Chapter three
Holly
I’m standing in the middle of Luke Carson’s living room, dripping melted snow onto his hardwood floor, clutching my work bag like it’s the last life raft on the Titanic.
The cabin is small and warm, and smells of pine, coffee, and something unmistakably him.
One couch. One fireplace. One bedroom visible through an open door that might as well have a neon sign flashing TROUBLE.
Luke kicks the door shut behind us, drops my suitcase by the couch, and starts peeling off layers like it’s no big deal that we’re now officially trapped together for the foreseeable future.
Coat. Gone. Flannel. Unbuttoned and shrugged off, revealing a thermal Henley that clings to every ridiculous muscle. Hat. Tossed onto a hook with accuracy that should be illegal.
I’m still standing there like a soggy statue.
“You gonna stand there freezing,” he asks, voice low and amused, “or you gonna let me get you warm?”
I open my mouth. Close it. My brain is a dial-up modem in 1998.
He disappears into the kitchen area and starts clattering around. I finally move, toeing off my ruined boots and hanging my coat on the rack by the door. The fire is roaring now. He must’ve added logs the second we walked in.
I drag my suitcase toward the hallway. “I’ll just—”
“Bedroom and shower are that way,” he calls, “You’re taking the bed.”
“Absolutely not.”
He leans around the corner, spatula in hand like a weapon. “You’re not sleeping on that couch. It’s older than I am.”
“I’ve slept on worse.”
“Not in my house.” He disappears again. “End of discussion, Boss Lady.”
I glare at the back of his head and decide to fight this battle after I warm up.
The shower is calling my name. My hair is half-frozen, and my clothes are soaked through. I grab things from my suitcase and lock myself in the bathroom.
The water pressure is shockingly good. I stand under the spray until my fingers prune and the mirror is a solid wall of steam. When I finally shut it off, I can hear music through the door.
It’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You,” and Luke is off-key, loud, and completely unashamed, belting every single note.
I wrap myself in a towel, crack the door, and peek out.
He’s at the stove, hips swaying, flipping grilled cheese with one hand and conducting an invisible orchestra with the other. He hits the high note, and the sound is so wonderfully terrible I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
He spins, catches me watching, and doesn’t miss a beat. Just points the spatula at me and sings the following line directly to me, eyebrows waggling.
I slam the door, cheeks on fire.
When I emerge ten minutes later in leggings and an oversized sweater, he’s plated two grilled cheeses and set two mugs of cocoa on the coffee table. The cocoa has a mountain of whipped cream and a candy cane stabbed through it like a garnish.
He’s on the couch, legs stretched out, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Sit,” he says. “Eat. Drink. Stop plotting my murder.”
I sit on the opposite end of the couch, as far as humanly possible. He hands me a mug. Our fingers brush. Electricity shoots through me. I pretend it doesn’t.
The cocoa is perfect and spiked with whiskey. We eat in silence for a minute, the storm raging outside, the fire popping, Mariah now on her third loop.
I break first. “You always sing Mariah in the kitchen?”
“Only when I’m trying to impress a girl.” He grins. “Did it work?”
“Jury’s still out.”
He laughs, low and warm, and stretches an arm along the back of the couch. Not quite touching me. Just… there.
The lights flicker once, twice, then die completely. The cabin plunges into firelight and shadow.
Luke doesn’t flinch. Just reaches behind the couch, pulls out a thick flannel blanket, and drapes it over my shoulders without asking.
“I’m not cold,” I lie.
“Uh-huh.” He tucks it around me anyway, fingers brushing my neck. “You’re shaking.”
I’m not sure if it’s the cold or him.
The silence stretches, thick and electric. I pull the blanket tighter.
“So,” he says eventually, voice softer. “Why the lists? The color-coding? The panic attacks over everything that goes wrong?”
I stiffen. “I like being prepared.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I glare at the fire. “You don’t know me well enough to ask that.”
“I know you climbed a ladder in four-inch heels to hang fairy lights in a blizzard. I know you scheduled your own nervous breakdown. I know you’re the only person I’ve ever met who makes Rhett look chill.” He pauses. “I know those things, and I want to know more.”
I swallow hard.
“My mom,” I say finally, voice barely above the crackle of the fire.
“She was chaos—beautiful, brilliant chaos. One day, we’d have a Christmas tree and a turkey and presents, the next, we’d be eating cereal for dinner in a motel because she didn’t pay our rent.
I never knew what was coming. Birthdays were either magical or forgotten. Holidays were roulette.”
I pick at the blanket. “When I was twelve, she forgot to pick me up from school on the last day before winter break. I waited four hours in the snow. Finally walked home. She was passed out on the couch with some guy I’d never met.
I made my own dinner. Wrapped my own presents. Pretended I didn’t care.”
Luke is very still beside me.
“I decided then,” I continue, “that if I planned everything, if I controlled every detail, nothing could catch me off guard again. No one could let me down if I didn’t let them close enough to try.”
The fire pops. Outside, the wind howls like it’s trying to get in.
Luke shifts, and suddenly his arm is around my shoulders, pulling me gently against his side. I let him.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “That sucks.”
I laugh, watery and surprised. “Yeah. It did.”
He’s warm. Solid. I hate how much I like it, how much I’d like to lean on him.
“Your turn,” I say, nudging him with my shoulder. “Why are you so unflappable? Nothing fazes you. Not blizzards, not bossy wedding planners, not your grandmother threatening to adopt me on day one.”
He chuckles. “Practice. Dad died when I was fifteen. Mom bailed a year later. Rhett was eighteen and suddenly raising me and keeping the ranch afloat. I learned really fast that panic doesn’t pay the bills or fix fences. You just have to keep moving.”
I turn to look at him. Firelight dances over his face.
“So we’re both control freaks in our own way,” I say.
“Looks like.”
“Except you pretend you’re not.”
“And you pretend you don’t need anyone.”
I open my mouth to argue. Close it.
He smirks, but it’s gentle.
I lean my head against his shoulder without thinking. He goes still, then relaxes, tightening his arm just enough. The blanket is big enough for both of us. He tugs it over his legs too, and suddenly we’re sharing warmth, thighs pressed together, his heartbeat steady under my ear.
I should move. I should insist on the couch. I should do a lot of things. Instead, I whisper, “There’s only one bed.”
“Yep.”
“I’m not sleeping on the couch.”
“Didn’t think you would.”
“I’m not sleeping with you either.”
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest into mine. “We’ll see.”
I elbow him. He grunts, but doesn’t let go.
Outside, the storm rages harder, sealing us in this tiny cabin with one bed and approximately zero reasons to behave. I close my eyes and listen to his heartbeat.
He’s right, this could be a disaster, and for the first time in my adult life, I’m not sure I want to plan my way out of it.