Chapter 3
THREE
CELIA
“I’m not going to steal your bed.”
The words come out firmer than I intend, but I can’t help it.
Wells is standing in the narrow hallway, arms folded across his chest, still dusted with snow from the blizzard outside, and the idea of climbing into his bed. His warm sheets, his scent in the pillows.
It feels like stepping into a fantasy I have no business entertaining.
Not when the air practically sizzles every time we’re in the same space.
His jaw flexes. “You’re not stealing anything.”
“I can sleep on the couch,” I insist. “It folds out.”
“It’s a glorified potato sack.”
There’s a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. It could almost pass as a smile, if he ever let himself. “You’re taking the bed.”
I shake my head, but my pulse is hammering. “Wells—”
“Celia.” His voice deepens, gently commanding in a way that makes my breath stutter. “You’re exhausted. You’ve been wrangling my kid nonstop for the past week. Let me be a gentleman for once.”
He’s always a gentleman.
I swallow. He’s too close. Too warm. Too damn tempting.
“Fine,” I say. “But I’m not taking your clothes. I have an extra shirt I can wear for pajamas.”
His brows lift like that’s cute. “Your extra shirt is basically paper. If the power goes out, you’ll freeze.”
Before I can argue, he moves past me. His body brushes mine in a way that turns my knees to warm pudding.
I hover in the hallway, trying not to peek inside his bedroom and fail.
His room is all warm wood and flannel and the faint scent of pine soap and cedar. Cozy. Masculine. Intimate.
He rummages in his dresser and returns with a pair of soft gray joggers and a blue-and-black flannel shirt that looks twice my size.
He holds them out. “Here.”
I blink. “Wells…”
“They’re clean,” he says, almost defensively.
Like he thinks that’s my reason for hesitating.
My hesitation is that I am seconds away from imagining what he looks like wearing those gray sweatpants and nothing else.
“I can’t take those,” I say weakly.
“You can, and you will.”
The snow roars against the windows. The lights flicker overhead.
I reach for the clothes, fingertips brushing his.
The touch is small. Barely anything.
But it’s enough.
It feels like we’re the only two people left in the world.
He inhales sharply.
Everything in me goes molten. My heart trips. My thoughts scatter.
“Wells…” I whisper.
He steps closer. Just an inch. But it’s everything.
“Celia.”
My name in his voice is wrecking. Deep. Gravelly. Pulled from somewhere low in his chest.
My hand is still half-wrapped around the flannel. His fingers linger over mine. The space between us dissolves.
And then—
We’re leaning in.
Both of us.
So slowly.
Like two magnets easing toward the point of no return.
His breath brushes my mouth.
His hand lifts—hesitates—then cups the side of my neck with the gentlest heat I’ve ever felt.
I close my eyes.
And then his lips touch mine.
Just barely.
A kiss that’s more like a promise. A question. A confession neither of us meant to say out loud.
Heat shoots through me. Slow and devastating. My free hand fists in the hem of his shirt. His thumb strokes the back of my neck and I swear I could melt into his palm.
Then he pulls back.
Too fast.
Too soon.
Breath ragged, eyes tortured.
“We shouldn’t,” he says hoarsely.
A slice of cold opens my heart.
“I know,” I whisper, even though everything in me aches at the loss of him.
He steps back another inch, like he needs distance to breathe. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I swallow. “We’re tired. It’s the storm. It’s—”
“It’s that I want to,” he says quietly.
My heart stops.
He looks away like he regrets admitting it, shoulders tense, jaw tight.
“You can have the room. I’ll take the couch.”
I nod, because I can’t trust my voice, and slip past him into the bedroom.
Later, as I lie there beneath his heavy comforter, staring up at the ceiling beams while the wind lashes the cabin. His scent is everywhere. Woodsmoke, cedar, something warm and unmistakably him.
I inhale it, filling my lungs. I wish I could bottle up this scent and keep it with me always.
How am I supposed to sleep like this?
Every time I close my eyes, I feel the ghost of his lips on mine.
Soft. Careful. Hungry.
Every time I shift, I imagine him beside me, arm heavy around my waist, bodies tangled in the warmth.
It’s torture.
It’s perfect.
I bury my face in his pillow and try not to imagine what it would feel like to wake up in his arms.
I fail spectacularly.
The storm is still raging, but inside the cabin, everything is warm.
Wells made pancakes while I helped Elsie braid her hair, and for the first time since leaving Nebraska, something in my chest eases.
Maybe it’s the coziness.
Maybe it’s the routine.
Maybe it’s the way Wells keeps watching me like he’s trying not to.
By afternoon, we’ve settled into the kind of domestic bliss that feels impossible for people like us.
Elsie stands on a stool at the counter, tongue poking out in concentration as she decorates a star-shaped cookie with red frosting and way too many sprinkles.
Wells leans over her shoulder. “That looks… festive.”
“It looks like a unicorn sneezed,” I tease.
Elsie gasps, delighted. “It DOES!”
Wells chuckles — an honest to God chuckle — and something flutters low in my stomach.
I roll out another sheet of dough while he reaches past me for the gingerbread cutters. His arm brushes mine, strong and warm, and I freeze for a heartbeat.
So does he.
We look at each other.
There it is again.
The current.
The unspoken thing threading itself between us.
He clears his throat. “Sorry.”
“You’re fine.”
Too fine.
Ridiculously fine.
We fall into a rhythm without speaking — me cutting shapes, him moving the tray, our movements brushing, syncing, overlapping in ways that feel dangerously natural.
“How’d you end up in Alaska again?” he asks quietly, not looking at me as he smooths parchment onto a baking sheet.
“Long story,” I say. “Short version? I needed a change.”
“From Nebraska.”
He says it like he remembers every detail I’ve ever mentioned.
“From everything,” I admit. “I love it here. But this is the first time it’s felt like home.”
He stills.
Just subtly.
Just enough for me to see it.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I get that.”
We stare at each other for a second too long.
Then:
“Daddy!” Elsie yelps. “My snowflake cookie looks like a spider!”
Wells snorts, breaking whatever spell we were under. “Then don’t tell Mrs. Carver. She hates spiders.”
Elsie shrieks with laughter.
I beam.
For a moment, everything feels perfect.
And then the lights flicker.
Just once.
Outside the storm’s howling picks up. The windows rattle and we all turn to face them. The lights flicker and my heart catches in my throat.
“Daddy,” Elsie’s voice shakes as she takes my hand.
I give it a squeeze, opening my mouth to offer her reassurance, but then…
Everything goes dark.