Chapter 5
Faith
When I wake the next day, I see that the storm hasn't let up. Snow piles halfway up the porch rails, soft and pristine as whipped cream. The world beyond the windows is nothing but white, the trees mere shadows in the distance. Inside, the cabin glows with firelight and smells like strong coffee.
I follow the scent to the kitchen, spotting Beau at the stove. He made breakfast while I slept, and the realization makes something soft unfurl in my chest.
Actual breakfast. Pancakes. Slightly lopsided, perfectly golden, stacked high on a chipped plate.
I sit at his worn kitchen table, the wood smooth under my palms from years of use, pretending not to stare while he flips another one onto the stack. He's rolled his flannel sleeves up again, and I watch the flex of muscles in his forearms, the capable way his hands move.
"You cook, you carve, you brood," I say. "Anything you don't do?"
He glances over his shoulder, and there it is—a real smile this time, small but genuine. "Talk much."
"Well, you're improving."
A sound escapes him—half laugh, half sigh—and it feels like a bigger victory than it should.
We eat side by side at the small table, our knees bumping now and then, the silence easy for once.
Comfortable. When he reaches for the syrup, his hand brushes mine and stays there a second too long.
Heat zips up my arm, spreads through my chest.
Neither of us moves for a long moment. Then he clears his throat and pours the syrup onto his pancakes.
Later, I help him carry firewood from the covered porch.
The air outside is biting, sharp enough to make my eyes water, snowflakes clinging to my lashes and melting on my cheeks.
He takes the heavier load without a word, his palm skimming my lower back as we step back inside, steadying me on the threshold.
The touch is probably accidental.
It still leaves me dizzy.
By afternoon, we're sitting by the fire sorting through the finished toys, our knees bumping now and then. He's teaching me about the different woods. How maple takes paint better. How oak is strong enough for wheels.
His walls are lower now. His eyes softer.
He tells me about his dad. How he raised him alone. How they used to build things together in a garage in town. How his hands were always stained with varnish. How Christmas lost its shine the year the cancer took him. How the noise of the holidays became unbearable without him there.
I tell him about the charity, about growing up with a single mom who worked three jobs to make sure I never knew how poor we were. About how I can't stand the thought of a single kid waking up to nothing under the tree, feeling like they don't matter.
Something shifts between us as we talk. The air thickens, charged and sweet, heavy with possibility.
When I reach for a carved bear—glossy and perfect with tiny claws etched into its paws—our fingers tangle. Neither of us moves to pull away. His thumb brushes across my knuckles, slow and deliberate, and my breathing stutters.
"Faith," he says, my name rough in his throat. Low. Wanting.
"Yeah?"
His gaze drags to my lips, lingers there. "You should probably move before I do something we'll both regret."
My heart hammers against my ribs. Heat pools low in my belly. I meet his eyes—those impossibly blue eyes—and smile.
"Maybe I don't want to move."