Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Laney
By midday, the power hums back to life. The sudden buzz of the fridge and the overhead light’s warm glow feel almost shocking after so many hours of silence and shadow.
After the session with Jasper, there’s a new awareness between Ryder and me, something that shifted when I guided his hands and tolerated being called Sunshine.
The storm broke sometime during the morning, but even with the power back on, I imagine it will be at least another day or two before the plows can get up here to my remote cabin. Which means we’re still trapped in this domestic bubble, isolated from reality.
The way Ryder moves around the kitchen makes it feel like he’s always belonged here, his presence as natural as the scent of coffee and pine smoke. In just a few days we’ve slipped into routines that feel effortless, as if we’ve been sharing this space for years instead of days.
He sets a steaming mug in front of me. The simple, thoughtful gesture is comforting. This is domesticity. Comfort. Dangerous words for a woman who’s made a habit of keeping her distance.
We eat in companionable silence, the kind that hums with all the things we’re not saying.
When he finally retreats to the armchair near the fire, a book in his massive hands, I can’t seem to sit still.
The steady rhythm of him—reading, breathing, existing so calmly—only makes my own restless energy louder.
I need a project. Something to occupy my hands and mind before I do something stupid like drag him to our mattress and pick up where we left off when we kissed this morning.
“You know what this place needs?” I ask, surveying the cabin with critical eyes. “It needs to feel less like a survival bunker and more like a home where Christmas actually lives.”
Ryder looks up from his book, glances around the room and asks, “Decorations?”
“Exactly. My grandmother’s Christmas boxes are in the attic. I haven’t looked at them since I inherited the place, but there’s got to be something salvageable up there.”
From his cage, Peanut immediately chimes in. “Stupid!” A pause, then more emphatically, “Stupid!”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I mutter. “But we’re surviving just fine, and morale matters too.”
Ryder carefully transfers the sleeping kitten to snuggle with her siblings and stands. “Need help getting them down?”
The offer makes practical sense. The attic access is through a pull-down ladder, and the boxes are probably heavy. Still, something about the unhurried way he says it—steady, certain—makes warmth curl low in my stomach.
After this morning—watching his hands learn to be gentle with Jasper, feeling the trust building between us—I’m even more aware of how he moves, and I wonder how his jeans will look when he climbs the ladder.
“That would be great, thanks.”
As Ryder crosses the room toward the attic access, Peanut suddenly calls out in a surprisingly accurate mimicry of Ryder’s deeper voice: “Sunshine! Sunshine!”
I freeze. Ryder stops mid-step, turning to look at the parrot with raised eyebrows.
“Did he just—?”
“Sunshine!” Peanut repeats, clearly pleased with himself. “Pretty Sunshine!”
My cheeks burn. “He must have heard you this morning. Amazons are really good at picking up—”
“Sunshine!” Peanut squawks, and now he sounds delighted with his new vocabulary.
Ryder’s trying not to smile. “I think he approves.”
“Or he’s mocking us. Hard to tell.”
“Smart bird! Very smart!” Peanut announces.
“Okay, he’s definitely mocking us now,” I say, but I’m fighting a smile too.
The attic ladder unfolds with a protesting creak. Ryder tests the rungs before climbing, his movements careful and sure.
From my position holding the ladder steady, I have an excellent view of exactly how well those jeans fit.
The denim molds to his powerful thighs as he climbs, and his ass has to be among the top ten on the planet.
When he reaches up to push open the attic access, his thermal shirt rides up just enough to reveal a tantalizing strip of green skin.
I should be ashamed of myself. Here he is, being helpful and practical, and I’m ogling him like some teenager with a crush. But honestly, the male has fantastic—
“See anything up there?” I call, forcing my gaze up to his face when he looks down. My cheeks are burning, and I pray he can’t tell what I was thinking about.
His amber eyes seem to hold mine for a moment longer than necessary, and I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch like he knows exactly where I’d focused my attention.
“Several boxes marked ‘Christmas.’ They’re pretty water-stained, though. Might not be much worth saving.”
“Bring them down anyway. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
He passes down four boxes, each one heavier than expected and showing the damage of years in an unheated attic. Water stains bloom across the cardboard, and the signs of mice nibbles are clearly visible.
We settle on the living room floor to survey the damage, and it’s worse than I’d hoped.
