Chapter 4
Thatcher
In the morning, the storm still hasn't let up.
Snow's coming sideways now, hissing against the windows like radio static, burying the world in white. I've seen worse, but never with company. I feel compelled to keep her safe, warm, and comfortable.
Gia's still wrapped in my blanket, hair escaping her hat in wild curls that catch the firelight like copper wire, cheeks pink from heat and cocoa.
She's half curled on the rug, sketching something in that little notebook she pulled from her bag earlier.
Every few minutes she mumbles, erases with the pink nub at the pencil's end, then grins at herself.
I should be working—tuning the stove, sharpening a chisel, something that doesn't involve staring. But she keeps drawing the way she talks—all in, no hesitation, and I'm too damn curious for my own good.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
She glances up, pencil still poised. "Cataloging my finds from yesterday. One brass button and a near-death experience."
"Solid day's work."
"Right?" She props her chin on her hand, and I notice the small freckle just below her left ear. "You can't put a price on adventure."
"I can," I say. "It's usually however much it costs to fix my busted snowshoe strap."
She laughs, bright and unbothered, the sound filling the cabin like bells. "You really don't believe in the legend, do you?"
I shrug. "I believe in gravity. Storms. Metal fatigue. That's about all I know for sure."
"So, you're a realist."
"Someone has to balance out the dreamers."
"Lucky me," she says, smiling in a way that does something strange to my stomach. "That I happened to stumble across into your path then.”
She stands, stretching, and wanders toward the window. Her borrowed socks—wool and oversized—bunch at her ankles. "Wow," she breathes, and the glass fogs where her breath touches it. "It's like the world disappeared."
Snow's swirling so thick the trees are just ghosts now, dark shapes barely visible through the white.
"Does this happen a lot?" she asks.
"Every winter."
"And you just…ride it out alone?"
I shrug, joining her at the window. Close enough that I can smell the faint sweetness clinging to her hair. "Doesn't bother me."
She tilts her head, studying me the way she did the first time I caught her digging in the snow. Her eyes are hazel, I realize, green and gold and brown all mixed together, shifting with the firelight. "You say that like you're trying to convince yourself."
"I'm not," I say. But it comes out rough, and even I don't buy it.
Her smile shifts, less teasing now, more knowing. She takes a step toward me, slow and sure, and suddenly the cabin feels smaller. Warmer.
The fire crackles, throwing gold light across her face, catching in her eyes and making them shine. The air feels thick enough to touch, heavy with things neither of us are saying.
"You know," she says, "for a guy who likes quiet, you sure talk a lot when you're trying not to."
"I'm not trying—"
She grins. "Yes, you are."
Another step. Close enough now that I can see the way her pulse beats at the base of her throat. My own pulse kicks in response.
I should back up.
I don't.
"You're something else, Gia."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't meant as one."
"Still taking it as one."
The corner of my mouth pulls before I can stop it. And then she looks up at me—eyes bright, mouth soft and slightly parted—and the storm outside might as well be the edge of the world.
"Thatcher," she whispers, and my name in her mouth sounds like a question and an answer all at once.
That's all it takes to snap my resolve.
I reach for her, fingers curling at the back of her neck, drawing her in. The first brush of her lips is warm, curious, exactly as bold as she is. She sighs against my mouth, and that sound does something deep and dangerous inside me, unlocking something I thought I'd welded shut.
Her hands slide up my chest, fingers curling into my shirt, anchoring herself as the wind howls and the fire pops and every good intention I had burns right along with it.
The kiss deepens—slow, steady, inevitable. She tastes like cocoa and courage, like trouble I don't want to resist another minute. Her mouth is soft and warm and demanding, and when she makes a small sound in the back of her throat, heat floods through me.
I pull her closer, one hand spanning the small of her back, feeling the way she arches into me. Her curves press against me, soft where I'm hard, warm where I've been cold for too damn long.
When we finally pull apart, she's smiling, breathless, lips swollen and eyes dazed.
"See?" she murmurs, fingers still twisted in my shirt. "Knew I’d find a secret treasure up here."
I brush my thumb across her bottom lip, and she catches it gently between her teeth. "You’re trouble, aren’t you?"
"The best kind," she whispers, and pulls me back down for another kiss.