Chapter 5
MARCELLA
If someone had told me I’d be sharing a Valentine’s Day dinner with a stranger in the middle of a blizzard, I would’ve laughed them out of the room.
Yet here I am, plating the short ribs with the roasted root vegetables and a drizzle of the reduced braising liquid, and even I have to admit it looks impressive.
The meat is fall-apart tender, the vegetables caramelized to sweet perfection, the sauce rich and glossy.
I slide a plate in front of Finn, then take my own seat, nerves buzzing beneath my skin. For a moment, we both just sit there—the storm rattling the windows, warmth from the fire curling between us—like the world is holding its breath.
Finn stares at his plate for a long moment before picking up his fork.
I try not to watch too obviously, but my heart is hammering. This is always the worst part—the moment before someone tastes your work, when all your effort and care hangs in the balance of their reaction.
“It’s not poisoned,” I offer. “Promise.”
That almost-smile again. He takes a bite.
And then he closes his eyes.
It’s a small thing—just a brief flutter of lashes, a momentary surrender to sensation—but it hits me like a punch to the chest. I’ve cooked for a lot of people.
I’ve watched food bloggers and critics and friends take their first bites of my signature dishes.
But I’ve never seen anyone react like this.
Like the food is reaching something inside him that’s been hungry for longer than he can remember.
“Good?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
He opens his eyes. Looks at me. “Yeah.”
One word. But the way he says it—rough and almost reverent—makes heat bloom across my cheeks.
We eat in near silence after that, but it’s not the awkward quiet of two strangers forced together. It’s something softer. More comfortable. Finn finishes his plate in record time, then sits back, and I can see him wrestling with something.
“There’s more,” I offer. “If you want.”
He hesitates. Old habits, maybe—not wanting to impose, not wanting to ask for things. Then he nods, and I serve him a second helping, and the warmth in my chest expands until it’s hard to breathe.
This is what I love about cooking. Not the Instagram photos or the follower counts or the sponsored content deals. This. Feeding someone who truly tastes what you’ve made. Watching nourishment happen in real time—not just of the body, but of something deeper.
I notice Finn savoring every bite, and something in me wants to read meaning into it. Wants to compare him to Stephen, who picked at his food and critiqued the seasoning and suggested I try recipes from “real chefs” instead of making up my own.
But I’ve been wrong before.
Stephen appreciated my cooking too, at first. Called it “impressive” and “restaurant-quality” during those early months when he was still trying to win me over.
Before it became why do you spend so much time on this?
and it’s just dinner, Marcella and maybe if you put this much effort into other things. ..
I can’t let good table manners convince me of anything. Finn McGrath is hungry and I made food. That’s all this is. That’s all I can let it be.
“You okay?”
I look up, startled. Finn is watching me with those perceptive gray eyes, his fork paused halfway to his mouth.
“Yeah.” I force a smile. “Just thinking.”
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand to know what’s wrong or tell me I’m being too emotional. He just nods, returns to his food, and lets me have my moment.
It’s such a small thing. Such a simple act of respect.
And part of me wants to let it mean something. Wants to believe that this quiet, gruff man is different from Stephen, different from Boyd, different from every man who’s made me feel like too much.
But wanting something doesn’t make it true. I learned that the hard way.
So I tuck the warmth away somewhere safe, somewhere it can’t trick me into hoping for things I shouldn’t hope for, and I focus on finishing my dinner.
After dinner, I insist on doing the dishes. Finn tries to argue—apparently his hosting instincts override his preference for solitude—but I pull rank as the person who made the mess in the first place.
“You can dry,” I offer as a compromise.
He accepts with a grunt that I’m choosing to interpret as agreement.
We work side by side at the sink, our movements finding an unexpected rhythm.
I wash, he dries, and somewhere in the middle of it all, I start talking.
Telling him about my food blog, about how I started it as a creative outlet during my marriage and how it became my lifeline after the divorce.
About my fifty thousand followers and my dreams of maybe writing a cookbook someday.
Finn listens. Asks a question here and there—brief, pointed, showing he’s actually paying attention. And slowly, gradually, I feel the last of my nervous energy drain away.
“What about you?” I ask, handing him the last pot. “The furniture—is it just a hobby, or...?”
“Business. Sell online, mostly. My sister has a gallery in town, moves some pieces there.”
“You have a sister?”
“Moira.” His expression softens almost imperceptibly. “She’s... persistent.”
I laugh. “That sounds like a sibling description if I’ve ever heard one.”
“She calls too much. Worries.”
“About you being up here alone?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Yeah.”
There’s weight in that single word. History I’m not privy to, pain I can only guess at. I want to ask—want to know everything about this quiet, complicated man who eats my cooking like it’s salvation.
But I’ve pushed enough for one night. So instead, I just nod and reach for the dish towel to dry my hands.
“Come on,” Finn says, hanging the damp towel on its hook. “I’ll show you around. Where everything is.”
I follow him out of the kitchen, expecting... I don’t know what. Small talk, maybe. The usual getting-to-know-you pleasantries that fill awkward silences between strangers.
Instead, Finn McGrath gives a tour like he’s briefing troops for a mission.
“Bathroom. Towels in the cabinet. Hot water takes two minutes.” He points down the short hallway. “Bedroom’s upstairs. You’ll take it tonight.”
“I can sleep on the couch—”
“You’ll take the bedroom.”
