Chapter 6
SIX
BOONE
Two days into being back home, I’ve learned something important.
Pretending you’re just roommates is impossible when there’s a cat in the house who has decided her life’s mission is to emotionally co-parent you.
Georgie spends the first morning sprinting from Erica’s room to mine like she’s doing laps for a prize. She wedges herself between our doors in the hallway, flops down dramatically, and stares at each of us in turn, as if she’s waiting for one of us to admit we’re being ridiculous.
Erica ignores her. I try to ignore her.
Georgie wins.
The cabin feels smaller than I remember.
Not physically. It’s the same walls, the same creaky floorboards, the same window that lets in the winter light in a thin, pale wash.
But there’s warmth here now that wasn’t here before.
A lamp in the corner that casts golden light instead of that harsh overhead glare.
A throw blanket tossed over the couch. A thrifted rug that covers the cold spot by the front door.
Erica’s touches.
Signs of her living here.
It should make me happy.
It does make me happy.
It also makes something ache in my chest in a way I’m not eager to examine.
We’re polite. Careful. We speak in safe topics—weather, groceries, Georgie’s latest obsession with string. Sometimes we brush shoulders passing in the narrow kitchen and both of us react like we’ve touched a hot stove. Then we pretend we didn’t.
The motel happened. The year happened. Whatever I did to her life happened.
We don’t talk about any of it.
If I’m honest, I’ve been waiting for her to ask me why I came back early, why I never wrote, why I didn’t call. I’ve been waiting for anger to finally break loose, to hit me square in the face the way I deserve. Instead, she’s been steady. Capable. Warm with Georgie. Focused on her writing.
It makes me proud.
It makes me feel like I don’t belong in the same room.
Late afternoon on the second day, Erica runs into town for a few errands, and I take the opportunity to do what I’ve been doing since I got home: check everything, tighten everything, make sure nothing froze or cracked while I was gone.
Even with the cabin occupied, winter has a way of sneaking up on you if you get complacent.
I’m halfway through looking at the mudroom window latch when I notice a spiral notebook on the coffee table.
Duct tape on the spine. Familiar cover.
Mine.
Or at least I think it’s mine.
I pick it up without thinking. Flip it open.
Then my brain locks up.
Because it is not my handwriting.
It’s hers.
I see my name on the page before I process it. Not Boone, exactly, but a hero who might as well be. Broad shoulders. Rough hands. A cabin. A stubborn mouth. A scene that makes my stomach drop in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.
My pulse kicks.
I’m not a voyeur.
I shouldn’t be reading this.
I start to close the notebook—swear I do—but my eyes catch on a line and then another. Her words pull at me like a current.
It’s a scene. Not quite finished. Ink scratches in the margins where she’s rewritten a sentence, tightened dialogue, circled a phrase like she’s debating if it’s too much.
It’s good.
It’s really good.
And the hero… I know that man. I’ve been that man. At least once.
The front door opens.
Georgie chirps.
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
I look up as Erica steps inside, cheeks pink from the cold, her tote bag hanging from her shoulder. She pauses when she sees me holding the notebook.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then I do what I always do when I’m caught off guard.
I try to joke.
“Well,” I say. “This is… embarrassing.”
She lifts a brow. “Why are you reading my notebook.”
I wince. “I thought it was mine.”
She blinks. “Why would my notebook be yours.”
“It has duct tape.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s… a strong association.”
Her mouth twitches, but she doesn’t let herself smile. She steps closer, eyeing the notebook like she’s deciding if she wants to grab it from my hands or pretend she doesn’t care.
“I wasn’t snooping,” I say quickly. “I opened it, realized it wasn’t mine, and then?—”
“And then you couldn’t stop.”
I exhale. “And then I couldn’t stop.”
She folds her arms. “How much did you read.”
“Not a lot.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Okay,” I amend. “More than I should have.”
She stares at me long enough that I can feel my ears warming.
Then she surprises me.
“So,” she says, voice casual in a way that doesn’t fool me for a second. “What did you think.”
I blink.
“What.”
“Of the scene.”
I swallow hard. “Erica…”
“Be honest,” she says. “It’s fine. I left it out. I wasn’t exactly hiding it.”
That’s true. The notebook has been living on the coffee table for days, open half the time. I just… never looked. Until I did.
I clear my throat. “It’s good.”
