Chapter 4
four
. . .
Cole
The storm breaks at noon. Not gone, just paused. Outside, the silence is louder than the howling was.
I check the weather app. The window’s clear for now, but another system is building and heading toward the mountain. Should hold until tonight.
Holly sits at the table. She’s been quiet this morning, thoughtful.
“Weather’s clear,” I say. “For now.”
She looks up, her eyes hopeful. “Clear enough to leave?”
“No. Road’s still buried. But clear enough to walk.”
“Walk?”
“Fresh air. Cabin fever’s real.”
She nods. We put on outerwear and step outside.
The pines close around us, their branches bowed under the weight of the fresh snow. Everything is muffled here into a silence so complete I can hear the creak of branches overhead and the whisper of snow sliding off boughs in soft cascades.
No birds. No wind. Only our boots stepping in rhythm and our breath fogging in clouds that hang in the crystalline air. Sunlight filters through the canopy in shafts, making the snow glitter like crushed diamonds.
“It’s beautiful,” Holly says.
“Dangerous.”
“Can’t it be both?”
I glance at her. She’s smiling, eyes bright, snowflakes that fell from tree branches caught in her hair.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Both.”
The trail curves, following the ridge’s contour. Sunlight makes the snow glow. Our boots crunch in rhythm, my heavier steps and her lighter ones.
Holly tilts her head back, closes her eyes, and inhales. “I could live in this smell.”
“Pine and cold?”
“Peace and space.” She opens her eyes. “Does that sound crazy?”
“No.”
“Good. Because I think I’ve been holding my breath for years and I’m now remembering how to fill my lungs all the way.”
I know that feeling.
We reach the clearing, which has a view of the valley below. The town’s visible in the distance, smoke rising from chimneys, and the roads cutting through the white.
“That’s Lush Hollow?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“It looks… small.”
“It is.”
“But good.”
“Yeah. Good.”
She stares. “I see why Emma loved it here.”
My shoulders tense.
“I’ve been thinking about your sister.”
I clench my teeth. “Don’t have to.”
“I want to.” Holly turns to me. “She loved Christmas, didn’t she?”
The question cuts clean.
I stop walking. Holly stops too, and places her hand on my arm.
“Yeah,” I say. “She did. Decorations, music, cookies. She decorated every inch of the cabin. Made me help. Drove me crazy.” I gesture toward the roof barely visible through the trees.
“She was four years younger than me. I enlisted, and she stayed home. Married Beau, who’s good people.
They talked about kids and building a life here. ”
“And then?”
“Winter three years back. She was driving to town for supplies and called me from the road, laughing about a joke she’d heard at Eli’s store.
” My voice goes hoarse. “She didn’t make it to town.
Truck went off the ridge. I was in Seattle.
Nothing important, just needed distance from the ridge for a few days. By the time I got back, she was gone.”
Holly’s hand tightens on my arm.
“I was supposed to be here.” The words come faster now, three years of guilt compressed into sentences.
“Emma asked me to stick around that week. Said she wanted to tell me some news in person. But I left anyway because I thought I needed space. And while I was gone, she died alone on a mountain road I’ve driven a thousand times.
A road I could’ve driven for her if I’d just stayed. ”
“Cole, that’s not—”
“I know. Logically, I know. But it doesn’t change the fact that she asked me to be here and I wasn’t. Or that I came back to an empty cabin and a box of ornaments I couldn’t look at without breaking.”
Holly steps closer. “You can’t carry the blame for ice and bad timing. That’s not how responsibility works.”
“Tell that to my head at three a.m.”
She doesn’t have an answer for that. No one does.
The wind picks up, sending snow cascading from the branches above us in a soft rush.
“Thank you,” she says, “for trusting me with her memory. For letting me be part of… this.”
I force myself to breathe. “We should head back. The next system’s coming.”
She nods and lets go. We turn toward the cabin.
Holly steps in my tracks without hesitation. She doesn’t reach for me again.
I miss the contact.
Inside, I strip off the layers and hang everything to dry. Holly does the same. Her cheeks are flushed pink. Hair escapes her braid in soft curls.
“That was perfect,” she says. “Thank you.”
“You already thanked me.”
“Well, I’m doing it again.”
The corner of my mouth twitches.
I move to the fire and add two logs. The heat’s good, but we’ll need more. I fill the kettle and set it on the stove.
Holly glances at the kitchen. “How would you feel about baking cookies? I have a sweet tooth and don’t want to eat all your cookies. Also, it seems like a waste not to use your oven.”
My oven. The one Emma used every December to make seven different kinds of cookies she’d package in tins with ribbons and handwritten tags.
My throat tightens.
Holly notices. “If it’s too much—”
“It’s fine.”
