Chapter 3
THREE
THATCHER
When I wake up a few hours later, the room’s gone dusky.
Gray light spills through the windows, fire burned low, the clock over the mantel ticking toward six.
My stomach’s settled. My pride? Not even a little.
I sit up slowly, throat dry, and spot the empty eggnog carton on the table like evidence from a crime scene.
Smooth move, Thatcher. First full day of suspension, and I manage to get drunk on dairy.
The blanket sliding off my chest smells faintly like pine and something warm and feminine. Her.
Liz.
She must’ve put me to bed. Or whatever this couch nap qualifies. That somehow makes the humiliation worse. She’s probably been laughing about it all afternoon.
I stretch, joints popping, and spot movement in the kitchen. She’s at the counter, laptop open, earbuds in, typing with laser focus. There’s a mug of coffee beside her and the soft hum of holiday music playing low through her phone.
I should keep quiet. Gather my dignity, maybe an apology. Instead, I reach for the folded sheet of paper on the coffee table.
My naughty list.
A dumb joke that suddenly feels like a checklist for bad ideas.
Still, old habits die hard. I fish out a pen, cross through Drink a gallon of eggnog.
“Congratulations,” a voice says behind me. “You survived lactose poisoning.”
I flinch hard enough to almost drop the pen. She’s leaning against the doorway now, arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. Her cheeks are flushed from the firelight, hair pulled into a messy twist that keeps trying to escape.
“I was just—uh—taking inventory.”
She nods at the list. “How’s that going?”
“Productive day,” I say. “Accomplished one goal, regretted it immediately.”
“That seems to be a theme for you.”
“Fair,” I admit. “I owe you an apology.”
“You owe me new dish towels.” She glances toward the sink, where the evidence of my earlier disaster probably still lingers. “But apology accepted.”
Relief slips out in a chuckle. “You’re taking this better than I expected.”
“Believe me, I’ve seen worse. I used to work in advertising. Half my coworkers acted like you on a daily basis—without the charm.”
That earns a grin. “So, you do think I’m charming.”
“I said without. Don’t push it.”
The conversation loosens something in me. I head for the bathroom to splash water on my face, catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and groan. The beard’s gone wild—half a hockey playoff relic, half mountain hermit.
Time for damage control.
I find an old trimmer in the guest drawer and do my best. The result… is not good. I manage to keep the mustache but accidentally carve out uneven patches on both sides. The mirror stares back at a man who looks like he lost a bet.
Perfect.
When I step back into the main room, Liz looks up from her laptop and nearly snorts coffee through her nose.
“Oh my God,” she says, covering her mouth. “Is that intentional?”
I touch my upper lip. “You don’t like the mutton-stache?”
“I don’t think anyone likes the mutton-stache.”
“Maybe it’ll grow on you.”
She shakes her head, laughter bright and musical. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously handsome, sure.”
“Ridiculously something.”
Her laughter rolls through the cabin, warm as the firelight, and for a second the place feels less like exile and more like a home.
The wind howls outside, rattling the windows. She glances toward her phone as it buzzes. “That’s Stevie.”
She listens for a minute, expression shifting. “Flights in and out of Anchorage are grounded. Blizzard moving through the lower range. They’ll try to get here again in a few days.”
“So we’re on our own,” I say.
“Looks that way.” She exhales. “You okay with that?”
“Depends. You planning to poison me with kale again?”
Her lips twitch. “Only if you deserve it.”
“Then we’re good.”
We end up in the kitchen together anyway, improvising dinner from whatever she stocked: pasta, jarred sauce, garlic bread. She moves like someone used to efficiency—quick, deliberate, competent—and I can’t stop watching.
“So, advertising?” I ask, breaking the quiet.
She hums in confirmation. “For ten years. I wrote taglines, website copy, campaign blurbs—basically, words to make people buy things they didn’t need.”
“Sounds glamorous.”
“It wasn’t. Seventy-hour weeks, endless meetings, no life.” She shrugs. “I quit last month. Going freelance.”
“That’s brave.”
“It’s terrifying.” She smiles, small but genuine. “But I figured if I’m going to work myself to exhaustion, I might as well do it for myself.”
I nod, impressed despite myself. “You’ll kill it. You’ve got the presence for it.”
“Presence?”
“Yeah.” I gesture vaguely, words failing me for once. “You walk into a room and it feels like things might actually get done.”
She arches a brow. “That’s your compliment? Efficiency?”
“I’m new at this.”
Her laugh softens into a smile that hits somewhere behind my ribs.
Later, after dinner and cleanup, she curls on one end of the couch with her laptop, tapping away, while I pretend to watch a hockey game on mute. The truth is, I’m watching her reflection in the window.
The curve of her cheek when she bites her lip in concentration. The way her oversized sweater slips off one shoulder.
She’s nothing like the women I usually orbit—no designer polish, no practiced flirtation. Just warmth and wit and the kind of self-possession that makes a man rethink everything he thought he wanted.
I catch myself imagining what it would feel like to touch her, and immediately shut that down.
She’s Stevie’s best friend. My sister’s ride or die.
And I’m the idiot brother she’s warned about for years.
Off-limits. Completely.
Still, as the storm whips against the windows and she smiles faintly at something on her screen, I can’t help adding one more line to the list tucked beside me.
Don’t fall for her.
I tap my pen against the paper, stare at the words a beat longer, and add beneath it—
Already failing.