Chapter 2
TWO
WELLS
By the time I reach the cabin, snow is blowing sideways, stinging my face even through the scarf wrapped up to my damn eyeballs.
I stomp up the steps, shoulders aching from a full day breaking up drifts and checking the forest service routes. I’m cold. Hungry.
So tired, I could probably fall asleep until spring.
But the second I open the door, warmth hits me like a hand on the chest.
Not just the temperature.
The sound. Elsie’s giggle. And Celia’s voice, soft and low.
It’s like I’ve walked into someone else’s picture-perfect life. Some version of the world I never thought I’d have.
I step inside and shut the door hard behind me, shaking the snow from my jacket. I’m peeling off my gloves when I see them.
They’re sitting together on the rug in front of the fire, surrounded by construction paper, glue sticks, and a half-built gingerbread cabin that leans to one side like it survived an avalanche.
Elsie is leaning into Celia’s side, humming another Christmas song while Celia holds a star cut from paper and dusted with glitter. Her hair is falling loose from the braid she has her longer hair swept back into. Her cheeks are rosy from the heat of the fire.
And her sweater—oversized, and so soft looking my fingers practically itch to touch it—is doing absolutely nothing for my ability to be a decent man.
Celia looks up at the sound of the door closing.
Her eyes soften.. “You’re frozen.”
I am. In more ways than one.
I clear my throat. “Storm’s getting worse.”
Elsie pops up. “Daddy! Daddy! Look! We’re making the cabin like the one in the Christmas book!”
She holds up the sad, slumping gingerbread wall.
“I see that,” I say, tugging gently on one of her pigtails. “It looks… solid.”
Celia snorts, trying and failing to smother it. God help me, the sound goes straight to my chest.
“It was standing,” she says. “And then it wasn’t.”
I shrug out of my coat, setting it by the stove to dry. When I turn back, Celia is watching me with that soft, steady gaze she doesn’t seem to realize she has. The kind that makes a man feel seen. Known.
And fuck me, I feel it everywhere.
I force myself to look away before I do something stupid.
“You two staying busy?” I ask.
“Oh yes!” Elsie announces. “We practiced my Christmas songs. And Celia let me help stir the chili. And we made paper snowflakes. And we—”
“Bug,” I say gently, “breathe.”
She giggles and collapses into Celia’s lap again.
And I swear — the sight of them like that hits harder than the wind outside.
A picture I’ve imagined in quiet, lonely moments — only to shove away with equal parts guilt and fear.
But here it is. Real. Warm. Alive.
“Did you make it to town okay?” Celia asks.
I shake my head. “Barely. And you’re not going anywhere.”
Her brows lift. “Sorry?”
“It’s a blizzard,” I say plainly. “Roads are closing. Visibility’s shot. It’s going to be too dangerous to drive anywhere tonight.”
Elsie squeals. “Sleepover! Sleepover! Sleepover!”
I shoot Celia an apologetic look. “Sorry for the short notice.”
“It’s fine,” she says, smiling softly. “I don’t mind staying.”
I do.
And don’t.
And that’s the problem.
A strong whiff of chili and cinnamon washes over me as I re-enter the cabin after checking on the generator.
“Mmm,” I say without thinking. “That smells delicious.”
“Celia is making us chili and cinnamon rolls, Daddy.” Elsie bounces up and down in her seat at the kitchen table. “Did you know that they eat their chili with cinnamon rolls where Celia comes from?”
My eyes lift to the woman in question, who looks perfectly at home in our home. A little too perfect.
I swallow hard. “No, sweet pea. I didn’t know that.”
“Doesn’t it sound yummy?”
“Yeah.” I nod slowly, taking in the view of the curvy woman at the stove. “Delicious.”
And not just the meal.
Unable to resist drawing closer, I stomp the snow off my boots and hang up my coat, and cross into the kitchen. Reaching Celia’s side, I catch another scent that’s just as sweet.
It’s Celia. A scent that’s uniquely her and all too appetizing.
“Can I help?” I ask, rolling up the sleeves.
“Oh, that’s okay. It’s mostly done.”
I glance back at the table, which is covered with Elsie’s drawings.
“How about I set the table?”
