Chapter 5
NIA
Nia paced the length of her hotel room, the cordless phone pressed tight to her ear. The carpet muted her footsteps, but her frustration seemed to echo anyway, bouncing off the timber walls and the frosted windowpanes.
“I understand,” she said evenly, each syllable clipped with precision, “but there must be something. A shuttle, a private service—anything that can get me down the mountain.”
The voice on the other end was polite, practiced in sympathy.
“I’m sorry, Dr. South. The main road’s closed both ways, and the nearest airport reports zero departures until the weather breaks. We’re talking at least two days.”
Nia’s jaw tightened. “Two days.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” she said, because civility was muscle memory, even when she wanted to throw the phone.
She hung up carefully, placed it back in its cradle, and then gripped the edge of the desk until her knuckles whitened. The room was too warm, the air thick with the scent of pine cleaner and wood smoke drifting in from downstairs. Outside, the world was smothered in white.
Trapped.
The word pulsed through her like a heartbeat.
Nia took a slow breath, straightened, and told herself she wasn’t angry—she was logical.
The storm was an inconvenience, nothing more.
She had surgeries scheduled next week in Phoenix Ridge, department reports waiting, a life to return to.
She couldn’t afford to be stranded in some snow globe of a town where the locals talked too much and the walls were too thin.
And she certainly couldn’t afford to be thinking about Soren Stevenson.
But she was. Every time she blinked, flashes of last night appeared behind her eyelids—Soren’s hands, her laugh, the way she’d looked at Nia like she could see every thought she’d tried to bury.
How it felt when she was fucking her.
Nia pressed her palms to her eyes, willing it away. It was a mistake. A lapse of reason brought on by stress, fatigue, whiskey, and the illusion of safety inside a snowstorm.
One night. That was all.
And then she’d woken alone.
That part, she refused to think about. The sting of it, the hollow disappointment she had no right to feel.
Her phone buzzed with another alert—flight cancellation confirmed. The message blinked like a taunt.
Nia grabbed her coat from the chair and slipped it on, buttoning it with brisk efficiency even though she had nowhere to go. She caught her reflection in the mirror: dark hair perfectly smoothed, lipstick flawless, posture a study in control. No one looking at her would guess her pulse was racing.
“Get a grip,” she whispered.
She picked up her mobile, scrolling through contacts—colleagues, travel agencies, anyone who might offer a solution—but the signal kept dropping. Each attempt ended in static or the soft, infuriating silence of no connection.
When she finally tossed the phone onto the bed, it bounced once and landed face-down, the screen dark.
She sat beside it, elbows on her knees, hands pressed to her temples.
This wasn’t how she operated. Nia South did not lose control of her environment—or her emotions. She didn’t let people like Soren under her skin.
Soren was chaos wrapped in a flannel shirt. She was warmth and ease, all the things Nia had spent her entire adult life avoiding because control was safer than feeling.
And yet, when she thought of Soren, her stomach tightened and her breath went uneven.
No. She stood abruptly, crossing to the window. Outside, the snow was falling heavier again, swirling in restless patterns. Somewhere beyond the white haze, Soren was probably fixing a boiler or clearing a path, unbothered by the storm she’d left behind in Nia’s chest.
Nia told herself she didn’t care. She told herself she’d already closed that door.
But when she caught her reflection in the glass—green eyes a little too bright, mouth a little too soft—she saw the lie for what it was.
She pressed her fingers to the cold pane, grounding herself in the chill. “You are not doing this,” she whispered. “You are not doing this again.”
Outside, the wind howled, and the snow kept falling, stubborn as the pull she refused to name.
By noon, hunger and restlessness drove Nia downstairs.
The dining room of the Hawthorne Lodge was half-empty, most guests hiding in their rooms or clustered near the fire.
A pine garland looped over the mantel; faint holiday music murmured from hidden speakers, the kind that was meant to be soothing but only made her feel more aware of her own agitation.
She almost turned around when she saw her.
Soren sat at a table near the window, sleeves rolled up, a half-eaten sandwich beside a steaming mug of coffee. Snow light spilled through the glass, touching her hair with silver. She looked up at Nia’s movement, and that slow, easy smile curved her mouth.
“Doc,” Soren said, leaning back in her chair. “Didn’t think I’d see you brave the locals.”
Nia froze for half a second before finding her voice. “I was hungry.” She meant it to sound neutral. It came out defensive.
“Then come eat,” Soren said, gesturing to the chair across from her. “Unless you’re planning on glaring at me from over there.”
“I wasn’t planning on either.” Nia hesitated, then sighed. The other tables would have felt awkward, and the idea of retreating upstairs like a sulking teenager irritated her even more. She crossed the room and sat, smoothing her napkin into her lap. “Fine. Lunch.”
Soren’s grin softened. “See? We can be civilized.”
A waitress appeared, set down a menu, and Nia ordered soup she barely wanted.
For a minute they ate in silence. The storm outside pressed against the windows, turning the world white again.
Inside, the air smelled of roasted vegetables and coffee.
Every now and then, Nia felt Soren’s gaze flick to her—curious, not intrusive.
“You look like you lost a fight,” Soren said finally.
Nia’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth. “Excuse me?”
“Not physically,” Soren said quickly, smiling. “You’ve just got that look—like the world’s gone and changed the rules without telling you.”
