Chapter 2
Chapter two
Jax
The storm hasn’t let up. Snow still presses against the windows in steady waves, but inside the cabin, everything holds.
From the vintage radio, Bing Crosby croons about white Christmases.
I twisted the dial before sunrise, needing something to fill the silence.
The wreath on the kitchen window catches the morning light, releasing pine scent into the warm air.
My mother made cinnamon oats every Christmas morning. She'd hum along to carols, and the house would smell like comfort and safety. I haven't made them since the accident. Haven't celebrated at all. Just marked days until winter passed.
But this morning, with Claire asleep on my couch, I pull out the cinnamon and maple syrup. Find myself humming along to Bing.
The woodstove clicks softly as it heats.
The walls stay warm. I move slowly, careful not to wake her as I stir the oats, the scent of cinnamon rising with the steam.
She’s still on my couch, curled beneath the quilt I tucked around her like she belongs there.
And maybe that’s the part I can’t stop noticing.
I don’t usually have people here. I built this place to be quiet.
A cabin meant for solitude, not soft laughter and a woman asleep on my couch in an oversized flannel.
The moment I carried her through that door, everything shifted.
I felt it in the weight of her in my arms when I pulled her from the snow, trusting me without knowing my name.
She stirs as I finish breakfast. I don’t look at her right away. I focus on the pan, on the way the oatmeal thickens, on the dull rhythm of the wooden spoon against cast iron. I hear her shift on the cushions, the gentle rustle of flannel brushing skin. Then her voice, still thick with sleep.
“That smells incredible.”
I glance over my shoulder. Her legs dangle from the edge of the couch, bare skin disappearing under the hem of my shirt.
I should look away. My body won’t let me.
Every inch of her draws me in. She catches me looking and smiles, wide and easy, like being here isn’t strange at all.
Like I didn’t carry her out of a snowbank less than twelve hours ago.
“Oats,” I say. “They’re hot, needed something warm.”
She moves closer, arms crossed over her chest, pretending not to notice the way my eyes roam over her thick thighs.
She does notice, though. Her cheeks flush, and she turns to the table, pretending to inspect the chipped ceramic bowl like it’s worth her attention.
I set it down in front of her and step back, needing the space.
She takes a bite and hums low in her throat. “Oh my God. You made this from scratch?”
“It’s just oats.”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s comfort in a bowl.”
I shouldn’t be this close to her. I should be checking the chimney, chopping wood, doing anything but watching the way her lips curve around the edge of a spoon.
The heat of our nearness stirs my cock, sending my mind to places I thought I’d shut down for good.
She’s bright in a way this place hasn’t seen in years.
Yet, she’s not loud or artificial, but alive.
She talks as if she’s been waiting to be heard and doesn’t want to waste the chance. I listen. I can’t seem to stop.
“I don’t usually spend the night in stranger’s houses,” she says. “But this… this doesn’t feel like a stranger’s place.”
I nod, not sure what to do with that. “I built it.”
“You built this cabin?” she asks, wide-eyed.
"Built it when I started guiding for Granitehart Ridge Retreat.
" I pour the remaining oats into a bowl and sit across from her at the table.
The retreat closes for winter, but I stay up here year-round, like most of the guides.
Trail maintenance, emergency rescues when city people get in over their heads.
She fits in that chair as if she's been sitting there for years instead of minutes.
Five years of guiding, and I've pulled hypothermic hikers from snowbanks, talked panicked clients down from cliff faces. Carried twisted ankles back to civilization. I've seen people at their most vulnerable, most grateful. Never once considered bringing any of them here.
This cabin is my sanctuary. The place I retreat to when I'm done taking care of everyone else. Built it with my own hands, chose every board, every corner where the morning light hits just right. It's mine in ways nothing else has ever been.
"I've never brought anyone here before." The words scrape rough from my throat.
She looks up from her bowl, dark eyes going soft. She understands the weight of what I just gave her. I carved this place out for my own peace, and I'm sharing it like it's the most natural thing in the world.
She sets her spoon down. "Why not?"
