Chapter Fifteen
Liam
The snow has been coming down for hours, a steady curtain of white that blankets the lodge and turns everything into a picture-perfect postcard.
From where I’m sitting on the ledge of one of the big windows, I can see the mountains disappearing into the storm, their peaks hidden in the gray haze.
It’s quiet out here, save for the distant hum of a snowplow and the occasional crunch of boots outside the doors.
Maggie said she was heading back to her hotel room to “freshen up” before drinks tonight, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. If she comes back in that oversized beanie and her too-big coat, I might just lose it. And not in a good way.
Still, there’s something about her that’s completely disarming. I don’t know if it’s her stubborn streak, her biting wit, or the way she keeps looking at me like she’s trying to figure me out. Whatever it is, it’s gotten under my skin. She’s gotten under my skin.
And yeah, I noticed the way her leg bumped against mine earlier while we were sitting with the guys.
It wasn’t much—just a soft, barely-there touch—but she didn’t pull away, either.
She kept sneaking glances at me, too, thinking I wouldn’t notice.
But I did. Maggie Cooper might not want to admit it yet—not to me, and probably not to herself—but she likes me.
It’s written all over her.
“Pining over your date already?” a voice teases behind me.
I don’t need to turn around to know it’s Bryce. “I don’t pine,” I shoot back, straightening up as I turn to face him.
Bryce raises an eyebrow, his smirk annoyingly smug. “You’ve been staring out that window like you’re waiting for her to come walking through the snow in slow motion or something.”
“I’m thinking,” I correct him, though I know he’s not buying it.
“Sure.” Bryce snickers as he flops into one of the big leather chairs nearby. “So, are you actually into this girl, or is this just another one of your many conquests?”
“She’s different,” I say without thinking.
Bryce pauses, giving me a look like I just admitted I plan to retire tomorrow and take up knitting. “Different?”
I roll my shoulders, suddenly feeling the weight of the word. “Yeah.”
He whistles low, shaking his head. “Well, damn. If Liam Thompson is saying ‘different,’ I think the sky must be falling.”
“Maybe it is.”
“I should have known,” Bryce chuckles. “This afternoon, you were staring at her the entire time like she’s the last snowboard on Earth.”
I snort, even though he’s not wrong. “She’s different.” I know I keep saying it, but it’s the truth.
“Different,” Bryce repeats again, grinning. “Watch out, man. Next thing you know, you’ll be writing her poems and asking her to carve your initials into a tree.”
“Go away, Bryce.”
He laughs as he kicks his boots up on the table, thoroughly entertained at my expense. But I can’t bring myself to care. Because for the first time in a long time, the thought of drinks with a woman—one woman—feels like more than just a distraction.
It feels like something I’m actually looking forward to.
The snow continues to fall in curtains of white. I check the weather and see that there’s even more snow in the forecast. I really hope Maggie gets here soon.
As if on cue, the glass doors slide open, and there she is. Maggie steps inside, brushing snow off her shoulders as the cold air clings to her. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the wind, and that same knit beanie—her signature, apparently—sits snug on her head.
I don’t know why my heart kicks into a faster rhythm, but it does. Maybe it’s the way she carries herself, like she doesn’t care who’s watching, or the fact that she’s completely oblivious to the way she affects me.
She scans the room as she walks farther in, her eyes catching mine. There’s this tiny moment—barely a flicker—where her lips twitch, like she’s fighting back a smile, before she looks away.
Smooth, Maggie. Real smooth.
As she unbuttons her coat, my eyes trail downward before I can stop myself.
She’s ditched the bulky layers and is wearing a simple black sweater that fits her just right.
Not too snug, not too loose, but enough that I can see the soft lines of her figure.
She tugs the coat off her shoulders, and for a second, I can’t remember how breathing works.
Who knew a sweater and jeans could look that good?
I push off the window ledge as she moves closer, trying not to look too eager—though judging by the smirk Bryce is shooting me from his chair, I’m failing miserably.
“Nice of you to show up,” I say, aiming for casual but somehow sounding a little breathless.
Maggie raises an eyebrow as she stops in front of me, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “What, did you think I was going to stand you up?”
“Would have been the first time a girl’s done it,” I quip, shoving my hands into my pockets to keep from reaching for her. “But I had faith.”
“Faith, huh?” she says, giving me a look like she doesn’t quite believe me. “Well, here I am.”
“Here you are,” I echo, a stupid grin spreading across my face that I can’t seem to shake.
Her blue eyes narrow just slightly as she takes me in. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve never seen a woman in a sweater before.”
I bark out a laugh. “Maybe I haven’t seen one wear it quite so well.”
Her cheeks pinken—not from the cold this time—but she recovers quickly, rolling her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re late,” I tease, stepping back to give her some space. “Let’s find a spot near the bar.”
Her expression falters for just a second, like she isn’t quite sure she should do this, but then she straightens her shoulders and meets my gaze head-on. “Lead the way.”
The bartender takes our drink orders—beer for me, red wine for her—and we settle into a spot by the massive stone fireplace.
The flames crackle and glow, the warmth instantly seeping into my skin.
Maggie tosses her coat over the arm of the plush leather couch before sinking into her seat.
I follow suit, taking the other side of the couch, careful to keep a respectable distance.
