Chapter 5
FIVE
NATALIE
I wake up slowly, the way you do when the world feels a little too soft and warm to rush out of. The quilt is thick and heavy over me, the sheets smell like cedar and laundry soap, and for a moment I forget where I am.
Then the wind rattles the window.
The cabin creaks.
Memory snaps into place.
Mountain. Storm. Lumberjack.
I sit up quickly, hair falling into my face, the room tilting just a little from sleep. The power’s still out, judging from the pale gray light filtering through the curtains. The digital clock on the dresser is dark.
My phone says it’s barely past seven.
I stretch and wince. My muscles are sore—not just pleasantly sore, but “slept in a bed that isn’t mine after a six-hour drive and three emotional plot twists” sore. Still, the ache is worth it. I slept. Really slept. Deep and uninterrupted. That almost never happens in clients’ homes.
I slip out of bed and pad quietly to the door, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
I pad my way into the living room and find Calder in the kitchen, back turned, leaning over the stove with a wooden spoon. The fire is going, giving the room a low golden glow. No lights, just firelight and morning.
And him.
He’s wearing another henley, this one charcoal gray, sleeves pushed up, forearms doing things forearms should not legally be allowed to do at seven in the morning. His hair is slightly damp like he washed up but didn’t bother to dry it fully, dark strands curling at the ends.
Before I can announce myself, he turns.
His eyes land on me—swaddled in his blanket, hair a disaster, sleep creases on my cheek—and something in his expression softens.
“Morning,” he says quietly.
“Morning,” I echo, voice still fuzzy.
“Sleep okay?”
“Better than okay.” I clear my throat. “Kind of spectacularly.”
His mouth tugs at the corner. “Good.”
He gestures toward the stove. “Made breakfast. Or…something that resembles breakfast. I can’t promise anything about flavor.”
I step closer, drawn by curiosity and hunger. “What is it?”
“Hash.” He pokes the pan. “Potatoes, peppers, onions, eggs. Whatever I could find that wasn’t frozen solid.”
I peer into the pan. It looks good—hearty and rustic and exactly what a snowy morning should smell like.
“Calder,” I say seriously. “This looks incredible.”
“You haven’t tasted it.”
“I’ve tasted catering disasters. Trust me, this is incredible.”
He huffs a laugh and grabs two mismatched plates.
“Coffee’s ready too,” he says.
I pour a mug and take a sip. It’s hot and dark and exactly what my bloodstream needed.
He watches me like he’s waiting for a verdict.
“This is perfect,” I say.
He nods once, something easing in his shoulders, as if he didn’t realize he’d been waiting to exhale.
We eat at the little counter, sitting closer than last night—physically closer because the space requires it, emotionally closer because the night shifted something neither of us is naming.
The storm continues outside, wind buffeting the walls. Snowflakes swirl past the window in thick waves.
I clear my throat. “So… the power’s still out?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think it’ll come back today?”
“Maybe. If the lines aren’t iced.” He sips his coffee. “I’ll go check the generator after we eat.”
I nod. “Okay. And afterward I can start taking measurements of the loft and the main room for the tree and the ornaments and—”
He gives me a look. A very flat, very amused look.
I blink. “What?”
“You woke up ten minutes ago.”
“And?”
“And you’re already planning six steps ahead.”
“That’s my job,” I say, cheeks warming.
“It’s also who you are,” he says, and his voice has that low warmth to it again—something I felt last night when he tucked a blanket around me. “You’re always thinking about how to make things work.”
I stare down at my plate a little too intently. “Well. Someone has to.”
After we finish eating, he pulls on his coat and boots to check the generator, and I wrap up in the blanket again, clearing dishes and wiping the counter down. My mind is racing through the day’s checklist when the front door opens and he steps back in, snow clinging to his shoulders.
“Well?” I ask.
He kicks off his boots. “Generator’s fine. Gas valve stuck.”
“Is that fixable?”
“Eventually.”
I blink. “Eventually?”
He shrugs. “Means we’ll probably be without power a while longer.”
I am about to answer when there’s a sudden thud against the roof.
I jump a full inch off the floor.
Calder glances up, unbothered. “Snow load shifting.”
