Chapter 9
NINE
ERICA
I haven’t been this nervous about walking into my own living room in a very long time.
I hover in my bedroom longer than necessary, smoothing the front of my sweater for the third time and checking my reflection in the mirror like the cabin suddenly counts as a Michelin-rated restaurant instead of a place with drafty windows and a cat who once tried to eat a USB cord.
I chose my nicest things.
Dark jeans. Soft boots. A sweater that makes me feel like myself but elevated. Hair dried and curled just enough to feel intentional. Lip balm with a hint of color.
It’s ridiculous.
It’s Valentine’s Day. I’m snowed in in Alaska with a man who once accidentally catfished me through his best friend’s account.
And I am absolutely buzzing.
I step into the hallway and stop dead.
Candles.
Not in a fire hazard way, but in a deliberate, carefully spaced way. On the mantle. On the side table. Along the windowsill, their reflections doubling in the glass.
Soft music plays from the small speaker on the bookshelf. Something instrumental. Warm. Romantic without being cheesy.
The dining table—normally just… a table—has a cloth draped over it, mismatched but charming. Plates set. Cloth napkins. A small folded piece of paper in the middle.
Boone stands near the stove, back to me.
He’s showered. Hair still damp at the nape of his neck. Clean shirt—dark, fitted just enough to make my stomach do an unhelpful little flip. Jeans that look suspiciously new.
He turns when he hears me.
And freezes.
For half a second, we just stare at each other.
Then he swallows.
“Wow,” he says.
My cheeks warm. “Hi.”
“You… look…” He gestures vaguely, then drops his hand. “Really good.”
“So do you.”
He lets out a breath like that helps something unclench in his chest. “Good. I mean—thank you. I was worried I overdressed.”
“You absolutely did not.”
“That’s a relief.”
I step farther into the room, eyes darting everywhere. “You did all this.”
He shrugs, trying for casual and missing by a mile. “Seemed like the occasion called for it.”
“It’s beautiful.”
His mouth curves, small and hopeful. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
I spot the folded paper on the table and smile. “Is that… for me.”
“Eventually,” he says. “But—uh—wait.”
He reaches behind him and pulls something from the counter.
A card.
Handmade. Slightly crooked. Red marker visible along the edge.
My heart stutters.
“You made that.”
“I did.”
He hands it to me with both hands like it might be fragile.
I open it.
Inside is simple. Sweet. Careful.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
I’m glad you’re here.
I blink hard.
“That’s…” I clear my throat. “That’s perfect.”
He looks relieved in a way that’s honestly adorable.
“Actually,” I say, reaching into my pocket, “I have something too.”
His brows lift as I hand him my own envelope.
He opens it slowly.
Thanks for showing up for me.
I’d like to keep choosing that—if you would.
He exhales.
“That’s… yeah,” he murmurs. “I’d like that.”
Dinner is… shockingly impressive.
Soup that smells incredible. Fresh bread warmed in foil. Something that looks suspiciously like he made dessert from pantry odds and ends.
“How did you pull this off,” I ask.
He shrugs. “Strategic hoarding. I live in snow country.”
We eat by candlelight, Georgie perched on the back of a chair like she’s supervising.
Conversation starts light.
Books. Favorite meals. Travel stories. The weirdest jobs we’ve ever had.
He tells me about a place he worked with bright blue water and kids who tried to race the machinery. I tell him about the first time one of my books cracked a hundred sales and how I refreshed the dashboard every ten minutes like it might vanish.
He listens. Really listens.
Eventually we migrate to the couch, plates abandoned, puzzle pieces swept aside to make room. The fire crackles. Snow taps at the windows.
We sit close.
Not touching.
Until we are.
My shoulder brushes his arm.
His fingers rest near my knee.
Neither of us moves away.
“Are you okay,” he asks quietly.
I nod. “Are you.”
“Yes,” he says, then amends, “Nervous. But… good.”
“Same.”
Our eyes meet.
He leans in slowly.
So slowly.
I meet him halfway.
The kiss is different from the one during the storm. Softer at first. Then deeper. His hand slides to my waist, steady and warm. I curl my fingers into the collar of his shirt.
The world narrows.
Firelight. Breath. The way his mouth curves against mine like he’s savoring the moment instead of rushing it.
I shift closer, leg brushing his.
He makes a low sound in his throat.
“Erica,” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
We kiss again.
Longer.
My pulse is everywhere.
His hands flex like he’s holding himself back.
I pull back just enough to look at him.
His eyes are dark. Warm. A little stunned.
“Boone.”
“Yeah.”
I swallow.
“Come to bed with me.”
His breath hitches.
And he nods.