She’s trying to keep things in the “friendly” zone, and while I’m not sure I want to stay there, I figure I should at least play by her rules. For now.
“So,” I say, clearing my throat as I lean back, stretching an arm casually across the back of the couch while strategically balancing my beer on my knee. “When did you get into writing?”
Maggie tilts her head slightly, looking at me with a small, almost hesitant smile, like she’s debating how much to share.
Finally, she exhales, her gaze drifting to the fire.
“I’ve always loved writing. It started with Journalism in high school.
My teacher used to say I had a ‘nose for news,’” she says, using air quotes.
“I think she was just being nice because I was the only student who finished her articles two weeks early.”
I chuckle. “Sounds on-brand for you.”
“Yeah, well…” She bites her lip before continuing, her voice softening.
“It was my mom who pushed me to really go for it. She died before I graduated, but she made me promise I’d at least give writing a shot.
” Her eyes flick to mine briefly, the firelight dancing in her irises before she glances back at the flames.
“She always said life is short. That you shouldn’t waste time in jobs—or places—that make you miserable. ”
I swallow, the weight of her words hanging in the air. “That’s… good advice.”
“It is,” she agrees softly, her fingers tracing the edge of her wine glass. “I guess I haven’t always taken it to heart. Maybe I’ve stayed in one place for too long.” She gives a dry laugh, lifting the glass to her lips. “Still working on that, obviously.”
Something tightens in my chest, a dull ache I don’t recognize. “You’ll find it.”
She glances over at me, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You sound pretty sure about that.”
“I am,” I say simply, holding her gaze. “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who gives up easily.”
Her smile grows, and for a moment, she looks at me like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect. “You’re not as cocky as you seem, are you?”
I grin, shrugging one shoulder. “Depends on who you ask.”
That earns me a laugh—soft and real—and I feel it settle somewhere deep inside me, a warmth different from the fire. She shakes her head, still smiling, before taking another sip of her wine.
“Who should I ask then?” she teases.
“I’ll make a list,” I shoot back, grinning.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a spark behind them, something alive and electric. And just like that, the space between us feels a little smaller. I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees, unable to help myself.
“You know,” I say with a click of my tongue, “your mom was right. Life’s too short to waste time.”
Her expression softens, the teasing gone, and for a moment, it’s just the two of us—her searching my face, me trying not to get lost in hers.
“I think I’m starting to realize that,” she murmurs.
“If you could have any writing job in the world, no limitations, what would it be?” I ask, keeping the conversation moving, but also genuinely curious. I want to know more about her—what drives her, what makes her light up.
Maggie tilts her head, her teeth sinking into her lower lip as she considers the question, really considers it. The firelight casts a soft glow across her face, and for a moment, she looks almost wistful. Then, with a small shrug of her shoulder, she answers. “I want to be editor.”
“Really?” I can’t hide my surprise. I was expecting something…different.
Maggie exhales, her fingers lightly circling the rim of her wine glass as she turns to look at me.
“I like the job I have now, but I want more.” Her voice softens, almost like she’s sharing something she doesn’t usually let people see.
“I’m not built for luxury or flashy job titles, or my photo plastered across the front of some magazine.
I don’t want the world to know my name. I just want to tell the truth. ”
Her words settle between us, and for the first time tonight, there’s no teasing, no witty back and forth. Just Maggie. Real, unfiltered Maggie.
“I’m happy with a blank page,” she continues quietly, her gaze drifting to the flames dancing in the fireplace, “a cup of coffee, and a story that needs to be told.”
There’s something so raw, so honest about the way she says it that it catches me off guard. She’s not pretending. Not trying to impress me or anyone else. She knows exactly who she is, and she’s not ashamed of it.
“That’s rare, you know,” I tell her.
Her eyes flick back to mine, curiosity flickering behind the blue. “What is?”
“Knowing what makes you happy. A lot of people spend their whole lives searching for that.”
She blinks at me, like she wasn’t expecting those words to come out of my mouth. Then she gives me a smile—small and maybe even a little shy. It hits me harder than it should, straight to my chest.
“What about you?” she asks suddenly, shifting the spotlight back to me. “If you could do anything in the world—no limits—what would it be?”
I chuckle softly, leaning back against the couch. “That’s easy. I’d be snowboarding. There’s nothing else I want to do.” Even if I might not be able to do it for much longer.
Maggie narrows her eyes, studying me. “With all the pressure? The constant training? The spotlight?”
I shrug. “Yeah. It’s all worth it the second I hit the slopes. Everything else fades away. There’s no noise, no stress—just me and the mountain.”
She watches me quietly for a moment, something I can’t quite read in her expression. “That sounds… freeing.”
“It is,” I admit. “But you know what? I think your blank page and coffee might come pretty close.”
She laughs softly, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”
“Or maybe I’m just starting to figure you out,” I counter with a grin.
Her smile lingers, and for the first time all night, the space between us feels like it’s disappearing. The room fades into the background, the fire crackles softly, and it’s just the two of us, wrapped up in quiet conversation and the kind of tension you don’t dare name out loud.
But even as I sit there, half smiling at her and trying to keep things light, there’s one undeniable truth tugging at the back of my mind: Maggie Cooper is starting to make me want… more.