Chapter 10
TEN
RHODES
The fire has burned down to a low, steady glow. The storm has gone quiet.
And she’s still here. Warm and soft against me, her breath brushing my collarbone like it belongs there.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
Her hand rests on my chest, fingers splayed like she’s memorizing the shape of my heartbeat. My arm curves around her back. The blanket has tangled around our legs. The cabin is warm. The air smells like smoke and pine and us.
I could stay like this.
Hell, a part of me wants to.
Wants her.
Wants the way she reached for me like she wasn’t scared of anything I keep hidden.
Wants the way she said my name like it meant something.
Wants the way she let herself trust me, fully, completely, without hesitation.
But the storm outside is changing.
The quiet isn’t comforting. It’s a warning.
Up here, silence never means stillness. It means the mountain is getting ready to move.
Jovie shifts slightly, her nose brushing my jaw before she settles again. “Mmm,” she whispers, half-asleep. “Hi.”
God help me. I’ve got it bad for this woman.
“Hi,” I say, low.
She lifts her head and looks at me.
Her hair is wild. Her cheeks flushed. Her eyes look so soft, my heart aches the longer I gaze into them.
“That was…” She trails off, smiling against her own lips like she’s trying not to grin too hard. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” I echo.
She laughs quietly. It slides into my chest and settles there.
Then—somewhere outside—snow shifts. A long, heavy sigh of weight sliding off a roof.
I tense.
Jovie feels it.
“What?” she whispers.
I listen.
Hard.
The storm has completely stilled. Too completely.
“The mountain’s dumping the snowpack,” I say. “Happens after a hard blow. Means the worst is over.”
Her eyes brighten. “So… it’s safe?”
“Safe enough,” I say carefully. “Plows might start moving soon.”
A shadow crosses her face.
Because safe means roads might open.
And that means her leaving.
I feel the loss like a punch I should have expected.
She sits up slowly, pulling the blanket with her. Her gaze flicks between me and the window, like she’s caught between the heat we just shared and the reality we can’t avoid.
“I should… I should probably check the forecast,” she says softly.
“Yeah.”
She slides off the nest of blankets and grabs her phone from the table. I sit up too, rubbing a hand over my face as cold air replaces the warmth we had a second ago.
She scrolls. Her eyes widen.
“Rhodes…” Her voice shakes, not from fear. From something closer to disappointment. “They think the main road into town might open by afternoon.”
I nod once. “Figures.”
A pause.
A long one.
She swallows. “I should… go back to the lodge when you can drive me.”
“Right.”
Not because I want her to leave.
Because it’s what she came here to do before we complicated everything.
She wraps the blanket tighter around herself, like it’s armor.
“We should… get back to the plan,” she says. “For my dad. His cowboy experience.”
“Yeah,” I repeat. “We should.”
It’s the right thing to say.
The right next step.
So why does it feel like sandpaper in my throat?
She sits at the small table near the window, tucking her legs under the blanket. She opens her laptop, the screen lighting her face in cool blue.
All business. All focus.
But her shoulders are too tight. Her posture too careful.
She’s trying to pretend this is easy.
I grab my flannel from the floor and shrug it on, then drop into the chair across from her.
“Alright,” I say. “Walk me through what you want for spring.”
She looks up.
And for half a second—just a beat—her eyes flick to my mouth. Then away.
“Right,” she murmurs. “Spring.”
She starts typing. “My dad shouldn’t do long rides. Maybe short ones. And gentle horses. And slower terrain.”
“Got it,” I say.
“And maybe tasks?” she adds. “Simple ranch things. Nothing that would strain him.”
“Easy enough.”
“Dinner at the ranch house? Campfire? A sunset if the weather’s good?”
“Yeah.”
Her voice trails. Her fingers stutter on the keys.
She looks up again… and this time she doesn’t hide the crack in her expression.
“This is weird, right?” she whispers.
I blow out a breath. “Yeah. Little bit.”
She laughs once, breathy. “We just… did that. And now we’re making a spreadsheet.”
“It’s a hell of a transition.”
Her cheeks flush. “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Me neither.”
Silence settles between us again. Different this time. Heavier.
Tender in a way that leaves a lingering ache.
She closes her laptop slowly and pushes it aside.
“Rhodes,” she says quietly. “I don’t want this to be the last time I see you.”
Every muscle in me freezes.
“I’m not asking for promises,” she says quickly. “Or for big dramatic declarations. I just… I don’t want this to end because a storm passed.”
“Jovie—”
“I’m flying home tomorrow. But I want to come back. After Christmas. I want to see you again.”
The hope in her eyes is a punch to the ribs.
A dangerous one.
“It’s your turn to talk,” she whispers.
Before I can answer, a truck engine rumbles in the distance.
Something bright flickers through the window—orange hazard lights cutting through the white-out.
Jovie and I both turn.
The rumble of a diesel engine fills the clearing. Snow spits off the plow blade as it grinds to a stop in front of the cabin. A voice carries through the wind, calling a name I can’t make out.
Jovie’s breath catches.
“The road,” she whispers. “They cleared the road.”
And before either of us can decide what to say next—
a figure in a reflective jacket steps up onto the porch, brushing snow from his collar.
His shadow passes across the window.
And everything between us changes.