Chapter 3 Dahlia
three
Dahlia
I stand in the middle of his cabin, dripping all over the wooden floor and feeling utterly ridiculous in his enormous jacket. It smells like pine, sawdust, and something distinctly male that makes my pulse do weird things.
"Wait here," Thorne orders, then disappears down a short hallway.
Like I'm going anywhere in this weather? The storm rages outside, rain pelting against the windows like it's personally offended by them. I take the moment alone to survey my unexpected shelter.
For a bachelor lumberjack living in the middle of nowhere, his place is surprisingly.
.. nice? Not fancy, but intentional. The main room combines living area and kitchen, with a massive stone fireplace dominating one wall.
Everything is wood and leather and sturdy cloth in shades of forest green and deep blue.
No tacky hunting trophies or beer can pyramids.
The whole space feels like the forest somehow crept indoors and made itself comfortable.
Thorne returns carrying a stack of clothing. "Bathroom's through there," he says, nodding toward a door off the hallway. "These will be too big, but they're dry."
I take the clothes, our fingers brushing briefly. That tiny contact shouldn't send a spark shooting up my arm, but here we are. "Thanks. For everything. Most people wouldn't stop to help a stranger in a storm."
He just grunts in response. Super chatty, this one.
In the small bathroom, I peel off my soggy clothes and change into what he's provided—a flannel shirt that reaches mid-thigh and soft sweatpants I have to roll up about seventeen times at the waist and ankles. I look like a kid playing dress-up in daddy's clothes. Great.
When I emerge, Thorne is kneeling by the fireplace, coaxing flames from a carefully arranged pile of wood. The fire casts flickering shadows across his face, highlighting those cheekbones that could probably cut glass. He doesn't look up, but I swear he knows exactly when I enter the room.
"My clothes," I say, holding out my dripping bundle. "Where should I—"
"I'll take care of it." He rises to his feet with grace that someone his size shouldn't be capable of. He takes my wet things, carefully avoiding touching my hands this time, and disappears again.
I hover awkwardly near the fire, not sure if I should sit down. Actually, I'm not sure about anything right now. My usual stream of wisecracks has dried up completely.
"Sit," he says when he returns, gesturing to a worn leather armchair pulled close to the fire. "You're still cold."
I obey, because he's right. Despite the dry clothes, I can't stop shivering. He disappears into the kitchen area and returns with two steaming mugs, handing one to me.
"Hot chocolate?" I ask, surprised.
"Even lumberjacks have a sweet tooth."
I wrap my hands around the mug, savoring the warmth. "So, you're really a lumberjack? Like, professionally? I thought that was just a character in paper towel commercials."
"Twenty-five years cutting timber," he confirms, lowering himself into the chair opposite mine. "My father did it before me. His father before him."
"Family business, huh?" I take a sip of the cocoa—it's rich and dark with a hint of cinnamon. Definitely not from a packet. "Do you like it?"
"It's what I do." A pause. "What about you? What brings a city girl to Silver Ridge?"
"How do you know I'm from the city?"
"Your boots. Your raincoat. The way you got lost in a straight-line hike."
"Guilty." I laugh. "I'm a florist from Vancouver. I came looking for unique wood pieces to incorporate into my arrangements."
His eyebrows rise slightly. "A florist who uses wood?"
"I create unconventional pieces. Things that tell stories, not just..." I wave my hand, trying to explain, "pretty decorations that die in a week."
"Hmm." He nods, and somehow that simple sound feels like approval.
Another silence falls, but it's comfortable.
I should feel uncomfortable sitting here with this taciturn stranger, but oddly, I don't. I find myself studying him when he looks into the fire.
The strong line of his jaw beneath the salt-and-pepper beard.
The tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
The way his massive, calloused, capable-looking hands cradle his mug almost delicately.
He catches me staring, and our eyes lock. My breath catches in my throat.
"Storm's not letting up," he says, his voice lower, rougher. "Roads will be washed out by now."
I look away, suddenly very interested in my hot chocolate. "So I'm stuck here?" The thought of trapped in a remote cabin with a strange man should terrify me, but instead, I feel a flutter of excitement.
"Just for tonight." He stands abruptly. "I'll take the couch."
"Oh! No, I couldn't put you out of your bed."
"It's not up for discussion," he cuts in, but gently.
I nod, not trusting my voice. There's something about the way he says things—like each word costs him something, so he only uses the ones that matter.
Outside, thunder crashes, startlingly close. I jump, sloshing hot chocolate onto my hand.
"Here." Before I can react, he's kneeling in front of me, taking the mug and setting it aside. His hand engulfs mine as he examines it. "Not burnt?"
"N-no." My voice sounds strange to my own ears.
His thumb moves once, twice across my palm. His touch so light it might be accidental. But the look on his face tells me it's anything but.
In all my dating history, I've never felt this level of awareness, this electric charge from mere proximity. It's terrifying. Exhilarating.
"I should..." He clears his throat, releases my hand, and rises to his feet. "Get some sleep. Long day tomorrow."
As he turns away, I wonder if he feels this inexplicable connection between us the way I do.