3. Elisa
three
Elisa
I'm gripping the door handle so hard my knuckles have gone white, but I refuse to make a sound as Jace's truck navigates what barely qualifies as a road. The snow is falling in hypnotic sheets now, the windshield wipers fighting a losing battle against the onslaught. Every few seconds, the tires slip slightly before regaining traction, each small slide sending my heart into my throat.
"You doing okay over there?" Jace asks, his voice surprisingly calm.
"Fine," I lie through clenched teeth. What I really want to say is that nothing about this situation is fine. My perfectly organized schedule is in shambles. My high-profile clients are probably already considering other wedding planners. And I'm stuck in a truck with a mountain man who clearly thinks I'm some helpless city girl.
But then I glance over at him and momentarily forget my complaints. His profile is illuminated by the dim glow of the dashboard—strong jawline covered in that dark beard, brow furrowed in concentration as he navigates the treacherous conditions. His hands grip the steering wheel with casual confidence—large, capable hands with calluses I noticed when he helped load my suitcase. They're the hands of someone who builds things, fixes things. So different from the manicured executives I usually work with.
I quickly look away, annoyed at myself. This is hardly the time for... whatever that thought was.
"Almost there," he says, turning onto what appears to be an even narrower path. "My place is just around this bend."
When the cabin comes into view through the curtain of snow, I can't hold back a small gasp. This is not the rustic shack I was expecting. It's substantial and beautifully crafted, with large windows and a wraparound porch. Warm light glows from within, somehow defying the growing storm.
"You left the lights on," I say stupidly.
"Smart home system," he replies with a hint of amusement. "I turned them on remotely when Helen called."
Of course he has a smart home system. Why did I assume this man who works with expensive lodge equipment would live in some primitive hovel like an arctic cave man.
Jace pulls the truck under a covered carport and cuts the engine. "Let's get inside before this gets worse."
I follow him through the deepening snow to the front door, clutching my planner binder to my chest like armor. The moment he opens the door, warmth envelops us—not just temperature, but the unmistakable comfort of a well-loved home. The scent of wood and something spicy fills the air.
"You can put your things anywhere," he says, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on a handcrafted wooden rack by the door. "Make yourself comfortable."
I stand awkwardly in the entryway, taking in my surroundings. The main room opens to a soaring ceiling with exposed beams. A stone fireplace that mirrors the one at the lodge dominates one wall, currently dark but clearly the heart of the space. Every piece of furniture appears to be handmade, with clean lines and beautiful woodwork. There are no rugs from big box stores or mass-produced art on these walls.
"Did you make all this?" I ask, running my hand along the back of a solid oak dining chair.
"Most of it," he answers, moving efficiently around the space. He crouches to build a fire, and I find myself watching the movement of his shoulders under his flannel shirt. "Guest room's through there. Bathroom attached. Should have everything you need."
"Thank you." I try to sound professional, but my voice comes out softer than intended. "I appreciate you letting me stay. I'm sure this isn't how you planned to spend your evening."
He glances up at me, firelight now dancing across his features. "I've had worse company during storms."
Is that almost a compliment? Before I can decide, my phone chimes with a notification, reminding me of reality.
"Your Wi-Fi password?" I ask, already opening my email app.
"Password1234," he replies, not joking, standing up as the fire catches. "But the satellite connection gets spotty in heavy snow."
I nod distractedly, already composing damage control emails to Victoria Harrington. I need to send the venue photos before the connection fails completely. Then I need to rearrange my flight, reschedule tomorrow's meetings, and somehow salvage this disaster.
For the next hour, I pace the cabin's main room, making calls that keep dropping and sending emails that take minutes to load. Jace moves around me like I'm a piece of furniture, heating something on the stove that smells increasingly delicious as my frustration mounts.
"This is unacceptable," I mutter after my third dropped call with the airline. "I have to be back in Toronto by tomorrow afternoon."
Jace pauses his cooking to look at me directly. "That's not happening."
