Chapter 2 Beau
TWO
BEAU
I don’t do stranded women on backroads.
Not because I’m heartless—because it’s a liability. Because it turns into a whole thing. Because I’ve learned the hard way that the moment you step into someone else’s crisis, you’re suddenly responsible for their fear, their hope, their tears, their gratitude, their… everything.
And everything is heavy.
But then I pull up behind the little SUV with the hazards blinking like a weak heartbeat in the snow, and I see her through the windshield.
Curled up in the driver’s seat like she’s trying to make herself smaller than she is.
Which is ridiculous, because even from ten feet away I can tell she’s the kind of woman that fills a space just by existing in it.
Not loud. Not needy.
Just… there. Warm. Real. Soft in the places life usually tries to harden.
I’m already irritated—with the road, with the weather, with the idiots who treat mountains like a themed attraction.
And then she rolls her window down an inch and looks at me like I’m the answer to a prayer she didn’t want to say out loud.
“Hi,” she chirps, trying for calm and failing in a way that’s almost endearing.
I identify her immediately: Mila. City. New. Renting Bluebird.
And it hits me like a sucker punch—because I know exactly who that cabin belongs to, and I know exactly who told June about it.
Of course she did.
Of course my grandmother is involved.
I keep my voice steady, professional. “You Mila?”
She nods, and I watch her throat bob when she swallows. She’s nervous. She’s cold. She’s trying to be brave.
The kind of bravery that doesn’t swagger.
The kind that shows up anyway.
“Alright,” I say. “Let’s get you out of here.”
Her smile is quick, grateful. “Thank you. I’m really sorry. I didn’t—”
“You’re not the first to think this road is friendly.” I glance at the incline ahead. “It’s not.”
She laughs like she knows she should be embarrassed but doesn’t want to give it too much power. “Yeah. I’ve gathered.”
God.
Even her laugh is cute.
I turn toward her trunk, keeping my movements brisk so I don’t linger too long staring at her mouth like an idiot. “You got chains?”
“Yes. In the trunk.”
“Ever put ’em on?”
She hesitates. “In theory.”
I glance back at her, and she lifts her chin like she’s daring me to judge her.
“I watched a YouTube video,” she adds. “It was very informative.”
My mouth twitches before I can stop it.
“In theory,” I repeat, because I’m a man and apparently repeating her words is the only way I know how to flirt without combusting.
She’s not flirting back—not really. Not consciously.
But there’s something in the way she looks at me. Like she’s relieved. Like she’s curious. Like she’s cataloguing me the way people do when they’re trying to figure out if you’re safe.
I should hate that. I should want her to look away.
Instead, my chest tightens with something I don’t have a name for anymore.
I kneel by the rear tire and start working, hands moving from muscle memory—chains, hooks, tension. The snow bites at my knuckles even through gloves. My breath fogs out in a steady stream.
Behind me, her door creaks.
“You don’t have to do all that,” she calls, voice small.
I keep my focus on the chain. “I do if I don’t want to come back for you in twenty minutes.”
She huffs. “I would not call again.”
I glance over my shoulder. “You’d rather freeze out here to prove a point?”
There’s a beat of silence, then: “Okay, maybe I would call again.”
I snort quietly. I don’t do that either. Snorting. It feels like too much personality.
But Mila brings it out of me like she’s flipping switches.
When I finish, I stand and brush snow off my knees. She’s closer now, bundled in a coat that looks like it’s trying its best. Her cheeks are pink from cold. Her eyes—big, bright, determined—track my every move.
There’s a cupcake air freshener swinging from her mirror.
A cupcake.
In Timber Creek.
In January.
I shouldn’t be thinking about it. I should be thinking about traction and road conditions and radioing in my status.
Instead, I’m thinking about how her lips look chapped and how I want to fix it.
I clear my throat, annoyed at myself. “Start her up.”
She climbs back in. The engine turns over. Tires crunch.
The SUV shifts forward—slow, hesitant—then catches.
Relief crosses her face so fast it knocks something loose in me.
“Okay,” she says, half-laughing. “We’re moving. We’re alive. Darlene lives to fight another day.”
“Darlene?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She points to the dashboard like it’s obvious. “My SUV. She has a name.”
“She does.”
“Don’t judge us.”
I should tell her I’m absolutely judging her.
Instead I hear myself ask, “Why Darlene?”
She shrugs, smiling. “Because she’s dramatic, unpredictable, and occasionally tries to ruin my life.”
I stare at her for a second too long.
Because that’s also the best description of love I’ve ever heard.
I step back, motioning her to follow my truck. “You’re headed to Bluebird cabin?”
