10. Leo #2
I stay by the SUV a moment longer, hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets, head tipped back to the sky. Stars spill across it in sharp glimmers. Cold air fills my lungs until they ache.
She's ruining me, and she doesn't even know.
When I finally head inside, laughter echoes from the lounge. Boots drip melted snow onto the entry mat. Voices hum with comfort and warmth.
I grab my pack, sling it over my shoulder, and tell myself tomorrow will be easier.
It won't be.
Not with the way all three of us are already attuned to her.
And definitely not with the way my instincts followed her scent like a compass. She's got all three of us turned inside out.
I'm dead asleep when my phone buzzes against the nightstand, rattling loud enough to drag me out of a dream. I blink at the darkness, throat dry, the cold in the room sinking into my skin. Whoever's calling better be dying.
It's my cousin, Mateo.
I answer with a groan. "Please tell me you butt-dialed me."
"Nope," he says, breathing hard like he's been running. Voices shout somewhere behind him. "You're not gonna believe this. The fire department had to be called. Some new chef almost burned down the restaurant."
That wakes me fully. I sit up, spine stiffening. "What?"
"It's fine. It's all fine," he rushes out. "Grease fire. Dude panicked. Sprinkler system did half the job before the fire guys even arrived. I just thought you should know."
My pulse thuds. "Is everyone okay?"
"Yeah. No injuries. Your dad's pissed, your mom's startled, but we're good. Thought I'd warn you before you see something online."
I rub my face. "Thanks. I'll call them."
"Do it. And hey—don't freak out. It's handled."
He hangs up, leaving me staring at the ceiling. The beams above me look darker than usual, shadows stretching across the rafters. I dial my parents immediately. My mother picks up before the first ring finishes.
"Mi cielo?" she says gently. "Everything is fine."
Her voice knocks the tension down a few notches. "Mateo said there was a fire."
"A small one," she replies. "The kitchen is a disaster, but the building is safe. We're shaken, not hurt."
My father's voice comes in from the background. "The boy needs training. We'll handle it."
I exhale and lean back against the headboard. "I'll come down soon, okay? End of next week or earlier if I can get the guys to cover things here."
"You don't need to rush," she insists. "Finish your work there. We're alright."
Still, I promise. It's automatic. It's also true.
When the call ends, the room settles into silence again. I swing my legs out of bed and pull on sweatpants and a hoodie, needing to move, needing fresh air.
Downstairs, the lights glow faintly. Mrs. Lacey has fallen asleep at the counter, chin resting on her folded arms, one hand still loosely draped over a ledger. Poor woman.
I pull a blanket from the back of a chair and drape it over her shoulders. She shifts but doesn't wake. The clock above the door shows it's close to midnight.
The lodge is quiet. The kind of quiet that creeps into your bones if you let it.
Outside, the world feels softer. Snow drifts down in slow spirals, settling over the walkway and railings. My boots crunch through a thin layer as I step onto the porch. The cold is sharp enough to bite, but it clears my head.
I shove my hands into my pockets and tilt my face toward the sky. The flakes melt on my cheeks, and for a moment I just breathe, letting the cold settle whatever adrenaline is still in my blood after the call.
Then something shifts in the corner of my vision. A glow.
I turn, and through the lodge window I see her.
Mara.
She's curled on one of the armchairs near the fireplace, legs tucked under her, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug.
Her hair spills over one shoulder, soft waves catching the firelight.
She lifts the cup and blows gently across the surface.
Her mouth is soft, relaxed, unaware that someone is watching her from the darkness.
My breath clouds in front of me.
She shouldn't be up. Tess must have dragged her up here after the café closed, and she should be sleeping off whatever headache she had earlier. But something about the way she sits there—quiet but alert, eyes fixed on the flames—tells me she probably couldn't sleep either.
The snow falls harder, coating the porch railing. I lean against one of the beams and let myself watch her. Just for a moment. Just until I get my shit together.
There's something about her that pulls at me in ways I don't know how to explain. Ways I've ignored. Ways I've shoved aside because the timing is terrible, and the situation is messy, and Daniel is already tangled in feelings he's pretending not to have.
And me? I shouldn't even be thinking about her.
But fuck, do I think about her.
If I walked back inside right now, I could start a conversation. Ask why she's awake. Offer her tea or hot cocoa. Make her laugh. Make her look at me in that way she sometimes does, like she's trying to figure me out but hasn't decided if it's safe to try.
I imagine myself pushing open the door, brushing snow from my shoulders, stepping into her line of sight.
She'd blink at me, surprised. Maybe a little shy. Maybe curious why I was outside this late. I'd shrug and say something stupid about needing air. She'd smile behind her cup.
I can picture it so easily it almost feels real—me dropping down into the chair opposite hers, stretching my legs out, letting the fire warm the cold out of my bones while we sat there and talked about nothing and everything.
I'd ask how her head feels.
She'd say better.
I'd ask if she likes it here.
She'd hesitate and then admit she doesn't know yet.
And then maybe—if the air settled right, if the moment held still long enough—maybe she'd look at me the way she looked at Daniel earlier. The kind of look that makes a man rethink every stupid rule he's ever set for himself.
But none of that will happen.
I'm not walking back in there.
Because the last thing she needs is me complicating her life more than it already is. And the last thing Daniel needs is me standing between him and something he clearly feels, even if he's pretending he doesn't.
I take one more look at her.
Her profile glows in the firelight. The snow outside keeps falling, soft and relentless, and for one breathless second I let myself want something I shouldn't.
Then I turn away.
The cold follows me as I step back inside, closing the door behind me with a quiet click. I don't look toward the lounge. I don't let myself listen for her voice. I head straight for my room, strip out of my cold clothes, and crawl into bed.
The sheets are freezing. Sleep doesn't come right away. My mind keeps replaying the view through that window—her hair, her hands wrapped around that mug, the soft rise and fall of her breathing.
I curse under my breath and roll onto my back.
I shouldn't want her.
I shouldn't even be thinking about her.
But I am.
And tomorrow, when the sun rises and the lodge fills with voices again, I'll have to pretend none of this is happening.
Because wanting her is one thing.
Letting myself act on it?
That's another thing entirely.