Chapter 2 #2
I swipe it away without answering. Jude means well, but I’m barely holding together. My head aches, and the weight of that dream still drags behind my eyes.
I scrub my face hard and swing my legs off the bed. The floorboards chill my feet instantly. I need coffee.
The shower does little to clear the fog in my mind. Hot water steams the mirror, but Claire’s face lingers behind the glass, smiling the way she used to when we’d finish a job and she’d cook enough chili to feed an army.
When I step out, the house feels too still. I towel off, drag on a pair of worn jeans, a gray Henley, and my flannel. The coffee canister on the counter is empty. I curse again, remembering I finished it yesterday.
The place looks like me. Structured, solid, built with intention. Every board and beam reminds me that control is something you make with your hands.
Jude and I designed the house ourselves, twin builds sitting side by side on the edge of Fox Hollow, overlooking the river valley.
We kept them simple—wood, glass, stone. No clutter. Mine leans darker, all walnut and charcoal tones, clean lines that make it feel grounded.
The living room opens up around a wide hearth I laid with my own hands, black slate bordered with oak trim. The furniture is sturdy, leather, and rough fabric, built to last rather than impress.
Shelves line one wall, full of old woodworking books and a few framed photos I can’t bring myself to move. Claire with sawdust on her nose, Jude’s arms around both of us, her eyes bright.
After she died, we sold the old house in town. The one the three of us built before everything went wrong.
Jude needed to start fresh. I needed space to grieve. So we built these two cabins on the ridge, connected by a gravel path and a lifetime of things we never said out loud.
I pull on my boots by the door and grab my coat from the hook. The cold hits hard when I step outside. The snow hasn’t let up.
The drive into town takes longer than usual. The truck tires slide on the icy road, and the wipers struggle to keep up.
The snow thickens, turning the world into a blur of gray and white. The whole town seems wrapped in it.
Lorelai’s Bakery sits at the corner of Main, its windows glowing like a hearth against the storm. The sign above the door still creaks in the wind, painted letters slightly chipped.
Warmth seeps through my coat the second I step over the threshold, the air inside smelling like cinnamon and caramel.
Riley, June, and Cora are behind the counter, the three retired Omega sisters who’ve kept this place running for years now. They greet everyone like family, and the bakery feels like another home in town.
Riley looks up first, her hair tied in a scarf. “Morning, sweetheart. Long night?”
“Something like that.”
June already has a to-go cup in her hand. “Coffee?”
“Make it two. And a couple of muffins for Jude.”
She laughs softly. “Still feeding that boy after all these years?”
Cora rings it up, shaking her head. “He’s lucky you take care of him, Ryker.”
“Someone’s got to keep him alive.”
The door swings open behind me. A gust of cold air swirls through, carrying snowflakes across the tile. I turn instinctively, and there she is.
Norah Knightly.
Her scarf is wrapped high around her neck, wool the color of moss. Snow glitters on her hair, soft curls spilling from under a knit cap.
Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, eyes bright under the lights. She spots me and waves, a smile lifting her mouth.
“Hey,” she says as she steps up beside me, brushing snow from her coat.
“Hey.”
She orders a hot chocolate, her voice low and warm. When she finishes paying, we wait together at the counter.
“You’re up early,” I say.
She laughs softly, a small cloud of breath escaping her lips. “Have to meet the flower delivery guy at the shop. The snow messed with his schedule again. Figured I’d grab something warm before dealing with frozen tulips.”
“You thinking of getting that cold room installed?”
Her eyes widen. “How did you know?”
“Word gets around when you run a construction company in Fox Hollow.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, that spark lighting in her expression. “I was hoping to talk to someone about it this week. It’s getting harder to keep everything fresh once winter kicks in.”
“I can tell you what you’d need,” I offer. “Good insulation, a solid refrigeration unit, and sealed framing.”
Her gaze lifts to mine. “You make it sound simple.”
“Nothing’s simple until it’s built. I can promise you, it’s very doable though.”
Her smile lingers, soft but curious. She looks down at her gloves, brushing away a bit of melted snow. I notice the way it glints on her scarf, the way the cold turns her skin pink.
I hate snow. Always have. But not on her. On her, it looks right,
Riley sets our drinks on the counter, breaking whatever thought had just taken hold. “Here you go, loves.”
I reach for my wallet when the doorbell chimes again. The sound cuts through the bakery, followed by a low voice that I know even before I look up.
Dorian James.
The man fills the doorway like he’s walked out of some glossy magazine shoot. Coat tailored to perfection, dark jeans pressed, hair styled in that careless way that I couldn’t achieve if I tried. The scent of expensive cologne trails behind him.
Riley lights up. “Well, if it isn’t Dorian James! You back for the holidays?”
He smiles, polished and easy. “Something like that.” Then his eyes land on me. “Ryker.”
“Dorian.”
The difference between us couldn’t be clearer. His watch probably costs more than the entire lumber order I placed this week. I stand there in my flannel, boots crusted with snow, feeling like the world’s most obvious contrast.
He looks at Norah next, and that smooth confidence falters just slightly. “Hey.”
Her smile tightens. “Dorian.”
“Didn’t know I’d find you here,” he says.
“I live here.”
Riley fusses with the register, pretending not to listen, though every ear in the bakery is tuned in.
I focus on my bag of muffins, willing myself not to care. But it’s hard not to notice the tension between them. Norah’s shoulders draw tight, her expression hardening.
“I thought we could talk,” Dorian continues, voice lower now.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” she answers, grabbing her cup from the counter. “Enjoy your visit, Dorian.”
Before he can respond, she turns and walks straight out the door.
He hesitates for only a breath before following her.
The bell jingles again, and the bakery goes still except for the hum of the espresso machine.
Riley glances toward me, her brows raised. “Drama before sunrise. Must be holiday season again.”
“Seems that way,” her sister Cora says.
I collect my coffee and Jude’s muffins, slipping a few bills onto the counter. The warmth of the bakery fades the second I push open the door.
Outside, the snow falls harder, thick flakes swirling against the wind. Norah and Dorian are halfway down the block, her shoulders tight, his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets.
She moves fast, head down, refusing to look back.
I watch them for a breath, then pull up my collar and head for the truck. Whatever’s going on between them isn’t my business. I’ve had my fill of heartbreak for a lifetime.
The wind howls across Main Street, snow piling against the curbs. I grip my coffee, climb behind the wheel, and start the engine. The heater groans to life, fighting the cold.
Fox Hollow stretches ahead, white and endless. Somewhere behind the clouds, morning light hides, waiting for a break.
I take a long sip, the bitterness grounding me.
Whatever today brings, I’ll handle it. Just like always.