Chapter 3
Gia
It's official. I've been abducted by a mountain man with the world's most serious jawline.
Okay, rescued. Technically. But semantics aside, I'm now sitting on a wool blanket in front of his woodstove, thawing out like a microwaved burrito while the wind howls against the cabin. The storm doesn't sound like it's quitting anytime soon, which means neither am I.
Thatcher moves around the space like it's an extension of him—methodical, efficient, all muscle and quiet focus. He doesn't say much, but when he does, it's in that low, calm tone that makes the air between us feel warmer than the fire.
I'm trying not to stare. I am failing spectacularly.
He crouches near the stove to add another log, and I watch the way his shoulders shift beneath his thermal shirt, the fabric pulling tight across his back.
Forearms flexing as he adjusts the damper with practiced ease.
The flicker of light catches on a smudge of soot along his cheekbone.
There's something dangerously distracting about a man who smells like smoke and cedar and looks like he could build a house all by himself.
"So," I say, desperate to sound casual and not like my internal monologue has turned into a Hallmark movie script. "You always drag lost tourists home?"
He doesn't look up, but I catch the hint of a smile. "Only the stubborn ones who refuse to pay attention to the elements and get the hell off the mountain when they should."
“Stubbornness is my best quality."
"Noticed."
I grin into my cocoa. The liquid's still hot enough to burn, sweet enough to coat my tongue. "Was that…a compliment?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Is calling someone stubborn ever a compliment?”
“It is to me,” I say with a shrug. I sip my drink and let the silence stretch, because silence here feels different. Not awkward. Just…thick. Cozy. Full of things unsaid and the soft crackle of burning pine.
The cabin's tidy but full of life. Tools are lined up with military precision, there are half-finished projects on the workbench, and scraps of metal wait to be reborn.
The whole place hums with quiet purpose.
I wander toward the bench and pick up a small sculpture shaped like a bird mid-flight, wings made from welded saw blades that catch the lamplight like feathers.
"This is beautiful," I say softly, running my finger along the smooth edge where he's filed away any sharpness. "You made it too?"
He glances over, nods once. "From an old handsaw."
"You really see potential in everything, don't you?"
He shrugs, busy with the kettle again. The metal squeaks slightly as he lifts it. "Things get old. They break. That doesn’t mean they’re trash."
There's something in his tone—not sad, just true—and it sticks to me like snowflakes on the cold ground.
"You ever sell them?" I ask.
"Sometimes. Mostly I trade."
"For what?"
"Coffee. Gas. Hardware."
Interesting. Mountain men have their own economy, it seems.
I set the bird back carefully, then glance out the small window.
The snow's falling in thick sheets, wind swirling like a living thing.
I can barely see the treeline anymore. Just white and gray and the ghostly shapes of pines bending in the gusts.
"Guess I really can’t leave the mountain tonight, huh? "
He follows my gaze, then moves to check the latch on the door. His hand's broad, calloused, sure. "Not tonight."
"Well." I spread my hands, grin. "Looks like you're stuck with me."
He doesn't answer, but his mouth does that almost-smile thing again, and I count it as a victory.
By the time we finish dinner—beans simmered with bacon, cornbread that crumbles golden and sweet, and something that might be venison seasoned with juniper—I'm half in love with the smell of woodsmoke and half delirious from warmth.
He eats in silence, but it's not unfriendly. I babble enough for both of us, filling the air with stories about my grandpa, my first metal detector (which was really just a frying pan and a five-year-old’s imagination), and the legend that brought me here.
He listens with his head tilted slightly, like he's actually hearing every word, and that attention feels more intimate than it should.
When I finally stop to breathe, he leans back, studying me with that unreadable expression. Firelight flickers across his face, catching in his dark eyes. "You really think there's gold up here."
I shrug. "I think there's truth in every story. You just have to dig for it."
"You always chase stories?"
"Someone has to. Otherwise they fade." I trace the rim of my empty bowl. "And my grandpa would haunt me if I didn't at least try."
That earns me another quiet hum, the kind that sounds suspiciously like approval.
The fire pops, sending up a spray of orange sparks. Outside, the wind's softened to a whisper, like the mountain's finally catching its breath.
I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders and glance toward the narrow cot he pointed out earlier. "So, uh…about sleeping arrangements. You sure you're okay on the floor?"
He looks at me for a long beat, and something in his gaze makes my skin warm. "I've slept in worse places."
I raise a brow. "That's not the same as comfortable."
His gaze dips to where the blanket's slipped off one shoulder, and I feel that look like a caress. The air feels different. Heavier. Charged. "I'll manage."
My pulse does something foolish. "You always this generous to trespassers?"
“Nope.”
I laugh, tossing him an extra pillow, which he catches it one-handed. "In that case, thank you, Thatcher."
When the lamps go out and the fire burns low, I lie on the cot, eyes half-closed, listening to the soft rhythm of his movements.
The creak of floorboards as he settles onto his makeshift bed, the quiet clink of metal as he sets something aside, the sigh of someone who's spent a lot of time alone and doesn't quite know what to do with company in the house.
As I drift to sleep, I think I hear him whisper something low and half to himself. It sounded like, “Trouble.”
And I smile into the dark, because I know he’s talking about me.