Chapter 7
MARCELLA
I wake to the smell of coffee and the sound of wind still howling against the windows.
For a moment, I don’t remember where I am.
The ceiling above me is unfamiliar—exposed wooden beams, a skylight showing nothing but swirling white.
Then memory floods back: the wrong cabin, the storm, Finn McGrath with his gray eyes and his careful silences and the way his fingers felt brushing against mine in the firelight.
I sit up slowly, disoriented. I’m on the couch—his couch, the one he built with his own hands—wrapped in a quilt that smells like cedar and woodsmoke.
I don’t remember falling asleep here. Last night is a blur of firelight conversation, shared vulnerabilities, and that electric moment of contact that neither of us acknowledged.
At some point, I must have drifted off. And after that, Finn must have covered me with this blanket.
The thought tugs at something in my chest—something that wants to soften, to read meaning into the gesture.
I shut it down before it can take root. He covered me with a blanket. It’s a small kindness, nothing more. Stephen was capable of small kindnesses too, especially in the beginning. I can’t let myself build a fantasy on a blanket.
I find him in the kitchen, his back to me as he pours coffee from a French press.
He’s wearing the same flannel from yesterday—or maybe a different one in the same muted plaid—and his hair is slightly damp, like he’s been outside recently.
There’s snow melting on his shoulders, darkening the fabric in small patches.
I take a moment to just look at him before he notices me. The breadth of his shoulders. The way he moves with economical grace, no wasted motion. The slight tension in his posture that I’m starting to recognize as his default state—always alert, always ready.
“Morning,” I say, my voice rough with sleep.
He turns. Those gray eyes sweep over me quickly, cataloging, before settling somewhere safe near my shoulder. “Coffee’s ready. Wasn’t sure how you take it.”
“Black is fine.” I push myself up from the couch, wincing at the stiffness in my neck.
The quilt falls away, and I’m suddenly aware that my hair is probably a disaster and my sweater is wrinkled and I definitely don’t look like someone trying to impress anyone.
“You didn’t have to sleep on the floor. I told you I’d take the couch. ”
“You were already asleep.”
“So you just... watched me sleep and then laid down on the hardwood?”
Something flickers across his face—embarrassment, maybe, or something else I can’t read. “I’ve slept on worse.”
I want to argue, but he’s already pressing a mug into my hands, and the first sip of coffee drives every other thought from my head. It’s perfect—strong and rich and exactly the right temperature, with a depth of flavor that speaks to quality beans and careful preparation.
“This is amazing,” I groan. “What brand is this?”
“Local roaster. Moira sends it up.”
“Your sister has excellent taste.”
That almost-smile again, the one I’m learning to look for. “Don’t tell her that. She’s smug enough already.”
I laugh, and the sound seems to startle him. Like he’s not used to laughter in this space. The thought makes me sad in a way I can’t fully articulate, so I push it aside and focus on the coffee instead.
Through the windows, the world is nothing but white. Snow piles against the glass, and the wind hasn’t let up at all—if anything, it sounds stronger than last night. We’re not going anywhere today. Maybe not tomorrow either.
I should want to leave. I should be counting the hours until the roads clear, planning my escape back to real life where strangers don’t make me feel seen and cozy cabins don’t feel like places I could belong.
So why does part of me hope the storm never ends?
That’s dangerous thinking. That’s the kind of thinking that got me into trouble with Stephen—seeing what I wanted to see instead of what was real. Projecting feelings onto situations that didn’t deserve them.
“Storm’s still bad,” Finn says, following my gaze. “Radio says another twenty-four hours at least before it starts breaking up.”
“Guess you’re stuck with me a little longer.”
“Guess so.”
He doesn’t sound upset about it. My heart tries to skip at that, and I force it back into rhythm. Don’t, I tell myself firmly. Don’t start hoping.
We fall into a rhythm without discussing it.
Finn checks the generator, the water systems, the dozen other things that keep this place running in a crisis.