The first box contains delicate glass ornaments, some of which have been crushed under shifting weight.
Several strands of garland have been chewed and frayed, their tinsel hanging in uneven gaps like a smile missing teeth.
“Oh,” I breathe, lifting what used to be a beautiful crystal angel. One wing has snapped off entirely, and the other is cracked down the middle. “This was one of her favorites.”
Ryder reaches for the angel, examining it closely. His shoulder presses against mine as he leans in, and I’m acutely aware of his warmth, the subtle scent of woodsmoke and soap that clings to him.
“The break is clean,” he says quietly, his breath stirring my hair. “If you had some clear epoxy…”
“It wouldn’t be the same.”
“No,” he agrees, and I can feel the rumble of his voice through where our arms touch. “But it would still be beautiful. Just different.”
Something in his tone makes me look at him more closely, remembering how he’d trusted me with his fear this morning. There’s understanding in his voice, like he knows what it means to find something precious that’s been broken by time and neglect.
The second box yields more of the same—faded ribbon, ornaments missing hooks, lights that probably haven’t worked since the Clinton administration. Each broken piece feels like a small loss, another connection to my grandmother’s memory damaged beyond repair.
When I lift out what used to be an ornate wooden music box, my throat works as I swallow hard. The lid is bowed and swollen from water damage, and when I try to wind the mechanism, nothing happens.
“This was her favorite,” I whisper, cradling the broken treasure. “She’d play it every Christmas morning while we made breakfast.”
Ryder reaches for it carefully. “May I?”
I hand it over, watching as his large hands examine the delicate mechanism with surprising gentleness. He turns it over, tests the key, and peers at the warped wood.
“The wood is damaged, but the mechanism might be salvageable,” he says quietly. “I could try—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. My vision blurs, and I blink hard against the sudden sting of tears. “Some things feel too precious to risk further damage.”
A warm hand settles on my shoulder, steady and grounding.
“Or maybe,” he says softly, “they’re too precious not to try fixing.”
I look at him then, and the understanding in his amber eyes nearly undoes me. He’s not just talking about the music box.
“I could take a look at it,” he offers quietly. “No promises, but I’ve fixed broken things before. It’s a required skill if you live in the Integration Zone. Sometimes things work even better after they’re repaired.”
Something flickers across my face—hope mixed with fear—and he seems to read it perfectly. His hand slides from my shoulder, but the warmth lingers.
“Or not,” he adds, giving me space. “Whatever you need.”
“Broken!” Peanut announces from his perch, then adds more quietly, almost sympathetically: “Why cry?”
“I’m not crying,” I protest, though my voice is suspiciously thick.
“Sad!” Peanut declares, as if diagnosing the situation.
I’m starting to understand why his owner warned me about colorful language. The bird has an opinion about everything.
The third box is more of the same destruction, but when I open the fourth, my breath catches.
Nestled in the center, wrapped in tissue paper that’s yellowed but intact, is my grandmother’s recipe box.
The red-painted wood is as bright as ever, the little strawberries she’d hand-painted on the sides still cheerful and perfect.
“What is it?” Ryder asks, noting the change in my expression.
I lift the box carefully, feeling the familiar weight in my hands. “Her recipe collection. She kept everything in here—not just recipes, but… memories. Photos, ticket stubs, and little notes from my grandfather.”
I open it with reverent hands, and the smell hits me immediately. Vanilla and cinnamon and something indefinably warm that was just her kitchen, her presence. The index cards are still there, covered in her neat handwriting, organized by seasons and occasions.
“‘Christmas Morning French Toast,’” I read from one card. “‘The kind that makes even grumpy teenagers smile.’” Her note at the bottom makes me laugh despite the tightness in my throat: “‘Extra vanilla for Laney—she’s always been my sweet girl.’”
“She sounds wonderful,” Ryder says softly.
“She was.” I thumb through more cards, each one carrying a memory. “She tried so hard to make holidays special for me after Dad left. These recipes… they’re not just food. They’re her way of making sure I knew I was loved.”
The recipe for Christmas cookies includes a note about how to make the dough ahead of time “when little helpers get too excited to wait.” The hot chocolate recipe has measurements for “tiny hands” and “grown-up portions.” Each card is a love letter disguised as cooking instructions.