“Cole—”
“I said it’s fine.” I move to the sink, fill a glass with water, and drain it. Then I set the glass down on the counter. “Oven works. Use it.”
She studies my face. “Okay.”
Holly washes her hands. She pulls out the ingredients and mixes them in a bowl.
“Need a recipe?” I ask.
“I’ve made so many I’ve memorized it.” She rolls dough into balls and spaces them on a baking sheet I didn’t know I still had.
The oven clicks on. Preheating.
I sit at the table and pretend to check my phone. Really, I’m watching her move around my kitchen like she’s done it a hundred times.
She hums under her breath—a carol, maybe. Emma used to do that, too.
The oven beeps. Holly slides the tray in and sets a timer on her phone.
“Twelve minutes,” she says. “Perfect time for tea?”
“Coffee.”
“Coffee works.”
I stand and turn on the percolator. Holly leans against the counter, waiting, and I blink. She’s still here. Real.
I haven’t had anyone in this space in three years.
Now a woman is making cookies in my kitchen, and it should feel wrong.
It doesn’t.
Five minutes later, the smell hits.
Cinnamon. Butter. Sugar. Warmth spreads through the cabin in waves.
Emma’s kitchen. Her laugh. Flour on her cheek, frosting on her fingers, and the way she’d make me taste-test every batch even though they were always perfect.
“Cole?” Holly’s voice cuts through.
I blink.
She’s standing in front of me, concerned. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t look okay.”
“I’m fine.” I need distance. “Just… the smells.”
“Emma.”
“Yeah.”
She bites her lip. “I should’ve thought about what baking would—”
“You did. I said it was fine.”
“But it’s not.”
I meet her eyes. “It is. And it’s not.”
“Cole—”
“She loved baking.” My voice cracks. “The cabin used to smell like this every December. She’d make enough cookies to feed the whole ridge. Box them up with ridiculous bows. Insisted on it. Said Christmas wasn’t Christmas without sharing.”
Holly’s eyes gleam. “She sounds wonderful.”
“She was.” I lean against the counter and cross my arms. “Drove me nuts half the time. Too cheerful. Too optimistic. Believed the best in everyone, even when they didn’t deserve it.”
“Sounds like someone else I know.”
I look at her pink cheeks and hopeful eyes, wanting to see good in a grumpy hermit who didn’t want the cookies she brought, even if I’ve snuck a few of the snickerdoodles she made for me. Damn tasty too.
“Yeah,” I admit.
The timer buzzes. Holly pulls out the tray. Golden brown with crisp edges and sugar crystals sparkling on top.
She sets them on the counter to cool and turns to me. “I want you to know…”
“What?”
She wraps her arms around herself. “I’ve never…” She stops, then tries again. “I’m not good at this. Talking about personal things.”
“You told me about Mark.”
“That was easy. He’s history. This is…” She shakes her head. “Harder.”
I wait.
She glances at the window. “You trusted me with Emma. With your grief. With why you stopped celebrating.” Her voice drops. “I want to trust you with something too.”
My palms heat. “Okay.”
She takes a breath. “I’m thirty. And I’ve never… I’m a virgin.”
Her words land quietly. Final.
I go still. My grip tightens on the edge of the counter. She’s trusting me with this. The weight of it settles in my chest. Not only desire, though there’s plenty of that, but something fiercer. The need to protect what she’s offering. “That’s your choice.”
“It wasn’t a religious thing or a purity thing.
I never wanted to give that to someone who saw me as convenient.
As a placeholder. My grandma used to tell me that some things are worth waiting for.
That the right person would make me feel like their person.
I wanted it to mean everything and be with someone who chose me on purpose, not because I was available. ”
My throat tightens.
“And I know we only met yesterday.” She doesn’t meet my gaze now. “And I know this is too much information and you’re thinking I’m—”
“Stop.” I cross to her.
She looks up, her eyes wide, vulnerable in a way that undoes me.
“That’s not weird or too much. That’s…” I search for the right word. “Brave.”
“Brave?”
“Yeah. Knowing what you want and not settling for less. That takes guts.”
Holly blinks. “You don’t think it’s… I don’t know. Pathetic? Like I couldn’t get anyone?”
“No. I think you could’ve had anyone. You didn’t want that. There’s a difference.”
She laughs, the sound shaky. “Not sure others would agree. They mostly look at me like I’m lying or damaged or—”
“They’re idiots.”
“Maybe.”
“Not maybe. Definitely.”
The air between us shifts. Heats.
I should step back. Keep a distance. Stay safe.
Instead, I lift my hand and cup her cheek, my rough palm against her soft skin.
Holly’s breath hitches. She leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a second.