Chapter 3
Rosemary
His mouth twitches in that almost smile again. But there's something else in his expression too, something that makes my skin feel too tight, too warm despite the cold seeping through the walls.
I wander around the cabin, partly to explore, partly to put distance between us before I do something stupid.
The space is simple but lived-in: shelves lined with old tools, their handles worn smooth by use; a row of neatly stacked firewood against the back wall; a battered leather chair by the stove, the cushion shaped to someone's weight.
There's warmth here, beneath all the gruff edges—like the man himself, maybe, if I squint hard enough.
"Nice place," I say softly, trailing my fingers along a bookshelf. Survival guides, tree identification manuals, and—surprisingly—a worn copy of Thoreau. "Did you build it yourself?"
"My dad did." His voice changes—lower, rougher, like stones grinding together. "Back when this was a real farm. Fifty acres of Christmas trees, sold them all over the state." He pauses, staring out at the white world. "After he passed, I moved in. Kept the trees, let the rest go."
"I'm sorry." The words feel inadequate, but I don't know what else to say.
He shrugs, still not looking at me. "Not your fault. Life happens. People leave." There's a weight to those last words that makes me wonder who else left, besides his father.
Silence stretches. The fire crackles. The storm hums against the windows like a lullaby, or maybe a warning.
I crouch near the woodstove, trying to help, needing to do something with my hands. When I grab a log from the pile, it's heavier than I expect. It slips from my hands and crashes to the floor, scattering bark and making me jump.
"Careful." Rhett's beside me in two steps, moving with a grace that shouldn't be possible for someone his size. His big hands close over mine, steadying me, warm me. "You'll smash your toes."
I look up—and there he is, close. Too close.
His beard's still dusted with melting snow, his shirt clinging to shoulders that look like they could probably carry this whole cabin if they had to.
He smells like wood smoke and pine and winter air, and something uniquely him that makes my breath catch.
"You have, um..." I swallow, mouth suddenly dry. "Wood dust. On your face."
He huffs a quiet laugh, and I feel it more than hear it. "Wood dust?"
"Yeah." My hand moves before I can stop it, swiping at his cheek. My fingertips brush his skin—warm and rough and too much, too real. His beard is softer than I expected.
Neither of us moves. The world outside blurs into white noise—wind and snow and the distant crack of ice-heavy branches. But in here, in this small space between us, everything is sharp and clear and electric.
His hand comes up to catch my wrist, gentle but firm. His thumb finds my pulse point, and I know he can feel how fast my heart's racing.
"Rosemary," he murmurs, voice like gravel and sin and every warning I should probably heed.
"Yeah?" It comes out breathier than I intended.
"If you don't step back, I'm gonna forget every reason I've got for keeping my distance."
I should step back. Should laugh this off, make a joke, put the safety of space between us. But instead I hear myself whisper, "Maybe you should."
His jaw flexes, a muscle jumping beneath the beard. His fingers tighten on my wrist, just barely. "You have no idea what you're asking for."
"Maybe I do."
And then—like the world's cruelest punchline—the lights flicker and go out.
The cabin plunges into darkness, complete except for the orange glow of the fire.
"Perfect," he mutters, but he doesn't let go of me. "Power's out."
My laugh sounds breathless even to me. "So... what now?"
He releases my wrist slowly, like he's reluctant to lose the contact. I hear him move in the dark, the thud of another log hitting the stove. The fire throws just enough light to paint his face in gold and shadow, all sharp angles and dark mystery.
"Now," he says, glancing at me, and the look in his eyes makes my stomach flip, "we stay warm."
Something in his tone tells me he's not just talking about the temperature.
He moves around the cabin with practiced ease, lighting oil lamps that cast dancing shadows on the walls. The warm glow softens everything, makes the space feel even more intimate. Like we've stepped out of time entirely.
"There's extra blankets in the chest," he says, nodding toward a wooden trunk near the bed. The bed. Singular. I'd noticed it before but hadn't let myself think about it. "You'll need them. Temperature's gonna drop hard tonight."
I retrieve the blankets—thick, heavy quilts that smell like cedar—and spread them across the couch. "I'll be fine here."
"No, you won't." He's already pulling the couch cushions off, arranging them on the floor near the woodstove. "Heat rises. You take the bed."
"Rhett, I'm not kicking you out of your own bed."
"You're not kicking me anywhere. I'm choosing." He straightens, and in the lamplight his expression is stubborn. "Besides, you're the guest who crashed into my property. Least I can do is let you freeze in comfort."
I laugh despite myself. "You're impossible."
"Yeah, well. You're not the first person to tell me that." But there's no heat in it, just a tired acceptance that makes me want to know his story, all the pieces that made him into this mountain man who hides away from the world.
The storm rages on outside, wind howling down from the peaks, rattling anything that isn't nailed down. Rhett adds another log to the fire, and we settle into an unexpected peace. Him on his makeshift floor bed, me perched on the edge of the mattress, neither of us quite ready to say goodnight.
"Tell me something," I say, pulling one of the quilts around my shoulders. "Why do you really hate Christmas?"
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then: "I don't hate it. I just... don't see the point anymore." He stares into the fire, face unreadable. "All that joy, all that togetherness. It's for people who have someone to share it with."
The ache in his voice squeezes my heart. "You don't have anyone?"
"Had my dad. Had someone else, once, a long time ago. Both gone now." He shrugs, but it's not careless. It's the shrug of someone who's carried the weight so long they've forgotten it's heavy. "Easier to just... skip it."
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
He looks at me then, really looks at me, and something in his gaze makes my breath catch. "Maybe. But it's safe."
"Safe is overrated," I whisper.
The fire pops, sending sparks up the chimney. Outside, the world is nothing but white and wind and cold. But in here, wrapped in lamplight and blankets and the strange intimacy of forced closeness, I feel something shift.
"You should sleep," Rhett says, voice rough. "Long day tomorrow, getting you back down that mountain."
I nod, but I don't move. Can't move. Because something about this moment feels important, like a door opening that I've been searching for without knowing it.
"Rhett?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad I crashed into your snowbank."
In the golden light, I see him smile. A real smile this time, not just a twitch of his lips. "Yeah," he says softly. "Me too."