Chapter 2
TWO
CALDER
I knew this was a bad idea the moment I opened the door.
Not hiring her—my mom hired her without asking me—but letting her stay. Letting her walk into my space with her boots tracking snow and her eyes tracking everything else. Letting someone this…bright into a room I’ve worked very hard to keep dim.
Now she’s here, bouncing between the entryway and the living room like she’s already memorizing every square inch. She’s unpacked a clipboard, three different pens, something that looks like a color wheel, and a tablet covered in tabs. It’s like watching a cheery little storm rearrange my life.
A pretty storm.
Which is even worse.
I watch her wrestle one of the supply bins toward the wall, talking to it under her breath about “optimal flow for family foot traffic.” I don’t know what that means, but I’ve already learned that Natalie says a lot of things I don’t understand…and says them like everyone probably agrees.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, trying to decide if I should offer to help or get out of my own way. The problem is that both options feel like traps.
“You okay over there?” I ask. It comes out gruffer than I mean it to.
She pops upright, cheeks pink from the cold and the effort. “Oh! Yes. Just figuring out where the ornament station will go. Or the cocoa bar. I haven’t decided yet.”
I blink. “Cocoa bar?”
She brightens like she’s been waiting for me to ask. “A self-serve setup. Marshmallows, peppermint sticks, cinnamon, flavored syrups, maybe shaped sprinkles. People love it.”
My kitchen barely holds two adults and a bag of groceries. The thought of marshmallow bowls being part of its daily reality nearly unmoors me.
“You know we only have one counter,” I say.
“That’s fine,” she says. “I’ll make it work.”
I have no doubt she will. That’s the concerning part.
Another gust of wind rattles the windows. Snow is falling harder now, thick and steady. If the storm settles the way they predicted, she’s stranded here for the night. Maybe longer.
I should be worried about having a stranger in my house. Instead, I’m worried about how comfortable she looks unpacking into it.
“You cold?” I ask.
“Not yet.” She pulls off her gloves and tucks them into her coat pocket. “But I will be once I take my boots off. Floor’s chilly.”
I move to the closet, pull out a pair of thick wool socks. “Here.”
She blinks at them. “Oh—I couldn’t. Your socks?”
“Wasn’t a question,” I say, holding them out until she takes them. “Floor gets cold when the wind shifts. Better than freezing your toes.”
A soft smile tugs at her mouth before she looks down again. I feel it hit me like a sucker punch.
Damn it.
This is exactly the sort of thing I should not be collecting moments around. I take a step back before I can make it worse.
“I’ll grab some wood,” I say. “Storm means we’ll go through twice as much.”
“Oh! Perfect. While you do that, I can get started on measurements and note-taking.” She lifts her tablet like she’s about to interview the cabin. “Does the power ever go out up here?”
“Sometimes.”
“And water pressure stays steady?”
“As long as the pipes don’t freeze.”
“Backup generator?”
“In the shed.”
She beams at me like this is all very reassuring. “Great. That means I can plan for contingencies.”
I stare at her. “You’re excited about contingencies?”
“I mean, not excited-excited. But prepared-excited.” She shrugs, ponytail swinging. “I like knowing what can go wrong. Then the surprises aren’t scary.”
Her tone is light, but something about the way she says it hits closer to the bone than she intended.
I clear my throat. “Right. Well. I’ll be outside.”
She gives me a cheerful little salute. “Copy that.”
I grab my coat and step out into the cold before she can shine that grin at me again.
The wind is sharp enough to make my eyes water as I cross the yard to the woodpile.
Snow is sticking fast, layering on the tarp and soaking through the cuffs of my gloves.
I shove fresh logs into the crook of my arm and try not to think about the woman currently reorganizing my living room like she owns the place.
She’s a mistake I can correct as soon as the roads clear.
