Chapter 3
THREE
NATALIE
The storm settles in by late afternoon, steady and thick, turning the world outside into a snow globe that someone shook a little too aggressively. Inside, the cabin feels warmer—not just from the stove, but from the way Calder has stopped glaring at me like I’m a glitter bomb waiting to explode.
He’s still wary. Still quiet. Still built like an avalanche.
But the edges have softened.
A little.
I’ll take it.
I stand near the windows, taking photos for my planning board while Calder slices vegetables with the kind of precision usually reserved for bomb squads.
“Those pieces are very… uniform,” I say.
“Knife’s sharp,” he replies.
“Uh-huh.” I take another picture of the window frame and jot down: need command hooks for garland. “And your cutting technique has nothing to do with your need for control?”
He pauses mid-slice. Slowly lifts his gaze.
I grin.
He shakes his head and goes back to chopping. “You don’t have to analyze everything.”
“I’m not analyzing.” I snap one more photo. “I’m observing.”
“Big difference?”
“Huge.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh. Or a cough. Hard to tell.
The kitchen smells like onions and something earthy—thyme? rosemary?—and the stove crackles as snow smacks against the windows. It’s cozy in that accidental way, like the universe stuck us in here and said, Figure it out.
I turn my tablet around to show him. “Okay, this is what I’m thinking for the tree. That corner gets the most natural light during the day, plus sightlines from the couch and—”
He blinks at the screen. “That’s my cabin.”
“Yes.”
“But…festive.”
“Yes,” I repeat, smile widening. “That’s the point.”
He studies the mockup. The glimmer of something—trepidation? nostalgia?—flickers across his face. “It doesn’t look like my place anymore.”
“It still is,” I say softly. “We’re not changing your cabin. We’re just dressing it up for one weekend.”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he turns back to the cutting board and resumes chopping with slow, measured calm.
A beat passes.
Two.
Three.
Then:
“Mom’ll like it,” he says quietly.
My heart does a tiny twist.
Later, after dinner, we move to the living room to go over the activity schedule.
He sits on the couch. I take the chair across from him because if I sit beside him, I’m pretty sure my nerves will ignite and burn straight through the upholstery.
I pull out my planner with the fervor of someone who has never lost a fight with a calendar.
“So,” I begin. “Your family arrives on the twenty-third. That gives us just under three full days. We need the tree, the cocoa bar, and the stocking tradition ready before they get here. Food prep starts tomorrow.”
He nods, listening, elbows braced on his knees.
“And on Christmas Eve,” I continue, flipping pages, “we’ll do the ornament bar for the kids, the board game hour for the adults, and—”
His brows pinch. “Board game hour?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Have you met my uncle? He flips Monopoly boards.”
“Perfect,” I say brightly. “We’ll choose games without money involved.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I enjoy a challenge.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
He leans back against the couch, eyes drifting toward the window where snow still falls in thick sheets. “Just seems like a lot of work for something that’s…temporary.”
“It’s not temporary,” I say before I can think better of it.
His gaze returns to mine, sharp. “It’s not?”
“No.” I wet my lips, searching for words that don’t sound like I’m pitching him a commercial. “The decorations fade. The cookies get eaten. The wrapping paper gets stuffed into trash bags. But the memories? Those don’t go anywhere.”
The muscles in his jaw shift.
“I know you think this is just…fluff,” I continue, softer now.
“Like it’s icing without a cake. But you’re wrong.
People remember the moments they felt cared for.
They remember when someone tried. Every garland, every string of lights, every tiny detail—it’s not about perfection. It’s about showing up.”
He stares at me like he’s trying to read something written behind my eyes.
“You talk about this like it’s personal,” he says quietly.
I look down at my planner. “Maybe it is.”
Silence blooms, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“Why’d you take this job?” he asks suddenly.
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“Could’ve worked anywhere,” he says. “Bigger venues. Warmer places. Cities. Not…this.” He gestures vaguely at the cabin, the storm, the mountain. “Why here? Why now?”
The answer sits on my tongue, familiar and sore.
“Because I needed the reset,” I say. Not loud.
Not shy. Just true. “Because the last holiday season I planned almost broke me. Because I forgot how to enjoy something I used to love. And because your mom’s message said she wanted a real family Christmas again, and that felt like something worth showing up for. ”
His expression shifts—not pity, not sympathy—something else. Something deeper.
“You’re honest,” he says. Like he wasn’t expecting it.
“I try to be.”
He nods once, thoughtful. The fire throws a soft glow across his features, and for the first time since I arrived, he doesn’t look like he’s bracing for impact.
He looks…human. And a little bit hopeful.
Then the lights flicker.
I freeze. “Um…”
He glances up. “Wind must’ve hit a line.”
The lights flicker again. And again.
Then everything goes black.
The fire still glows, but the rest of the cabin plunges into shadow. I’m suddenly very aware of how quiet the world is without electricity—and how close Calder is in the dark.
My heartbeat echoes in my ears.
“Do you have candles?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he murmurs back. “Stay put.”
I hear him stand. Hear the soft thud of his boots on the wood floor. The scrape of a drawer. Then the warm flare of a match, followed by the hazy glow of candlelight.
He returns, setting one on the coffee table. The light casts gold across his jaw, his throat, the planes of his shoulders.
“Better?” he asks.
I swallow. “Yes. Definitely. Thank you.”
His gaze lingers on me, shadowed and unreadable.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod too quickly. “Fine! Totally fine. Very normal about storms.”
He watches me for a long second. “You don’t like the dark.”
“It’s not my favorite.”
“You cold?”
“No,” I lie.
He lifts a brow.
“Maybe a little,” I admit.
He crosses to the woodstove, opens the door, and adds another log. Sparks swirl, catching fire. The cabin warms again.
But the quiet is different now—deeper, thicker, like the storm is pressing the walls closer.
He returns to the couch but doesn’t sit this time. He stands near the coffee table, candlelight haloing him in fire and shadow.
His voice is low when he speaks.
“Storm’s not letting up anytime soon,” he says. “We’ll be stuck here for the night.”
My pulse trips.
“Okay,” I say softly. “That’s…okay.”
His eyes flick down to my mouth before he catches himself.
It’s fast. A fraction of a second. But I see it.
And he knows I saw it.
Heat curls low in my stomach.
I straighten my planner even though I’m not actually looking at it. “We can, um…keep working. If you want.”
“Or,” he says slowly, “you could take a break.”
I look up.
He’s watching me in that quiet, intense way he has—like he’s trying to decide if stepping closer is a mistake or the only real option.
My breath hitches.
The candle flame flickers.
And the storm hums on.
“Calder,” I whisper, not sure what question I’m asking.
His answer is a soft, rough sound at the back of his throat.
“We’ll figure it out,” he says.
But he doesn’t look away.