Chapter 2
SOREN
The wind howled down Main Street, rattling the windows of The Timberline Taproom hard enough to make the Christmas wreaths thump against the glass. Soren Stevenson shouldered through the door, bringing a flurry of snow and the scent of pine in with her.
“Close it quick, or you’ll freeze us all out!” called Maggie, the bartender—a round-cheeked woman with a Santa pin on her apron and the sort of voice that could herd drunks or toddlers with equal ease.
Soren grinned, kicking snow from her boots. “You’d think you’d be grateful I’m letting a little mountain air in here. It’s getting too cozy—people might start singing carols.”
“They already have,” Maggie said, pointing toward the far table, where two men in flannel were harmonizing badly over Jingle Bell Rock.
“Then I’ll save you.” Soren slung her tool belt onto a chair, nodding toward the sagging oak shelf behind the bar. “That thing’s listing worse than my truck’s axle. Figured I’d fix it before your bourbon meets a tragic end.”
“You’re a saint.” Maggie wiped her hands on a towel and leaned in. “Beer on the house when you’re done. Or the cider—it’s the spiced kind you like.”
“Cider, and I’ll put up that string of lights you’re scared to touch,” Soren bargained.
“Deal.”
Soren knelt and pulled her driver set from the belt, checking the screws along the bracket.
The bar’s warmth seeped into her back as she worked: soft chatter, clink of glasses, faint guitar music from the old speaker in the corner.
The place was all pine and brass and laughter—a haven against the storm outside.
She loved that about Hawthorne Lake. The way locals treated bad weather like an excuse to get closer to the fire, not a reason to hide.
A man at the counter lifted his glass. “Hey, Stevenson—how’s business? Still fixing every damn thing in town?”
“Trying to,” she said without looking up. “But you people keep breaking new stuff just to keep me fed.”
Laughter rippled. Someone said she should run for mayor; someone else added that she already ruled half the mountain with her wrench. Soren shook her head, smiling. She liked being part of the noise—liked that people knew her name, that they trusted her to make things right.
The shelf gave a satisfying click as she drove the last screw home. She straightened, brushing sawdust from her flannel. Maggie handed over a pint of cider, steam curling above it.
“Perfect timing,” Soren said, taking a swallow. Sweet, hot, laced with cinnamon and bite. “You’ll make me believe in Christmas again.”
“Ha! You already do. I saw you helping old Mrs. Carter carry her tree yesterday.”
“That woman’s ninety-two. The tree was bigger than she is.”
Maggie raised a brow. “And yet you still said yes.”
Soren only shrugged, easy smile tugging one side of her mouth. “What else am I gonna do? Let Santa handle it?”
The bartender laughed, topping off a glass. “You’re too good for this town.”
“Nah. I just like being useful.”
Someone switched the music to a low, bluesy version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. The lights over the bar flickered gold against polished bottles. Outside, snow streaked sideways past the windows, thickening fast.
Soren felt that familiar contentment settle deep in her chest—the satisfaction of warmth earned, the simple pleasure of a full room and work well done. She leaned one hip against the bar, cider in hand, and watched the storm swirl through the glass.
“Forecast says we’ll be buried by morning,” Maggie said.
“Good thing you’ve got me on retainer,” Soren replied. “When your pipes freeze, I’ll bring a wrench and a shovel.”
Maggie smirked. “You ever stop fixing things long enough to just sit still?”
Soren tipped her head back, considering. “Not really my nature.”
The door creaked open again, letting in another breath of cold.
Everyone turned briefly toward the swirl of white.
Soren didn’t—she was used to the wind bringing strangers in.
But she caught the movement in the mirror behind the bar: a figure shaking off snow, dark hair gleaming under the lights, posture straight enough to make everyone else in the room look like they’d slouched too far.
Soren’s mouth curved around the rim of her glass. Whoever that was, she sure didn’t belong in a mountain bar.
“Looks like the storm blew in something fancy,” Maggie murmured.
Soren kept her voice low, amused. “Guess I better stay and make sure she doesn’t break anything.”
She turned fully then, ready to offer her easy grin. The woman met her eyes—sharp green, cool as winter glass—and something inside Soren shifted, like the snap of kindling catching fire.
The stranger stepped farther inside, the door sighing closed behind her. Snowflakes glittered on the shoulders of her coat before melting into damp crescents. She tugged off soft leather gloves, revealing long, delicate fingers, and pushed back the hood.
Soren had fixed a thousand broken things in this town—pipes, shingles, fences—but nothing had ever stolen her breath the way that woman did in that moment.