I open my mouth to argue, but something in his expression stops me. This isn’t negotiable. For whatever reason, Finn McGrath has decided I’m sleeping in his bed tonight, and he’s not interested in discussing alternatives.
“Okay,” I say instead. “Thank you.”
He nods once, sharp, and continues the tour. “Wood stove’s the main heat source. I’ll keep it fed through the night. If it gets cold, there are extra blankets in the chest at the foot of the bed.”
He moves to a panel by the front door, pointing at various switches and gauges. “Generator controls. This one’s the manual override if the automatic switch fails. This gauge shows fuel level. Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to.”
“Got it. Don’t touch the mystery switches.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. I’m learning to spot them now—these tiny cracks in his stoic exterior.
“Kitchen you’ve already found.” There’s a hint of dry humor in his voice. “Propane stove, works independent of the electrical system. Water comes from a well. If the pump freezes, there’s backup in these containers.”
He indicates a row of large water jugs lined up against one wall. I hadn’t noticed them before—too busy panicking about my life choices to take inventory of survival supplies.
“You really are prepared for anything,” I say.
“Pays to be.”
Three words. That seems to be his limit for most responses. I’m starting to think of it as the Finn McGrath Conversation Ratio: for every paragraph I speak, he offers a sentence. Maybe two if I’m lucky.
But his eyes tell a different story. They track my movements with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Not threatening—assessing. Like he’s cataloging information, building a profile, trying to figure out what kind of creature has invaded his carefully ordered world.
I know I should find it unsettling. Instead, I find myself wanting to pass whatever test he’s silently administering.
The tour continues through the living area, and I let myself really look at the furniture this time.
In the chaos of our initial meeting and the urgency of dinner, I’d noticed the craftsmanship in passing.
Now, with Finn standing silently beside me, I can appreciate the full scope of what he’s created.
The coffee table is a single slab of wood, its natural edge preserved, the surface polished to a mirror shine. I crouch down to examine the base and find it’s not a base at all—the legs grow organically from the same piece, shaped and carved to look like they’re emerging from the earth.
“This is one piece,” I breathe. “You carved this from a single tree?”
“Fallen oak. Lightning strike, three years ago.”
I run my fingers along the grain, feeling the subtle texture beneath the polish. “It must have taken forever.”
“Eight months.”
I look up at him, trying to reconcile this information with the gruff, monosyllabic man standing before me. Eight months of patient work, transforming destruction into beauty. That’s not the hobby of someone who just wants to pass time. That’s art. That’s devotion.
“The bookshelf too?” I stand, moving toward the built-ins that line the far wall. “And the chair by the fireplace?”
He nods.
“Finn.” I turn to face him fully. “This is incredible. You’re not just building furniture—you’re creating heirlooms. Things that will outlast all of us.”
Something shifts in his expression. A flicker of vulnerability, quickly shuttered. “It’s just wood.”
“It’s not just wood, and you know it.” I gesture at the room around us.
“Everything in here has a soul. I can feel the care you put into it. The attention.” I pause, choosing my next words carefully.
“My ex never understood why I spent hours on a single dish when I could just order takeout. He thought it was a waste of time. But I think you get it. The process matters as much as the result.”
Finn is very still. Those gray eyes are locked on mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get it.”
The moment stretches between us, charged and thick.
The lights flicker.
We both look up at the ceiling. The bulbs stutter, struggling against whatever the storm is doing to the power systems outside.
“Generator should—” Finn starts.
The lights go out.
Complete darkness. The fire in the hearth has burned down to embers, casting barely enough glow to see shapes and shadows. I can hear Finn breathing somewhere to my left, can feel the warmth radiating off his body even though we’re not touching.
“Stay there,” he says. “I’ll get candles.”
I hear him move away, confident and sure-footed in his own space. A drawer opens. A match strikes. And then there’s light—soft, golden, flickering—as Finn lights a candle and turns to face me.
In the warm glow, his features look different. Softer. The hard edges smoothed away, the guardedness in his eyes replaced by something almost gentle.
“Power might be out for a while,” he says. “Storm’s hitting the panels hard.”
“That’s okay,” I say softly. “I don’t mind the dark.”
His eyes hold mine across the flickering flame. The shadows play across his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows. He looks almost uncertain—this man who seems so certain about everything else.
“I’ll get the fire going again,” he says finally. “Keep the place warm.”
“I can help.”
He nods, and something passes between us. An understanding, maybe. An acknowledgment that we’re in this together now, whatever this turns out to be.
We move toward the fireplace together, and our hands brush reaching for the same log. The contact is brief—barely a second—but it sends a jolt through my entire body. Finn goes still, his fingers inches from mine in the dim light.
Neither of us pulls away.
“Sorry,” I whisper, though I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for.
“Don’t be.” His voice is rougher than before.
He picks up the log, adds it to the fire, and the flames leap higher, casting dancing shadows across the walls. I watch him work—efficient, capable, completely in his element—and feel something dangerous taking root in my chest.
I’ve known this man for a few hours. I broke into his house. I’m trapped here by a blizzard, and tomorrow or the next day I’ll leave and probably never see him again.
This is not the time to develop feelings.
But as Finn turns from the fire and his eyes find mine in the golden light, I realize it might already be too late.
Wrong cabin. Wrong date. Wrong everything.
But somehow, something’s starting to feel right.