Chapter 5 Mila
FIVE
MILA
The problem with being kissed by a mountain man who smells like snow and smoke and trouble is that he leaves—and your body refuses to accept that as a conclusion.
Beau Wilder’s mouth is gone, his hands aren’t on my waist anymore, and the cabin is quiet again… but my skin is still buzzing like it remembers him.
I stand in the middle of Bluebird Cabin, staring at the closed door like it might reopen if I glare hard enough.
It doesn’t.
Of course it doesn’t.
Because Beau is the kind of man who kisses like he means it and then walks out like he’s trying to save both of us from the meaning.
My lips are swollen. My cheeks are hot. My heart is doing something between a sprint and a tantrum.
I press my fingers to my mouth and whisper, “What just happened?”
The fire pops in response, like it’s laughing at me.
I pace to the kitchen, then back to the couch, then to the window—because apparently I’ve become a golden retriever with anxiety. Outside, his truck tracks are already getting dusted over by fresh snowfall, as if the mountain is eager to erase proof that Beau was ever here.
But I’m not erased.
Not even close.
I pick up my phone and immediately see the new text from June sitting there like a smug little bomb.
June: Don’t overthink that kiss. Also I’m making pot roast Sunday. Bring dessert. And wear something that makes him sweat.
My jaw drops.
I type back with both thumbs like my life depends on it.
Me: EXCUSE ME?
Three dots appear.
June: Language, sweetheart.
June: And yes. Excuse you right into a relationship.
I stare at the screen, equal parts horrified and… annoyingly amused.
Me: I’m not in a relationship with Beau.
June: Not yet.
June: But you will be. I have eyes. And a working brain.
June: Now eat your soup. I’m not raising you to be reckless.
I blink at the last line.
Raising me?
Ma’am, I met you twenty-four hours ago.
And yet… something about the way she says it makes my throat go tight, like maybe being folded into someone’s orbit is exactly what I didn’t realize I was missing.
I set the phone down and try to focus on normal things.
Like unpacking.
Like eating.
Like not replaying Beau’s voice in my head when he said, Tell me to stop.
Like not imagining the way his hands felt on my waist—careful, like he was holding something precious and dangerous at the same time.
I dump my bags on the bed and start pulling out clothes.
Sweaters. Leggings. A single fancy dress I packed like I thought I’d attend a gala in the woods.
And then my eyes land on a lacy bra I threw in at the last second because… because I’m a woman, and sometimes we pack delusions for emotional support.
I stare at it.
Then I whisper, “Absolutely not.”
Because I am not dressing like that for Sunday dinner at a small-town grandmother’s house.
I am.
I’m not.
I don’t know.
The next two days pass in a weird haze of cabin coziness and emotional chaos.
I write a little. I make coffee that tastes like mountain air and rebellion. I take a walk down the drive—only in daylight, only with my phone, only with enough layers to survive a mild apocalypse.
I go into town for groceries and pretend I’m not scanning every truck that passes like I’m waiting for Beau to appear like some rugged Christmas miracle.
He doesn’t.
Which is rude.
Sunday comes with fresh snow and bright winter sun that turns everything into glittering perfection. It’s so pretty it makes me angry.
Because my nerves are not pretty right now.
I stand in front of the bathroom mirror in Bluebird Cabin, tugging at the hem of a fitted sweater dress that hugs my curves like it was designed specifically to ruin a man’s self-control.
I glare at my reflection.
“June told me to wear something that makes him sweat,” I mutter to myself. “June is a menace.”
My reflection looks back like, and you’re doing it anyway.
I pull on boots and a coat and check my phone for the time for the tenth time.
No message from Beau.
No “I’ll pick you up.”
No “See you there.”
Nothing.
Which makes sense, because Beau gives off strong I don’t text feelings energy.
Still.
I’m nervous enough that when my stomach flips, I actually consider staying home and eating pot roast alone in bed like a goblin.
Then headlights sweep through the window.
I freeze.
A truck pulls into the clearing. Big. Dark. Familiar.
My heart kicks hard.
I open the door before I can talk myself out of it, and there he is—Beau in a clean dark jacket, hair slightly damp like he showered and didn’t like it, beard trimmed like he fought with the idea of effort and lost.
His gaze lands on me and stops.
Just… stops.
Like his brain goes blank the same way mine did.
He looks at my sweater dress. My boots. My hair down for once, brushed and soft.
His jaw flexes.
And his eyes—those sharp blue eyes—go darker.
Heat crawls up my neck so fast I feel like I’m overheating in the snow.
“Hi,” I manage.
Beau steps up onto the porch like the cold doesn’t touch him. “Hi.”
We stare at each other for an extra beat—too long for strangers, too charged for anything else.