Dark hair, glossy and straight, slid past her jaw to brush the collar of her camel-colored coat.
Her green eyes swept the room once, sharp and assessing, like she was taking inventory of every flaw.
Her mouth, a precise curve of rose against pale skin, pressed tight when she saw how many people were watching her.
She looked like she’d stepped out of a glass building in some city far away—meant for conferences, not flannel. But there she was, heels clicking faintly on the worn wooden floor of The Timberline Taproom, carrying an invisible frost that made Soren’s pulse jump.
Maggie murmured, “You think she’s lost?”
Soren grinned, low and lazy. “Nah. She looks like she knows exactly where she’s going. Just doesn’t want to be there.”
The woman paused near the bar and unbuttoned her coat, movement precise, almost wary.
Beneath it: a fitted black turtleneck, slim trousers, a gold watch that probably cost more than Soren’s truck.
She perched on a stool near the fire, posture perfect, chin lifted. The warmth didn’t seem to touch her.
Soren felt something stir—a mix of curiosity and something more dangerous. She’d always liked puzzles.
Sliding from her spot, she caught Maggie’s eye. “Put her first drink on me,” she said quietly.
Maggie arched a brow. “Working overtime, Stevenson?”
Soren winked. “Community service.”
She crossed the floor, cider still in hand, boots thudding lightly on the floorboards. When she reached the stranger’s stool, she leaned against the bar, careful not to crowd her. “Evenin’. You look like you could use something strong.”
The woman’s head turned, eyes flashing up at her. Up close they were extraordinary—green like new leaves but edged with fatigue. “Is that your way of asking what I’m drinking?” Her voice was smooth, precise, the kind of tone that had probably silenced entire conference rooms.
“Sure,” Soren said easily. “Or my way of saying Maggie pours a mean whiskey. Spiced cider too, if you’re feeling festive.”
“I’m not feeling festive.” The words came out clipped, brittle. She looked away again, toward the fire.
Soren didn’t take it personally. Frost was still just water, given time. “Fair enough,” she said lightly. “Still, the cider’s good enough to make a believer outta most folks.”
The bartender slid a glass of amber whiskey down the bar, stopping perfectly in front of the stranger. “On the house,” Maggie said.
Those green eyes flicked to Soren, suspicion flickering before she spoke. “I didn’t order this.”
“Guess somebody thought you needed it,” Soren said, meeting her gaze. “Doc, you look like you just came from saving the world.”
The woman’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”
“I can see what looks like a scrub cap peeking out of your bag,” Soren said, nodding to the faint blue fabric tie peeking from the flap that had come undone on her leather bag. “Surgeon, right?”
It was a leap for Soren, but she liked figuring people out.
The corner of her mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Observation skills. You a detective?”
“Carpenter.” Soren tapped a calloused fingertip against the bar. “Different kind of precision.”
For the first time, the woman looked her over properly—taking in the tattoos creeping from beneath Soren’s sleeves, the tool belt still hanging off her hip, the confidence that came from living by her own hands. Her gaze lingered a second too long. “You fix things.”
“Try to,” Soren said, a smirk softening the words. “Mostly wood and drywall. Sometimes people’s moods.”
That earned her the faintest laugh—a small, reluctant sound that melted something between them.
“Your name?” she asked finally.
“Soren Stevenson.” She extended a hand. “And you?”
The woman hesitated before shaking it. Her grip was cool but steady. “Dr. Nia South.”
“Dr. Nia South,” Soren repeated, enjoying the formal ring of it. “Sounds important.”
“It’s just a name.”
“Feels like more than that.”
Those sharp green eyes narrowed, but Soren caught the flicker of interest underneath. “You always this forward?”
“Only when it works,” Soren said with a grin. “You want me to back off?”
Nia’s lips parted, the smallest breath escaping before she said, “No. Not yet.”
The admission hit Soren square in the chest. The rest of the bar faded—music, chatter, clinking glasses—all background hum. The fire threw golden light across Nia’s cheekbones, catching the faint shimmer of snow still melting in her hair.
Soren took another slow sip of cider, letting the silence between them stretch just long enough to turn warm. “Then let’s start with that drink,” she said finally. “And if you decide you don’t hate me after, I’ll tell you about the storm we’re getting tonight.”
Nia’s mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile but close. “Why would I care about the weather?”
Soren’s voice dropped, low and easy. “’Cause if you’re planning on leaving tomorrow, Doc, you might not be going anywhere.”