Chapter 3
three
. . .
Holly
I startle awake in Cole’s guest room. His clothes on my body, morning breath with no toothbrush, and my hair must look like a bird’s nest.
I bolt upright. The quilt pools around my waist.
Pale light filters through the window. Snow blankets everything outside.
I hear a voice. Cole’s, but quieter. Talking to someone.
I slip out of bed and pad to the door, unlock it, and crack it open.
He’s standing by the woodstove with the phone pressed to his ear. “Yeah. Road’s buried. Plow won’t make it up here until late afternoon at the earliest.” Pause. “She’s fine. Warm, fed, safe.” Another pause. His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Tell Jesse I’ve got it handled.”
Jesse. That’s Nora’s guy. I should’ve known the men who lived on the ridge were friends.
Cole listens, then grunts. “Appreciate it. I’ll check in later.”
He ends the call, pockets the phone, then turns.
I’m standing in the doorway like a creep. My cheeks heat. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
“You didn’t. I was talking to Wells. Checking road conditions.”
“Oh, Wells.” That’s Paige’s boyfriend. “He helped with the Thanksgiving food drive.”
Cole nods. “Yeah. He’s good people.”
I step into the room, aware that I’m wearing his thermals and nothing else. My hair must be a disaster. “Is the road—”
“Buried. Three feet and drifts higher in places. You’re stuck until this afternoon.”
The words should stress me out. Instead, relief pools warm in my chest.
I’m stuck.
Which means I get more time in this quiet cabin with this impossible man who looks at me like I’m a problem he’s solving instead of a person he’s dismissing.
“Coffee?” he asks.
“Please.”
He pours a mug and hands it to me. Our fingers don’t touch, but I feel the warmth radiating from him anyway.
“Thank you,” I say.
He moves to the counter. “Eggs. Toast. Ten minutes.”
“I can help.”
“You can sit.”
“Cole—”
One eyebrow raises. “You always argue this much?”
“Only when people try to do everything themselves.”
His mouth does that almost-smile thing again. “Fair. Fine. You can chop.”
Victory tastes almost as good as the coffee.
He sets a cutting board on the counter with a knife, an onion, and a bell pepper. “Small dice. Even pieces.”
“Yes, sir.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
At the sink, I wash my hands, then get to work. The knife’s sharp and the board is solid. My cuts aren’t perfect, but they’re close.
He cracks eggs into a bowl and whisks, then adds milk, salt, and pepper. His movements are efficient. No wasted motion.
“You cook a lot?” I ask.
“Every day.”
“Meals for one must get old.”
He shrugs. “Routine’s easier than deciding.”
I scrape the onion into a pile and grab the pepper. Knife, board, and scrape. The rhythm settles me. He moves left. I shift right. No collision.
“You mentioned Jesse earlier,” I say. “And Wells. Are they your… friends?”
“Yeah.”
“You see them often?” I ask.
“Often enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He glances at me. “We check in. Help when needed. That’s how it works up here.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It’s survival.”
“Still nice.”
He doesn’t argue. Pours the eggs into the pan and tilts it, letting them spread evenly.
I finish the pepper and rinse the knife. “What else can I do?”
“Toast. Bread’s in the bin. Butter’s in the fridge.”
I find both and set up at the counter. I place four slices in the cast-iron pan he sets on the stove. The bread sizzles, butter pooling golden at the edges.
“You’re good at this,” he says.
“At toast?”
“At not getting in the way.”
I laugh. “That’s a low bar.”
“You’d be surprised.”
We plate the food and sit at the small table by the fire. The eggs are fluffy and seasoned just right. The toast is crisp. I realize I’m starving and eat too fast, then slow down when I catch him watching.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“You eat like you haven’t seen food in a week.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I was busy yesterday, so I didn’t really eat.”
His jaw tightens. “You drove up here on a granola bar?”
“I wasn’t planning to get stranded.”
He mutters reckless and goes back to his eggs.
I bite back a smile.
We eat in silence. The fire crackles. Snow ticks against the windows. The generator hums its steady rhythm. My shoulders drop. The knot behind my ribs loosens. When did I last feel this quiet?
He finishes eating, stands, and takes his plate to the sink. Rinses it. Sets it in the rack with the same precision he does everything else.
I finish my eggs and bring mine over. He takes it without comment and rinses that too.
“I can do that—”
“Already done.”
I lean against the counter.
Under the flannel shirt, his muscles shift with each movement. His hands are scarred with nicks and old burns.
“You said you were in the Army,” I say. “Special operations support. What does that mean?”
“Means I kept people alive long enough to complete the mission.”
“Medic?”
“Combat medic. Logistics. Whatever was needed.”
“That sounds…” I search for the right word. “Heavy.”
“It was.” He turns off the water and dries his hands with a towel. His posture closes. Muscles tighten.
I pivot. “What about Lush Hollow? Do you like it here?”
“It’s quiet.”
“That’s not an answer.”
His mouth quirks. “You sound like my sister.”
The words land wrong. His face goes blank.
“Sister?”
“Had. Past tense.” He moves past me toward the woodstove. “Storm’s not done. We should stay inside.”
I let it go. For now.
The morning stretches long and slow. Cole checks the generator, carries in more firewood, and tightens a dial on the stove that doesn’t need tightening.
I tidy the kitchen, fold the blanket I used, and organize the mugs by size because my brain needs the order.