I take over the kitchen, exploring his surprisingly well-stocked pantry and refrigerator.
Eggs, bacon, bread that’s only a day old.
The man lives like a hermit but eats better than most city bachelors I know.
“Sourdough French toast okay?” I call out as he passes through on his way to check something outside.
He pauses, surprise flickering across his features. “You don’t have to cook.”
“I want to. It’s the least I can do, considering I ate half your groceries yesterday for a dinner you didn’t even ask for.”
“Dinner was good.”
Three words. But he says them like they matter, like he’s been thinking about it, and warmth spreads through me that has nothing to do with the fire crackling in the hearth.
“Then let me make breakfast. Consider it rent.”
He nods once and disappears out the back door, letting in a blast of frigid air and a swirl of snowflakes before it shuts behind him.
I get to work.
There’s something meditative about cooking in an unfamiliar kitchen.
I have to search for everything—the mixing bowls, the vanilla extract, the right pan for the job—and each discovery feels like learning a new language.
Finn’s kitchen is organized with military precision, everything in its logical place, but there are personal touches too.
A worn wooden spoon that looks older than both of us.
A cast iron skillet seasoned by decades of use.
A small herb garden on the windowsill, struggling but alive despite the winter.
He tends things. Nurtures them. Even though he lives alone, even though no one would know if he let the herbs die or used a metal spoon instead of the wooden one his grandmother probably gave him.
I catch myself mid-thought, hand frozen on the whisk. I’m doing it again—constructing a narrative, filling in the blanks with the version of him I want to see. Maybe the spoon was on sale. Maybe he just likes fresh herbs. Not everything has to mean something.
I return to whisking with more force than the eggs require.
I’m whisking eggs and cinnamon when he comes back inside, stamping snow from his boots. His cheeks are ruddy from the cold, and there’s ice crystallizing in his beard, and—
I yank my attention back to the bowl. It doesn’t matter what he looks like. Handsome men have never been the problem. Stephen was handsome. Boyd was handsome. Handsome is just packaging, and I’ve learned the hard way that the contents rarely match.
“Woodpile’s good,” he reports, shrugging off his jacket. “Should last us through tomorrow if we’re careful.”
“Need any help?”
He pauses, clearly surprised by the offer. “You want to haul firewood?”
“I want to be useful. And I’m stronger than I look.”
Those gray eyes travel over me—not lecherously, but assessingly, like he’s recalculating something. Whatever conclusion he reaches, he nods.
“After breakfast. I’ll show you how the wood stove works.”
The French toast is a hit.
Finn doesn’t say much—he never says much—but he eats three pieces and actually makes a small sound of appreciation on the first bite that sends heat rushing to my cheeks.
We eat at his handcrafted dining table while the storm rages outside, and the domesticity of it catches me off guard.
It feels too easy. Too comfortable. Like we’ve been doing this for years instead of hours.
The thought should be sweet. Instead, it sets off alarm bells. Easy isn’t real. Comfortable is a trap. I know better than to trust feelings that arrive this fast.
After we clean up—him washing, me drying this time—he leads me to the back of the ranger station where the firewood is stacked.
“Grab from the left side,” he instructs, demonstrating. “Older wood, more seasoned. Burns cleaner.”
I follow his lead, loading my arms with logs. The wood is heavier than I expected, rough against my palms, and I’m acutely aware of Finn watching me work. Not judging—assessing. Making sure I’m doing it right.
“Good,” he says when I’ve got a full load. “Watch your step on the way back. Floor gets slippery near the door.”
We make several trips, working in companionable silence. The physical labor feels good—purposeful, necessary. My arms ache pleasantly, and despite the cold, I’m warm from exertion. With each load, I feel less like a burden and more like a partner. Someone useful. Someone who—
I stop the thought before it can finish.
I don’t belong here. I’m a stranger who wandered into the wrong cabin during a storm.