Then he clears his throat, rough. “You ready?”
I blink. “Yes.”
He nods once, like he’s relieved I said yes and mad about being relieved.
I lock the door with shaking hands and turn back, forcing myself to sound normal. “So. You’re picking me up.”
“June told me to,” he says flatly.
Of course she did.
“And you listen to June,” I tease, stepping down into the snow.
Beau’s mouth twitches. “June doesn’t request. She commands.”
“Sounds familiar,” I say, because I can’t help myself.
His gaze snaps to mine.
“You think I’m bossy?” he asks.
My breath catches, because the way he says it makes my stomach do something reckless.
“I think you’re…” I search for the right word and fail. “Intense.”
His eyes hold mine. “You don’t seem scared.”
I swallow. “Maybe I should be.”
Beau steps closer—just a little—until his body heat edges into my space.
His voice drops. “Maybe.”
My pulse stutters.
Then he opens the passenger door for me like a gentleman who definitely kissed me senseless two nights ago.
I climb in, trying to gather my dignity off the floor of my own brain.
The drive into town is quiet at first.
Not awkward quiet. Heavy quiet.
The kind where every small movement feels loud—my coat rustling, his hands on the wheel, the low rumble of the engine.
Finally, I blurt, “So… you’ve been avoiding me.”
Beau’s jaw tightens. “I’ve been working.”
“That’s not an answer.”
His eyes flick to mine for a split second, then back to the road. “I wasn’t avoiding you.”
“Mm-hmm.”
He exhales through his nose. “You always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Challenge everything I say.”
I smile, unable to help it. “Only when I think you’re lying.”
His mouth tightens like he’s fighting the urge to smile back.
“You think I’m lying now?” he asks.
I shift in the seat, suddenly very aware of how close we are in this truck. “I think you kissed me like you wanted to… and then you ran.”
Beau grips the wheel a little harder.
The muscles in his forearm flex, and my brain immediately loses IQ points.
“I didn’t run,” he says, voice low.
“You left,” I correct.
He glances at me, and the look in his eyes is the opposite of calm. “I had to.”
Something in my chest aches. “Because you were called out, or because you didn’t want to stay?”
Beau’s throat works like he swallows something sharp. “Both.”
The honesty hits me in the sternum.
I look out the window at the trees, at the snow, at the way Timber Creek looks like a movie set for cozy romance dreams—and I feel my voice come out softer than I intended.
“I didn’t regret it,” I say.
Beau’s knuckles whiten on the wheel.
“Neither did I,” he says.
And the way he says it—like it costs him—makes my heart tilt.
June’s house is… not a house.
It’s a warm, sprawling lodge-style place with a wraparound porch, strings of twinkle lights, and the kind of “welcome” wreath that feels aggressively wholesome.
Cars line the driveway. Voices and laughter drift out into the cold. The scent of something rich and savory wraps around us the moment Beau parks.
I stare. “Is the whole town here?”
Beau’s mouth twitches. “Probably.”
I look at him, alarmed. “You didn’t tell me it was a festival.”
“You didn’t ask,” he says, then opens his door and steps out like he’s not the reason I’m sweating under my coat.
I scramble out, adjusting my hair like that’ll fix anything.
Beau comes around the truck and pauses in front of me.
His gaze drops to my boots, then my dress, then my face.
“You’re cold?” he asks.
“No,” I lie.
His eyes narrow like he knows. Then he reaches up—slow, giving me time to pull away—and tugs my scarf higher around my neck.
The gesture is simple. Gentle.
But his fingers brush my skin.
And my whole body lights up like a match.
Beau’s hand lingers a second too long.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
My breath catches.
Then a voice calls, “There you are!”
June barrels out onto the porch like a happy hurricane, wearing an apron and a grin and the satisfied glow of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.
She stops dead when she sees us standing close.
Her eyes sparkle.
“Ohhh,” she breathes, like she’s watching her favorite show. “Look at you two. Like something out of a romance novel.”
I choke. “June—”
Beau says, flat, “Grandma.”
I freeze.
Grandma.
My eyes snap to Beau, then to June, then back to Beau.
June points at him. “Don’t you ‘Grandma’ me in that tone.”
My mouth falls open. “You’re his—”
“Yes,” June says brightly. “I’m his grandmother. Surprise.”
I stare at Beau. “You didn’t tell me.”
He looks like he wants the earth to swallow him. “It wasn’t relevant.”
“Not relevant?” I whisper. “Your grandmother is my new social overlord.”
June wraps an arm around my shoulders like we’re best friends. “Come on, sweetheart. You’re family now.”
I sputter. “I’m—”
Beau mutters, “Jesus Christ.”