“You don’t need to organize my mugs,” he says.
“I want to. I like when things have a place.”
His mouth quirks. “Same.”
We settle into an easy rhythm. He reads on his phone by the fire. I sit in the chair with my coffee and watch the snow fall outside the window.
The silence between us doesn’t feel awkward. It’s comfortable.
Safe.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
I glance his way. “Sure.”
“Why Lush Hollow?”
I set down my mug and pull my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. “I wanted somewhere I could plant roots. Not only live but belong.”
“Spokane wasn’t that?”
“Spokane was…” I search for the right words. “I was the backup plan. The reliable one. The friend people called when they needed something but never invited me to the actual party.”
His eyes stay on mine.
“I dated this guy for two years,” I continue. “Mark. He was nice. Steady. But I always felt like I was… I don’t know. Holding the spot until someone better came along.”
“Did someone?”
I nod, but the pang of hurt is no longer there. “Vanessa. She was everything I wasn’t. Confident. Effortless. The kind of woman who walks into a room and everyone notices.”
“He left you for her.”
“Three days before Christmas. We were supposed to go to his family’s party, and he called to say he was bringing Vanessa instead.
” I had been wrapping presents in my apartment.
Christmas music was playing. The scent of pine from the tree I’d decorated alone filled the air.
His voice on the phone was apologetic but firm.
“It’s just… she’s more my speed, you know?
” I didn’t know. I sat on the floor surrounded by ribbon and tape and felt myself disappear.
I laugh now, but it sounds hollow. “He apologized for the inconvenience.”
Cole’s mouth goes tight. “He’s an idiot.”
The words are matter of fact, but they land somewhere tender. I shrug. “He wasn’t wrong. I was convenient. Useful. Not…” I shake my head. “That’s too much information.”
“It’s not.”
“It’s definitely TMI for someone I just met.”
“You asked me about the Army. Fair’s fair.”
I huff a laugh. “I guess.”
“For the record, convenient isn’t the same as forgettable. Anyone who treated you like a placeholder is the problem, not you.”
My throat tightens.
“Thank you.” The words come out quieter than I mean them to. I blink fast and focus on my coffee, letting the warmth seep into my palms.
He stands. “Boots. You need better ones if you’re staying in Lush Hollow.”
“What’s wrong with mine?”
“Laces are frayed. Soles are worn. You’ll slip.”
“I slipped on the ice.”
“Because your boots are garbage.”
I laugh despite myself. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“I just did.” He grabs a pair from the closet. Heavy, insulated, barely worn. “Try these.”
“Cole, I can’t…”
“You can. Emma left them here.”
Emma. The sister. Past tense.
I take the boots like they’re fragile. “Are you sure?”
“She’d want them used.”
I slip them on. They’re a little big, but with his thick socks, they fit well enough.
“Good?” he asks.
“Yeah. Thank you.”
He kneels in front of me.
Heat crawls up my neck.
“Laces.” His fingers work the laces, pulling them snug. His knuckles brush the inside of my ankle, and the air between us shifts.
My breath catches.
He stills. Just for a second. His grip tightens on the laces.
I try not to move. Try not to breathe too loudly. But my heart hammers against my ribs, and he can hear it.
“Okay?” His voice is rougher than before.
“Yeah.” The word comes out breathy.
He ties the first boot. Moves to the second. Bends his head to focus on the task, but his breathing changes. Slower. Deeper.
I watch his hands. Scarred knuckles. Steady fingers. The way he’s so careful with the tension, making sure it’s not too tight. He’s close enough that I can smell his cedar and soap scent.
He ties the second lace. His hand lingers on my shin. His thumb brushes the inside of my calf. Just once. Then he stands like I burned him. “Better.”
“Yeah.” My voice is breathy.
He moves to the fire and adds a log that’s not needed.
I sit, pulse hammering, skin still warm where he touched me.
He felt it too. I know he did.
The afternoon drags. Cole’s restless, checking the windows, the generator, and the radio for weather updates. I wander, careful not to invade his space, but I’m curious about how he lives.
The open closet door catches me.
A cardboard box sits on the top shelf. Battered corners and yellowed tape show it’s been packed away for years. An item with smooth wooden edges catches the light through a gap in the cardboard. Perhaps an ornament.
“That’s Emma’s,” he says.
I turn. Cole stands in the doorway. His face is blank, but his eyes are raw.
“Her Christmas things,” he continues. “Haven’t opened it since she died.”
“I’m sorry.”
He nods once. “Yeah.”
“What happened?”
His jaw locks. “Winter accident. Three years ago. Roads were icy. She didn’t make it.”
“Cole. I’m truly sorry.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
“Is that why you don’t celebrate Christmas?”
“Yeah.” His voice is flat.
I look back at the box and that piece of wood visible through the gap. It feels important. Loved. “What’s in there?”
“Her things. Ornaments she carved. Garland that she strung.” He doesn’t move. “She loved Christmas.”
Something heavy settles behind my ribs. The silence between us feels fragile. I want to reach for him, but I don’t know if he’d let me. “Who did you stop celebrating for?”
The question comes out more quietly than I meant it to. But I need to know. Not just about Emma. About him. About why this man, who fixes and protects and cares so carefully, locked away the one thing that might bring him joy.
His jaw works. His throat moves.
But no words come.
He turns and walks outside, the door clicking shut behind him.
The box sits on the shelf, still sealed and waiting.
And so am I.