In a day or two, the roads will clear and I’ll drive back to Denver and this will become a strange story I tell at dinner parties.
That time I accidentally broke into a mountain man’s cabin and cooked him short ribs.
That’s all this is. That’s all it can be.
I catch Finn watching me a few times. Not obviously—he’s too controlled for that—but I feel his gaze like heat on my skin. When I glance over, he’s always looking elsewhere, but there’s a new tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before.
On the fourth trip, we both reach for the same log.
Our hands collide. His fingers are warm despite the cold, rough with calluses, impossibly large wrapped around the wood. Neither of us moves. I can feel his pulse through the point of contact—or maybe that’s my own heartbeat, thundering so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
“Sorry,” I breathe, but I don’t pull away.
“It’s fine.” His voice is lower than usual. Rougher.
We stand there for a long moment, the log between us, the cold biting at our exposed skin. His eyes meet mine, and there’s something in them I haven’t seen before. Something hungry.
Then he blinks, and the moment breaks.
“Take that one,” he says, stepping back. “I’ll grab the next.”
I nod, not trusting my voice, and carry the log inside with my heart hammering against my ribs.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of small tasks and careful distance.
Finn shows me how the wood stove works, explaining the dampers and airflow with the same patient precision he brings to everything.
I ask questions—genuine ones, not just to fill the silence—and he seems surprised each time that I’m actually interested.
Like he expects me to be bored by the mechanics of survival.
I’m not bored. I’m fascinated. Not just by the systems, but by him—the way he moves through this space with quiet competence, the way his hands know every tool and surface, the way he’s built a life here that’s completely self-sufficient and utterly isolated.
It’s impressive. It’s also—
I catch myself leaning toward conclusions I have no right to draw. I don’t know why he lives alone. I don’t know if it’s choice or circumstance or something else entirely. It’s not my business, and it’s not my place to find it heartbreaking or romantic or anything at all.
He’s showing me how a wood stove works. That’s it. I need to stop turning everything into a story.
By midday, my legs are aching from the firewood hauling, and I catch Finn rubbing his left thigh with a grimace he doesn’t quite hide.
“You okay?” I ask.
He drops his hand immediately. “Fine.”
“You’ve been favoring that leg all morning. I noticed last night too—you have a limp when you’re tired.”
His jaw tightens. I’ve pushed too far. I’m about to apologize, to change the subject, to do whatever it takes to ease the tension suddenly crackling between us.
But then he surprises me.
“IED,” he says quietly. “Same one that—” He stops. Swallows. “Shrapnel. Left side. Mostly healed, but the cold makes it ache.”
“Finn,” I say. “You should have said something. You shouldn’t be hauling firewood if your leg is bothering you.”
“I’ve hauled firewood with worse.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to.”
He looks at me then—really looks—and something in his expression shifts. Softens. Like he’s not used to someone worrying about him. Like he’s not sure what to do with it.
“It’s not that bad,” he says finally. “Just stiff.”
“I know some massage techniques. For muscle tension.” The words are out before I can stop them. “My ex had back problems, and I took a class, and—” I’m rambling. Why am I rambling? “I could help. If you wanted.”
Finn goes very still.
The fire crackles. The wind howls. The space between us feels charged with something dangerous and inevitable.
“You don’t have to,” he says, but his voice is rough, and he doesn’t move away.
“I know.” I take a breath, steady myself. “But I want to. Let me help you, Finn.”
The silence stretches. His gray eyes search my face, looking for something I hope he finds.
Then, slowly, he nods.
“Okay.”
One word. But the way he says it—quiet, almost reluctant—makes my breath catch in my throat.
I have no idea what I’m doing. I offered to help with his leg, and somehow it feels like I’m offering something more. Something I’m not sure I’m ready to give.
But I don’t take it back. I tell myself it’s just a massage, just one person helping another, and if my hands are shaking slightly as I move toward him, that’s just the cold.
It’s definitely just the cold.