Except my mom’s voice rings in my head—her soft, hopeful lilt when she told me how much a “real Christmas” would mean. How this year, maybe, we could all feel connected again. How she thought Natalie might help us “bridge the edges.”
I’d almost laughed at that. But now?
Snow crunches behind me.
I stiffen. “Watch your step. It’s iced under the—”
Natalie slides to a halt beside me, arms pinwheeling. “I’m good! I’m fine! Everything is great!”
Her boots skid again.
I drop the wood and grab her arm before she can fall straight into the drift.
She freezes, breath catching. Her face is inches from mine. Snowflakes cling to her lashes, melting slowly.
“You really shouldn’t be out here without traction,” I say, voice low.
“I needed a measurement of the porch overhang,” she whispers.
“Could’ve asked.”
“You were busy.”
“I wasn’t that busy.”
Her eyes lift to mine, something bright and curious there, something warm enough to cut the cold straight through.
I let go first.
Her breath fogs in the air. “Okay. Good note. Calder thinks I’m not allowed outside alone.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“You almost ate a pine tree.”
She snorts a laugh, cheeks warming even in the cold. “Fair.”
She glances back at the cabin, her expression softening. “Your place is really lovely, you know.”
“It’s functional.”
“It’s lovely,” she insists, tone gentler now. “You built a life up here. You should be proud of it.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything at all.
I crouch for the wood, but she beats me to it, grabbing a log and holding it awkwardly in both hands.
“I can help,” she insists.
“You’re going to drop that.”
“I am not.”
The log slips immediately. She fumbles it. I catch it before it hits her foot. She looks up from the rescued chunk of pine with a mortified little wince.
“…Okay. Maybe I am.”
I sigh, shove the rescued wood under one arm, and take her elbow with the other. “Come on. Before you get hurt.”
She lets me guide her back toward the cabin. Our strides sync up without trying. Her shoulder brushes mine. She smells like cold air and vanilla lotion and something warm I can’t name.
Inside, the stove crackles, a pocket of heat waiting for us.
She peels off her coat and shakes out her hair, sending a few snowflakes scattering. They melt instantly on the rug.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much.” She beams again, and God help me, I feel it somewhere stupid and vulnerable.
She focuses on her clipboard. “So. Now that you’re back—logistics.”
I groan. “What now?”
“Sleeping arrangements,” she says, flipping a page. “We need to figure out who goes where.”
“I have one bedroom.”
“And a loft,” she points out.
“Loft isn’t insulated properly.”
She tilts her head. “Calder, does your family know they’re basically coming to glamp?”
“They know it’s a cabin.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
She taps her pen against the board, then brightens. “Ooh! We’ll do a bed rotation schedule. Like a holiday sleepover. Kids think it’s fun, adults tolerate it, no one complains too much because it’s Christmas.”
“My uncle complains professionally.”
“Even better,” she says. “Challenge accepted.”
I rub a hand over my face. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“You’ll appreciate it when no one threatens mutiny over the sleeping bag.”
“I don’t own sleeping bags.”
“I brought three,” she says. “Plus air mattresses.”
“You brought—? Why?”
“In case they came in handy.”
“You planned for mountain sleepover politics?”
“Always,” she says. “Families are unpredictable.”
I take a slow breath. The stove crackles. Wind sighs outside. Natalie stands in the center of my cabin like a burst of color no one warned me about, plotting cocoa bars and bunk rotations with the confidence of someone who’s never encountered a problem she couldn’t fix.
I don’t know how long she’ll be stuck here.
I don’t know how much of this storm is weather and how much is her.
But I do know one thing:
My quiet, predictable winter just ended.
“Fine,” I say, surrendering a little. “We’ll do it your way.”
Her smile is slow and bright and warm enough to thaw ice.
“My way,” she echoes. “You won’t regret it.”
I already do. I also don’t.
Both feelings sit side by side in clear conflict as the snow keeps falling, and Natalie turns a page on her clipboard, ready to reorganize my entire world.