Chapter 1 #2
“The cabin,” I correct quickly. “The cabin is overflowing with potential.” My throat feels a little dry. “You probably are too. In general. I’m not…evaluating your bones. I’m just—”
He blinks.
I shut my mouth.
Silence stretches. Then, very quietly, he huffs out a laugh. It’s small and surprised and it does something absurd to my chest.
“Do you always talk like that?” he asks. “Like you’re running a one-woman press conference in your head.”
“Yes,” I say. “It’s part of my charm.”
“That what people call it?” he asks.
“Only the ones who get their deposits back.”
He shakes his head like he’s not sure what to do with me and pushes off the door. “You want coffee?” he asks. “Since you’re apparently here until the mountain decides otherwise.”
“Yes, please,” I say, trying not to sound too grateful. “Black is fine.”
He heads through the open doorway into the kitchen. I take the opportunity to look around properly, mentally overlaying decorations, seating arrangements, and buffet tables.
Tree goes by the windows. Or maybe the corner by the stove, so people can warm up while they decorate. Lights on the beams. Garland along the loft railing. Stockings on that blank wall near the woodpile. If we shift the couch two feet left, we can open space for a games table or gift exchange…
I pull my tablet free and open the document I started on the flight, reminding myself I still don’t actually know how many people are coming.
“Your mom said you’re expecting…?” I trail off, hoping he’ll fill in the blank.
“Too many,” he calls from the kitchen.
“Great. Love a challenge.”
He returns with two mismatched mugs. Mine says Colorado Fish & Game. His says Don’t Talk To Me Until This Cup Is Empty, which feels on brand.
He hands me the fish mug. Our fingers brush. The contact is brief, but it sends a streak of awareness up my arm. Apparently my nerves are very sensitive to altitude.
Focus, Nat.
“So,” I say, wrapping my hands around the warmth. “Let’s start with the basics. How many people. Ages. Any dietary restrictions, known feuds, traditional games, absolute no-gos. Any family members likely to set something on fire. That sort of thing.”
He stares at me for a beat. “You plan for arson?”
“I plan for any scenario where an aunt throws a punch over the last piece of fudge. Fire is on the list.”
He sinks onto the couch like the conversation already exhausts him. “My mom. My sister. Her husband. Two kids, both under ten. My uncle and aunt. Their son. Maybe another cousin if he can get time off. It depends on the roads.”
I jot notes quickly. “So potentially…ten? Eleven? That’s manageable.”
“For you,” he says. “They’re used to my mom’s house. Big dining room. Sideboard. Vintage ornaments everywhere. The whole Norman Rockwell thing. They’re not going to want to cram in here.”
My gaze sweeps the room again. “We can make it work. People don’t remember square footage. They remember how they felt. Cozy and close can read as intimate and special. Especially if there’s good food and they’re not sitting on the floor.”
“You really believe that,” he says.
“I do.” I meet his eyes. “I’ve seen couples get married in strip mall banquet rooms and make it look like the Plaza.
I’ve worked in rental halls that smelled like old fries and bleach.
This?” I gesture around us. “This is a dream. It already feels like Christmas. We’re just going to add some sparkle. ”
He looks around like he’s trying to see the room the way I do. His shoulders are still tight, but there’s a crack in the resistance now.
“You don’t even know what my family is like,” he says finally.
“Tell me,” I say.
He hesitates, then shrugs, like he can’t quite believe he’s doing this.
“Loud. Opinionated. My aunt cries at commercials. My uncle has an opinion on everything. My mom wants everyone to be happy all the time, which means she’s usually stressed.
My sister pretends she’s above all of it, but she’s the one who keeps the traditions going.
Stockings. Board games. Matching pajamas.
The kids…they’re great. They’re just kids. ”
His voice softens on that last word. The affection there is obvious.
“And you?” I ask. “Where do you fall in the chaos?”
He goes still. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does if I’m planning around you,” I say, more gently than before.
His gaze meets mine. For a second, the protective armor slips and I see something else underneath: weariness, maybe. A kind of weight.
“I used to be the one who made things work,” he says quietly. “When my dad was still around, he and I handled the practical stuff. So my mom and sister could…do all the rest. We were the backup crew.”
He swallows.
“After he died, I tried to keep doing it. But the house felt like a minefield. Every tradition turned into a fight. Everyone was grieving in their own way. My mom wanted to cling to everything. My sister wanted to burn it all down and start over. I was stuck in the middle, trying to keep the pipes from freezing and the lights from going out.”
I keep my hands steady around my mug even though my chest hurts for him.
“What happened?” I ask softly.
