I wrap my arms around myself. "So yeah, maybe I'm running. But I'm also trying to find something. Something real."
Silence stretches between us, broken only by the crack and pop of burning wood. Then, slowly, deliberately, Dean reaches out and takes my water glass, setting it aside.
"Come here," he says roughly.
I hesitate for half a heartbeat before sliding closer. His arm wraps around me, and I let myself lean into his warmth, my head fitting perfectly against his shoulder.
"He shows up here," Dean says into my hair, "he's going to have a real problem."
"Because you're so good at taking in strays?"
"Because I know real when I see it." His fingers trail up my arm, barely touching. "And you, Harper James, are the most real thing I've seen in a long time."
My heart stutters. "Even with my weather app dependence and truck-naming habits?"
"Even then." He presses what might be a kiss to my temple, so light I'm not sure it happened. "Try to sleep."
I should go back upstairs. Should maintain some kind of boundary. Instead, I burrow closer, letting his steady heartbeat drown out the storm.
The last thing I remember is his hand in my hair, his whispered words lost to the wind.