Nia set the spoon down carefully. “Maybe it has.”
Soren tilted her head. “You want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
The quiet invitation was infuriatingly gentle. Nia should have shut it down. Instead, something in her chest loosened. Maybe it was the storm, maybe the fatigue, maybe the way Soren’s eyes stayed steady on hers, patient in a way no one else ever was.
“My wife—ex-wife—Julia,” she said before she could stop herself.
Soren didn’t blink. “Okay.”
“We were together twelve years.” Nia stared at the pattern in her soup. “We built a life that looked perfect from the outside. Dual careers, house in Phoenix Ridge, dinner parties, conference travel. We barely saw each other, but it worked. Until it didn’t.”
Soren folded her hands on the table, listening without interrupting.
“She told me she’d met someone,” Nia continued. “Another surgeon. Younger. Charming. I think she expected me to fight for her. I didn’t.” A bitter laugh slipped out. “I congratulated her on her efficiency.”
“That sounds rough,” Soren said quietly.
“It was humiliating,” Nia admitted, surprised by the honesty spilling from her. “I was so focused on keeping everything together that I didn’t even notice it was already broken.”
Soren’s expression softened. “That’s not on you.”
Nia gave a small, humorless smile. “Maybe not. But it feels like it is.”
The wind rattled the windows, and for a long moment the only sound between them was the storm. Soren reached out, resting her hand lightly on the table—close enough to be felt, not enough to presume.
“People leave,” she said. “Doesn’t mean you did something wrong. Sometimes they just can’t handle what’s real.”
Nia looked at her, trying to read sincerity from bravado, and found only warmth. That steady, grounding energy again. “You talk like you’ve been left a few times yourself,” she said softly.
Soren’s mouth twitched. “More times than I’ve left, yeah.”
They both smiled faintly, a shared, tired understanding that didn’t need more words.
Nia picked up her spoon again, appetite returning in small cautious bites. The soup was hot, surprisingly good, and so was the silence that followed—companionable instead of heavy.
“Thanks,” she said at last.
“For what?”
“For letting me talk. I don’t usually… do that.”
Soren’s grin returned, warmer this time. “Guess I’m good for something after all.”
Nia rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. Outside, the snow kept falling, soft and relentless, as if the mountain meant to keep them both right where they were.
The worst of the tension had bled out of Nia’s shoulders. The food helped. So did Soren’s quiet, steady presence—no demands, no probing, just the simple grace of being seen.
They lingered long after the plates were cleared. The waitress had refilled Soren’s coffee twice and Nia’s tea once; both cups had gone lukewarm. Outside, the storm pressed its white face to the window, erasing the line between ground and sky.
Soren traced the rim of her mug. “You know, you’re not the only one who’s bad at endings.”
Nia raised an eyebrow. “You? You seem like someone who moves on easily.”
“That’s the trick,” Soren said, half-smile crooked.
“I’m good at leaving, not good at staying gone.
” She glanced out the window, then back again.
“I did a lot of traveling after my dad died. Construction crews, odd jobs—Texas, Nevada, anywhere that didn’t look like home.
Thought if I kept moving, I wouldn’t have to deal with anything that hurt. ”
Nia leaned in slightly. “Did it work?”
“For a while.” Soren’s thumb tapped the side of her cup. “Then my mom got sick. I came back to help her, stayed after she passed. Ended up taking over the shop.”
There was no self-pity in her tone, just a calm acceptance that made it hit harder.
“I’m sorry,” Nia said softly.
Soren shrugged one shoulder. “She was stubborn. Guess I get that from her.”
They shared a small smile—sad but genuine.
Nia found herself studying the lines of Soren’s hands where they rested on the table: strong, scarred in places, a faint tattoo winding from wrist to thumb. Those hands had been on her skin last night. The memory made her pulse flutter.
“You fix things for everyone else,” Nia said. “Who fixes you?”
Soren looked surprised, then thoughtful. “Never thought about it.” She gave a low laugh. “Guess that’s why I keep everything in pieces—easier to repair when it breaks.”
Nia’s mouth curved faintly. “That’s an unhealthy metaphor.”
“Probably,” Soren admitted. “But it’s honest.”
Something softened in Nia’s chest. The silence between them was warmer now, less wary. She reached for her teacup, misjudged the distance, and her fingers brushed against Soren’s knuckles. The touch was brief, accidental—or should have been.
Neither of them moved away.
Soren’s eyes found hers, dark and intent. “Careful, Doc,” she said, voice low. “You keep doing that, I might think you actually like me.”
Nia’s pulse tripped. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Not my strong suit,” Soren murmured, turning her hand palm-up beneath Nia’s.
It would’ve been easy to pull back, to let the moment dissolve. But Nia’s fingers stayed where they were, resting lightly against Soren’s skin. The warmth of that small contact spread through her, quick and treacherous.
For a long breath, they didn’t speak. The air between them hummed like a held note.
Then Nia eased her hand away, composure returning in fragments. “We should probably stop before someone sees.”
Soren didn’t argue, but her grin was soft and certain. “Whatever you say, Doc.”
Nia lifted her cup to hide her smile, eyes on the falling snow. “You’re infuriating.”
“Yeah,” Soren said quietly. “But you don’t seem to mind.”
And Nia couldn’t think of a single honest argument to the contrary.