“Yes.”
“Stay close. Road gets worse near the switchback.”
She nods and then—like she can’t help herself—adds, “So… you’re really with Haven 7?”
“Yeah.”
“Like… mountain rescue.”
“Like mountain rescue,” I confirm.
She looks past me, up toward the dark outline of Wedding Cake Mountain, its jagged shape swallowed by clouds. “That sounds… intense.”
“It can be.”
“What made you do it?”
The question lands sharper than it should.
I glance at her, and her expression shifts—softening, like she realizes she just touched something tender.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to answer,” she adds quickly. “I’m just… curious.”
Curious.
Not prying. Not demanding. Not pitying.
Just curious.
I swallow, then gesture toward my truck. “Get in your car, Mila.”
She blinks. “I—”
“Get in,” I repeat, firm. “Before you start turning blue.”
She laughs and climbs in.
I get in my truck, radio the station. “Haven 7, this is Beau. I’ve got the stranded vehicle. No injuries. Escorting to Bluebird cabin.”
Dillon’s voice crackles back. “Copy. You headed back after?”
I look in the rearview mirror. Mila’s headlights glow behind me like she’s tethered herself to my path.
“Yeah,” I lie. “After.”
“June’s gonna ask,” Dillon adds, and I can practically hear the grin.
I tighten my jaw. “June asks about everything.”
“That’s what grandmas do.”
My hands clench on the wheel.
June. Grandma. The woman in the Mercantile who just happens to have her fingers in every pie in Timber Creek.
Including, apparently, my love life.
I guide us through the narrow lane, the truck cutting clean tracks through the snow. Mila stays close, careful. Good girl—no, don’t call her that in your head, Wilder, Jesus.
A few minutes later, the trees open and Bluebird cabin appears—warm light glowing from the windows, smoke curling from the chimney like the place has been waiting for her.
Mila pulls into the small clearing, parking crooked like she’s too relieved to care about aesthetics.
I climb out, and she does too, staring at the cabin like it’s a miracle.
“It’s… actually adorable,” she breathes.
Her voice is soft in the cold, and something in me shifts again—like my body recognizes her warmth and wants to move toward it.
She turns to me, smile bright. “Thank you. Seriously. I would’ve—”
“Froze,” I supply.
She points at me. “Maybe.”
I step closer, because I’m an idiot. “You got food?”
She blinks. “Uh. Some snacks.”
“Real food,” I press.
“Does beef jerky count as real food?”
“No.”
She laughs, and the sound hits me square in the chest.
I should leave. I should go back to the station. I should not stand here in the snow staring at a woman like she’s the first color I’ve seen in years.
But Mila shifts her weight, and I notice the way her coat hugs her curves, the way her body looks strong and soft at the same time, and my brain goes painfully blank.
She watches me watching her.
Not offended.
Not self-conscious.
Just… aware.
Heat crawls up my neck. I force my gaze back to her face. “I can drop supplies tomorrow. We’ve got extra. Canned stuff. Soup. Coffee.”
Her eyes widen. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
I take a step back, creating space I don’t want. “You got the Haven 7 number. If anything happens—call.”
“I will,” she says, and then quietly: “Beau?”
“Yeah?”
She hesitates, then says, “I’m glad you were the one who came.”
The words are simple. Light.
But they land heavy.
Because I’m glad too.
And that’s the problem.
I nod once, rough. “Get inside.”
She unlocks the cabin door, then pauses on the threshold like she wants to say something else.
Instead, she gives me a small wave and disappears into the warmth.
I stand there for a second, staring at the closed door, snow collecting on my shoulders like the mountain’s trying to bury me in my own stupidity.
My phone buzzes.
I glance down.
June:
Well?
Did you meet her?
Don’t you lie to your grandmother, Beau Wilder.
Also she’s sweet. And curvy. And you’re welcome.
I close my eyes and exhale through my nose, slow and controlled.
Because I know that tone.
I know that satisfaction.
And I know my grandmother didn’t “happen” to tell the Mercantile about the new renter.
She set this up.
The cabin. The timing. The road. The rescue call.
She orchestrated the whole damn thing like Timber Creek’s very own Cupid with arthritis and a vendetta against my solitude.
My phone buzzes again.
June:
Bring her to dinner Sunday.
And before you say no—
I already told her it’s a town tradition.
I stare at the message, jaw clenched.
Then I look back at the cabin window—at the warm glow and the faint shadow moving inside.
Mila.
Curvy complication.
City girl with a cupcake air freshener and a laugh that makes my chest hurt.
And suddenly my quiet life doesn’t feel quiet anymore.
It feels like it’s about to start.