His mouth twists. “We stopped trying. After a few years, Christmas shrank. Fewer decorations. Fewer people. Eventually, they started doing it without me. My mom said I was always ‘too busy up here’ to come down for the whole thing. Which, yeah, that’s partly on me, but it felt easier to opt out than watch it fall apart again. ”
“And now she’s asking you to host,” I say.
“And now she’s asking me to host,” he confirms. “Up here. Where I have six chairs, no dining table, and a kitchen that hates me.”
I glance toward the unseen kitchen like I might hear it hissing. “Appliances don’t hate people. They’re just misunderstood.”
“Tell that to my oven.”
“I will,” I say. “Right after I get its measurements.”
He snorts, the sound half disbelief, half reluctant amusement. It makes me want to push my luck.
“Look,” I say, leaning in a little. “You don’t have to carry it alone this time.
That’s what I’m here for. To take some of the weight.
You can be in charge of the woodpile and the snow shoveling and…
manly lumberjack things. Let me be in charge of the cocoa and seating charts and whether your aunt gets the end of the table where she can escape quickly to cry at commercials. ”
He studies me for a long moment.
“You really don’t mind?” he asks. “The chaos. The expectations. The mess.”
“I chose this job,” I say. “It’s not just centerpieces and photo ops.
It’s…people. Families. All their weirdness and love and grief and hope, crammed into one evening or one weekend and asking me to make it look pretty.
I like being the person who builds the scaffolding so they can just… be together.”
The words surprise me a little as they come out. I haven’t said it like that before, but it’s true. Under the spreadsheets and timelines, that’s what keeps me doing this.
His gaze softens, just a fraction. “My mom said you were good,” he says. “Said you took care of things.”
I feel oddly honored by that. “Your mom is very kind. And she made it clear she wants you to have a good Christmas.”
“It’s not just about me.” He looks down into his mug. “She wants this to be the year we put things back together.”
“That’s a big ask,” I say. “But we can give you the best possible setting to try.”
He goes quiet again, thinking. Outside, the wind picks up, rattling a few stray flakes against the window glass. The light has shifted, clouds thickening over the tops of the trees. Afternoon is sliding toward evening faster than it would down in town.
“Storm’s supposed to hit tonight,” he says after a moment. “They moved the warning up this morning. If you’re staying, you should bring your stuff inside sooner rather than later.”
Victory flares in my chest. Not because I’ve “won” against him, but because this means he’s letting me in. Literally and maybe eventually figuratively.
“On it,” I say, springing to my feet. “And then we can do a quick walkthrough and get our priorities sorted. Tree, sleeping arrangements, food, emergency fudge reserves. The essentials.”
He shakes his head, but there’s definitely a ghost of a smile now. “You really came prepared,” he says.
“You have no idea.”
I snag my coat off the back of the couch and head for the door. Cold rolls in as I open it, snowflakes swirling in on the draft. The sky looks heavier than it did when I arrived, a deep gray pressing low over the treetops.
I pause on the porch and glance back over my shoulder.
Calder is watching me, coffee mug cradled in his hands, broad shoulders framed by the warm glow of the woodstove.
For a second, with the snowflakes drifting between us and the lines of worry smoothed a little from his face, I can almost see the version of this cabin his mom must imagine.
The one where laughter spills out the door and lights twine around the beams and a tall, quiet man who’s been carrying too much finally looks like he belongs in his own Christmas.
The thought tugs at my ribs, sharp and unexpected.
Careful, I tell myself. He is a client. A project. A very tall, very grumpy project with objectively excellent shoulders, but still.
I adjust my scarf, step off the porch, and crunch back toward the SUV.
Behind me, the wind gusts, setting the trees to swaying. A few fat flakes land on my cheeks and melt before I can swipe them away.
By the time I haul my suitcase and supply bins up to the cabin and kick the door closed behind me, the snow outside is falling harder.
“Storm’s picking up,” Calder says, watching the swirling white through the window. His voice is quieter now, thoughtful. “Once it settles in, we’re not getting off this mountain for a while.”
I drop my tote beside the couch and straighten, a strange little thrill sparking along my spine.
Trapped in a cabin with my grumpy lumberjack client, a looming holiday, and an entire family’s expectations.
No pressure.
“Good thing we’ve got work to do,” I say, meeting his eyes. “Let’s make this Christmas worth being snowed in for.”
He holds my gaze for a beat longer than strictly necessary.
“Careful, Natalie,” he says slowly. “If you say things like that, my mom’s going to think you’re a miracle worker.”
I smile, feeling something shift between us, small and invisible and important.
“Maybe I am,” I say lightly. “Guess we’ll find out.”