She tilts her head. “Good is vague.”
“It’s really good,” I say, and mean it. “The banter works. The pacing is tight. The way you build tension—” I stop, because that line of praise is a slippery slope into things I don’t want to say out loud.
Her gaze softens slightly. “Okay.”
I glance down at the notebook, then back at her. “I can’t help noticing something, though.”
She exhales. “Here it comes.”
“The hero.”
Her lips press together.
“He seems… familiar.”
She doesn’t even flinch. “Does he.”
“I might be wrong.”
“You’re not wrong.”
I stare at her.
She gestures vaguely. “What. I had research.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“Are you mad.”
“No,” I say immediately. And then, because honesty is apparently contagious in this house, I add, “I’m flattered.”
Her cheeks color the slightest bit, then she shrugs like she doesn’t care. “I took inspiration. Artistic license. I’m a writer.”
“I know.”
Something settles between us, quieter than before. Less sharp.
I hand the notebook back to her carefully, like it’s fragile.
She takes it, fingers brushing mine for half a second.
It’s nothing.
It’s everything.
I look away first.
“I should apologize,” I say, because it feels safer than standing in silence. “For reading.”
“It’s fine,” she says, but her voice is softer now. “You didn’t have to be so… nice about it.”
“I wasn’t trying to be nice.” I swallow. “You’ve always had a way with words.”
She studies me. “That’s why you wrote me, isn’t it.”
The question is gentle.
It still hits like a punch.
I can feel the truth pressing at the back of my throat. Not the whole truth. Not the part about my mom, and loneliness, and learning to be useful. Not the part about how easy it is to want love for everyone else while assuming you’re not supposed to have it yourself.
Instead, I give her the safe version.
“That’s why I thought you and Knox might work,” I say.
Her brows lift. “Because I have a way with words.”
“Because you deserved a chance to use them,” I say, then realize what I’ve admitted and stop talking.
Erica’s gaze sharpens. “Why didn’t you give yourself that chance.”
I hold my breath.
My mind flashes through a dozen answers, none of them honest enough, all of them too honest.
Because I don’t think I’m the kind of man someone chooses and keeps.
Because I’ve spent my whole life being the helper.
Because if I don’t make sure everyone else gets love first, I don’t get to want it.
I open my mouth.
And the wind howls outside like it’s trying to rip the cabin off its foundation.
The lights flicker.
Georgie’s ears perk. She lifts her head and looks toward the window, tail swishing once.
Erica turns at the same time I do.
The snow has thickened. What was a steady drift is now a curtain, the world outside blurring into white.
My stomach drops.
“That’s fast,” I mutter.
Erica’s face shifts into the kind of focus that tells me she’s not a woman who panics. She’s a woman who moves.
“Weather report said tomorrow,” she says.
“Weather report lies.”
I’m already reaching for my jacket.
Erica is moving toward the mudroom, pulling on her boots with quick efficiency.
“We need to winterize,” I say.
“I already did some,” she replies, tugging her hat on. “But if it’s coming in hard, we should double-check everything.”
I stare at her. “You did.”
She gives me a look. “I’m from Minnesota. I’m not fragile.”
I shake my head, impressed despite myself. “I didn’t say you were.”
We move together like we’ve done this before, even though we haven’t. Erica grabs the flashlight and a spare set of batteries. I go for the storm box under the sink—candles, matches, extra propane for the small heater, the emergency radio.
Georgie weaves around our legs, offended by the sudden urgency.
“Hey,” I tell her, scooping her up before she can dart toward the open door. “You’re staying inside. No adventures.”
She chirps in protest.
Erica opens the mudroom door and cold air punches into the cabin.
“We’ll start with the pipes and the generator,” I say.
Erica nods. “And the windows. That one in the back bedroom has a draft.”
Of course she knows that.
Of course she’s been paying attention.
We step out into the snow.
The wind hits hard enough that it steals my breath.
Behind me, the door swings shut, leaving Georgie’s indignant meow muffled inside.
Erica stands beside me, shoulders squared against the cold, hair already gathering snowflakes.
We lock eyes for a second.
Not romantic.
Not yet.
Just two people realizing they’re about to need each other.
“Ready?” I ask.
She nods once. “Let’s do it.”
And somewhere in the distance, the storm answers with a low, rolling roar, like it’s pleased we finally noticed it was coming.