I move to do just that before Celia can protest. I brush past her to reach for the placemats I keep on a shelf. Our hips brush. I suck in a breath at the brief contact. The hairs on my arms stand at attention.
“Sorry,” I clear my throat and pull back.
“It’s—it’s okay.” The slight shakiness in her voice and the flush on her cheeks tells me she feels it too.
I’m playing with fire here.
After the table is set and the soup ladled, the three of us at the tiny table. Steam rises from our bowls, while Elsie chatters about everything they’ve been up to that day. Her songs, her paper snowflakes.
Celia laughs, gently adding clarification when necessary. She’s patient. Warm.
She’s everything I want for Elsie.
And everything I wish I could want for myself.
After dinner, while Elsie colors, Celia and I stand at the sink washing dishes side by side. The cabin is quiet except for the storm howling against the windows and faint giggles from the living room.
“This feels…” Celia starts, then stops, shaking her head.
“Feels what?” I ask quietly.
She glances at me, eyes shining with some emotion I don’t want to name. “Nice. Easy. Like we’ve been doing this for longer than a week.”
Yeah.
It feels that way to me too.
“Maybe blizzards have a way of making things feel smaller,” I say gruffly. “Like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”
She hands me a plate, fingers brushing mine. Warm. Soft. Delicate.
The contact shoots straight through me.
“That’s poetic for you,” she teases.
I huff. “Don’t tell anybody.”
She smiles at me again — that slow, gentle smile that lights something in me I buried years ago.
“You know,” she says quietly, “Elsie really loves you.”
My throat tightens. “I hope so.”
“I mean… she really loves you. She talks about you all day.”
I freeze, the rinse cloth dangling from my hand. “Yeah?”
Celia nods. “She feels safe with you.”
Safe.
My entire body pulls tight at the word.
It’s the one thing I’ve tried to give my daughter every day of her life.
“It matters,” I say. “That you’re here. That she has you too.”
Celia swallows. Hard.
I see her chest rise and fall, her lips part slightly, her eyes flick to mine again and—
It happens without warning.
We lean in at the same time.
Slow. Gentle. Like gravity.
Her breath mixes with mine. Her lips are inches from mine. My hand rises of its own accord, ready to touch her cheek—
“DADDY LOOK!”
We jerk apart so fast I nearly drop the plate.
Elsie stands in the doorway holding a picture. “It’s us! I drew us! See?”
Celia lets out a tiny, nervous laugh. I clear my throat, rubbing the back of my neck like a guilty teenager.
The drawing shows three stick figures holding hands under a giant Christmas tree. One of the figures is labeled “Daddy,” another “Me.” And the last one, written in my daughter’s signature blocky scrawl: Celia
My chest twists.
“That’s… great, bug,” I manage.
Celia looks like she might actually melt into the floor.
“Okay,” Celia says, clapping her hands, cheeks bright with color. “Bedtime routine?”
Elsie cheers and darts down the hall.
Celia gives me a quick glance — anxious, sweet, flustered — then heads after her.
I stand there gripping the edge of the sink, breathing like someone just punched me.
Holy hell.
I almost kissed her.
I wanted to.
I still want to.
And that’s the exact reason I need to keep myself together. She’s my daughter’s teacher. My temporary nanny. The woman my kid has grown attached to.
A woman who could break both of our hearts if I’m not careful.
Celia steps out of Elsie’s room, pulling the door shut gently behind her. The soft glow from the Christmas lights strung along the hall paints her in warm gold.
“She’s out,” Celia whispers.
I nod. “Always crashes hard after a storm.”
We stand there in the quiet. Too close. The tension humming between us like a live wire.
Suddenly, Celia’s expression shifts.
“Oh,” she says softly. “Where should I… uh… sleep?”
The question hits me square in the gut.
Because the truth is, I’ve been thinking about it all damn evening.
About her warm body in my space.
About her scent lingering on my pillows.
About her curling up behind my bedroom door.
Too close.
Too real.
Too damn tempting.
I swallow hard. “I—”
And that’s when the lights flicker.
The storm roars louder.
Celia’s breath catches.
And the question hangs suspended between us:
Where is she going to sleep?