"Excuse me?"
"The pass is closed. Completely. Even if the snow stops right now—which it won't—the plows can't clear it until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest."
"But my flight—"
"Is something you're going to miss," he finishes, his tone matter-of-fact rather than unkind. "Weather happens, Elisa. No amount of planning changes that."
I sink onto one of his beautifully crafted chairs, the reality of the situation finally sinking in. I'm truly stranded here. For days, potentially.
"Dinner's ready," he says after a moment. "Might as well eat while the power's still on."
"The power might go out?" This just keeps getting better.
"Maybe. Maybe not. I'm prepared either way." He sets two bowls of stew on the table, along with a loaf of bread that looks suspiciously homemade. "Eat."
The first spoonful nearly makes me moan. It's rich and hearty, exactly what I didn't know I needed after this hellish day. We eat in silence for a few minutes before curiosity gets the better of me.
"So you built this place yourself?" I ask between bites.
He nods. "Started five years ago. Still adding to it when I have time."
"That's... impressive." It's a gross understatement, but words are failing me as I take in the craftsmanship surrounding us. "I can barely hang a picture frame straight."
One corner of his mouth quirks up. "Different skill sets."
"Clearly." I take another bite of stew. "And you make furniture too? For the lodge?"
"And custom pieces for clients. Plus specialized equipment for the Search and Rescue team."
"You're on Search and Rescue?" This man is becoming more intriguing by the minute.
"Equipment specialist." He tears a piece of bread in half with those capable hands. "I design and maintain gear for alpine rescues. Sometimes participate in operations when needed."
I try not to stare at his fingers as they break apart the bread. "So you literally save people from situations exactly like mine. Stranded in snowstorms."
"Yep." He meets my eyes directly. "Though usually they're in more danger than having to postpone a society wedding."
My cheeks heat. "That 'society wedding' happens to be my biggest client. The one that could make or break my business."
"And you think they'll fire you because of a blizzard?"
"You don't understand how this industry works. Reliability is everything. If I miss tomorrow's call—"
"Then you explain that you were caught in the worst April storm this region has seen in a decade. Anyone reasonable would understand."
"Reasonable isn't exactly how I'd describe Victoria Harrington," I mutter.
We fall back into silence, the only sounds the clink of spoons against bowls and the increasing howl of wind outside. After dinner, Jace refuses my offer to help clean up, so I check my emails one last time before the connection finally fails completely.
Standing at the window, watching the hypnotic swirl of snow in the porch light, I feel strangely disconnected from my normal life. Like I've stepped through a portal into some alternate reality where deadlines and client calls don't exist—only this cabin, this storm, and this irritatingly capable man who moves through his space with such quiet confidence.
I jump when Jace appears beside me at the window, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him. He smells like wood smoke and something uniquely male.
"It'll be worse before it gets better," he says, nodding toward the whiteout conditions.
I'm not sure if he's talking about the storm or our situation. Either way, I find myself acutely aware of his proximity. When he turns to look at me, something electric passes between us—a brief moment where I forget to breathe.
"I'll be in my workshop downstairs if you need anything," he says, his voice lower than before. "Bathroom's stocked with extra toiletries. Help yourself."
Just like that, the moment breaks. He steps away, and I'm left with the unsettling feeling that I'm out of my depth in ways that have nothing to do with the snowstorm.
Later, tucked into the surprisingly comfortable bed in his guest room, I stare at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of him working below. The rhythmic scrape of sandpaper on wood filters up through the floorboards—strangely soothing despite my circumstances.
I should be exhausted, but sleep eludes me. Every time I close my eyes, I see Jace's hands crafting something beautiful from raw materials, and I wonder what those hands would feel like on my skin. The thought makes me flush with heat despite the chill seeping in around the windows.
This is ridiculous. He's not even my type. Too rugged, too isolated, too... real.
The workshop sounds continue, steady and sure, like his hands, like his eyes when they meet mine.
It's going to be a very long night.