I should deflect. Should check the chimney or split wood. Instead, I say, "I built this place the Christmas after I lost my brother."
Her expression shifts. Recognition, not pity.
"Connor. Three years older, better at everything. Five years ago, he and his wife decided to summit the Dragon’s Tooth on Christmas Eve.
It’s off the Appalachian Trail, you might’ve heard of it.
They wanted sunrise from the top on Christmas morning.
I was supposed to go." My hands wrap around the mug.
"He texted: Stay home. Spend the holiday with Mom and Dad. We've got this."
I can still see those words.
"Storm came out of nowhere. Wind, ice, zero visibility.
They got disoriented on the descent. By the time search and rescue found them…
" I stop. Swallow. "I should've been there.
Should've gone anyway because I knew that mountain better.
" I pause. Deep breath. I haven’t talked about this in what feels like forever.
"Every person I pull off this mountain, I'm trying to save them. Trying to save the brother I couldn't."
"I’m so sorry.” She pauses. “You couldn’t have known about the storm.”
"Logically I know that, but knowing doesn't make me feel it."
Her hand moves as though she was about to reach over and grasp mine. A split second later, she puts her hands in her lap, cheeks flushing as though she’s made it awkward between us. She hasn’t.
I want to reach for her, but I don’t. Can’t. Not yet.
I want to keep her here. The thought surfaces without permission, clear and certain.
I picture mornings like this one, her bare feet on my kitchen floor, steam rising from coffee I've made just the way she likes it.
The retreat reopening next spring feels distant, but I'm already planning.
Imagining her walking the trails I know by heart, finding her place in the world I've built.
"Good thing you didn’t make it all the way to the retreat.
It’s vacant in the winter. The guides who stay up here are those who prefer to be alone on the mountain," I say.
I look at the empty bowl in front of her, then stand and step back before I do something stupid like touch her sleep-mussed hair.
Prefer to be alone on the mountain. Preferred. Past tense.
She's eating breakfast in my kitchen, wearing my clothes, trusting me to keep her fed and warm. Five years of teaching weekend warriors to survive, and none of them ever looked at me the way she does right now. Not just like I’m competent, but fascinating.
Like watching me move through my own space is better than any view the mountain could offer.
"I love the whole vibe here," she says, locking eyes with me while gesturing toward the living area.
Something tightens in my chest. She’s not just talking about the cabin. There’s something in the way she looks at me when she says it.
For all the time I've spent teaching people to read weather patterns and navigate by landmarks, none of them ever made me feel like this, like I'm not just skilled, but worth admiring.
"The oats were perfect," she adds. "You’re good at this kind of thing."
The statement lands heavier than she probably meant. I shake my head, holding her gaze.
"It was just breakfast."
She takes her bowl to the sink, then walks slowly to the wall, brushing her fingers over one of the window frames. “You’re not just good with rescue missions. You’re good with your hands.”
I don’t answer. Can’t. Not with the image of her saying that while standing in my shirt, light pooling over her legs with the curve of her thick thighs visible, voice sweetly low and filled with something that feels too close to temptation.
She turns and catches me watching. She doesn’t say anything, only tilts her head, eyes searching mine as if she’s trying to read a language I forgot how to speak.
“You okay?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah.”
She steps closer. There’s only the table between us now.
I should move. I don’t. Her hand brushes mine as she reaches for my now-empty bowl.
My breath stutters. I can’t help it. Her skin is soft, warm from sleep and a hot breakfast. I’m not ready for the way that one touch hits like a live wire, waking up my cock.
I freeze, not daring to move. Not daring to lose the feel of her skin against mine.
Her gaze drops to where our hands touch. Then, it rises slowly, lashes lifting, mouth parted just slightly. Something slow and thick flickers between us. The moment hangs like something waiting to be claimed.
I don’t want to want this. I never planned to let someone in again, but I do want it. I want her.
I want to kiss her.
More than that, I want to plan for her. The thought hits without warning.
I want to stock the cabin with the tea she likes, want to show her the hidden trails when the snow melts and wildflowers bloom.
When the retreat reopens for the spring season, I want her there.
Not as some guest passing through, but as mine.