“Right,” I say, hand pressed over my heart. “Totally not alarming.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t plan on staying long enough to get used to it,” I remind him. “Just long enough to turn your house into a Christmas miracle.”
My words are teasing, light—and then something shifts in his expression. Not big. Not overt. Just…aware.
“You don’t have to perform miracles,” he says, quieter now. “Just… help me get through it.”
The honesty in that pulls me up short.
I open my mouth to tell him I will—of course I will—but before I can, another thud shakes the roof. Louder.
I gasp, stumbling back a step.
Without hesitation, Calder crosses the room and steadies me with one hand at my elbow.
“You’re okay,” he says, voice close and warm. “It’s just snow sliding. Happens every storm.”
I look up at him, his face inches from mine, the firelight painting gold across his cheekbones. His hand is still wrapped around my arm, big and warm, grounding.
“I know,” I whisper. “I just… wasn’t ready for it.”
His gaze dips to my lips before flicking up again.
And this time, he doesn’t hide it.
Heat floods my face. My pulse stumbles, gathers itself, and stumbles again.
He must see the shift in my expression because he releases my arm carefully—slowly enough that I feel every moment his fingers are there, and every moment they’re not.
“Come on,” he says, clearing his throat. “Let’s get your measurements.”
We spend the next hour moving furniture, pacing out the living room, ducking around each other in the narrow spaces between the couch and the stove. Every time we pass, it’s like the air tightens—charged, warm, anticipatory.
He holds the end of the measuring tape.
I walk backward with my clipboard.
His eyes flick to my face more than they need to.
I catch him.
He pretends he wasn’t looking.
I pretend I believe him.
At one point, I climb up on a chair to measure the height of a beam. He stands behind me, hands hovering—not touching, but ready in case I fall.
“Got it,” I say, stretching the tape up. “Seven feet, four—”
The chair wobbles.
I yelp, grabbing for balance.
Calder catches me instantly—one hand at my waist, the other braced around my arm. Strong. Steady. Unshakable.
My breath leaves me in a rush.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low, closer than close.
I nod, my heart knocking around like it’s trying to escape my chest. “Yes. Yes. Fine.”
His grip loosens slowly but doesn’t fall away completely.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
The word rolls through me like warmth.
I swallow hard. “Right. Yes. Careful. Good.”
His mouth twitches.
“You’re blushing,” he says.
“I’m not,” I lie.
“You definitely are.”
I hop down, refusing to look directly at him until the heat cools from my face. He watches me anyway, arms crossed loosely, eyes soft in a way I’m starting to recognize.
This is the man behind the rough edges. The one who jokes in unexpected moments. The one who cooks you breakfast without being asked. The one who tucks blankets around you when you’re scared of thunder.
And I could fall for him so easily.
Too easily.
Which means I have to be careful in an entirely new way.
I clear my throat and force my voice into Professional Tone #3: invaded-by-feelings-but-still-focused.
“Okay,” I say briskly. “Tree goes in that corner. Garland across the loft railing. Cocoa bar along the back wall. Once the storm clears, we can go get the actual tree.”
He nods, watching me far too closely.
“Sounds good,” he says. “Natalie?”
“Mm?”
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not nervous,” he says gently. “Not with me.”
My breath stutters.
“I’m not nervous,” I try.
His brow lifts.
“…Okay. Maybe I’m a little nervous.”
“Why?”
I hesitate. The truth is terrifying. But, so is the silence.
“Because,” I say finally, “you make it very hard to stay objective.”
His eyes darken—warm, not sharp.
He steps closer.
Not touching.
Just close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him.
“Maybe you don’t need to stay objective,” he says quietly.
My pulse roars in my ears.
“Calder…”
He doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t pull back. He just waits.
Patiently. Steadily. Both of those words being exactly who he is.
And then—
A loud bang echoes from somewhere outside the cabin.
I jump so hard I nearly drop my clipboard.
Calder’s hands land on my arms before I even register moving.
He exhales slowly. “Snow off the shed roof,” he says.
“Oh my god,” I breathe. “This mountain is trying to kill me.”
He laughs—soft and low, warm enough to melt every thought in my head.
“I promise,” he murmurs, “I won’t let anything get you.”
This time, the heat that rushes through me has nothing to do with fear. And everything to do with him.