Chapter 6
SIX
CALDER
The storm settles into a steady white curtain. The generator’s still out of commission, the power lines still dead, and the cabin is running entirely on firelight and whatever warmth the stove can muster.
And Natalie is everywhere.
She’s kneeling by the window, jotting measurements. She’s humming under her breath in the kitchen while reorganizing my cabinets.
She’s perched on the arm of the couch, legs tucked under her, sketching some kind of holiday layout diagram I don’t understand but definitely trust.
There’s an energy in the space I’m not used to—bright, warm, alive. It’s unsettling.
And addictive.
I’m pretending to sort tools near the woodpile just to give her space, which is ridiculous for two reasons:
One, she doesn’t need space.
Two, I’m not actually sorting anything. I’m just staring at a hammer and remembering what it felt like to catch her this morning.
Her waist under my hands.
Her breath catching.
Her eyes going wide and soft at the same time.
I need a distraction. A physical one.
“I’m going to split more wood,” I announce, louder than necessary.
She looks up from her sketchpad. “But the pile outside is already full, right?”
“Yep.”
“Then why do you need to split more?”
I grab my gloves. “Because staying prepared is important.”
Her eyes narrow. “This feels like code for ‘I need to go chop something so I don’t think about feelings.’”
“I don’t use ‘code.’”
“You absolutely do.”
I ignore her and open the door, stepping out onto the porch. The cold hits instantly—sharp enough to sting the lungs. Snow clings to the railing, drifting in soft piles against the steps. The storm is quieter now, less wind, more steady fall.
I grab a log round, set it upright on the stump, and raise the axe.
The first swing lands hard, cracking through wood with a clean heart-splitting sound.
Somewhere behind me, the door opens.
I pause mid-swing, not turning.
“I brought you water,” she says.
Sure enough—when I glance over, she’s stepping carefully onto the porch, holding a glass in both hands. The blanket is wrapped around her shoulders like a cape.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” I say.
“And yet, here I am.”
She hands me the glass. Our fingers brush, and the distraction I was searching for evaporates instantly.
I move to create more space, but she leans back on the railing beside the chopping block, watching me with this open, curious expression that makes it harder to breathe.
“You’re very good at that,” she says, nodding at the axe.
“It’s wood,” I say. “It doesn’t talk back.”
“Lucky wood.”
I choke.
Her face turns red. “Oh my god. I didn’t mean—well, I didn’t not mean—but I didn’t.” Her eyes widen. “Forget I spoke.”
Before I can respond—before I can ruin this by saying something equally unhelpful—she shifts topics.
“So. What made you move up here in the first place?”
I set another log on the stump. “Didn’t move so much as return.”
“Return?”
“This was my dad’s land. We worked it together.”
Her voice softens. “You said he passed when you were younger?”
I nod. Bring the axe down again. The log splits and falls to the side.
After a moment, she asks carefully, “Was being up here with him a good thing?”
“It was the best thing,” I say before I can temper it. “He liked quiet. Liked working with his hands. Liked the mountain. Guess I got that from him.”
“And after he was gone?”
I sink the axe deeper into the stump, leaning on the handle. “After that, nothing felt right. Not the house down in town. Not the holidays. Not people trying to pretend things weren’t broken.”
I swallow past a lump in my throat. “Up here, I didn’t have to pretend.”
A long moment passes.
When she speaks again, her voice is soft but sure. “You didn’t isolate yourself because you didn’t care, Calder. You isolated yourself because you felt too much.”
I turn to her, chest tight. “You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely do,” she says. “You’re a caretaker. That kind of person never walks away unless they’re hurting.”
My jaw works, but nothing comes out.
She steps closer—not touching, but close enough the warmth from her body reaches me even through the cold.
“You don’t have to carry all of it yourself,” she says. “Not this year.”
My throat tightens. Hard.
“And you don’t have to pretend you don’t care whether this Christmas works,” she adds, gentler still. “I see how much you want this for your mom. For your sister’s kids. For yourself.”
I look away sharply, gripping the axe handle like it’ll steady me.
Natalie doesn’t push. She just lets the cold and the quiet wrap around us for a few breaths.
“You know,” she says lightly, “for someone who doesn’t like holidays, you’re a natural at creating cinematic winter scenery.”
I snort. “Pretty sure that’s just the storm.”
“No,” she insists, eyes warm. “It’s very lumberjack aesthetic. Very curated. Very—‘grumpy man finds heart in snow.’”
I shake my head. “You’re impossible.”
“And you hired me. So whose fault is that?”
“My mother’s.”
“She sounds smart.”
“She is.”
She grins. “Then she must’ve known what she was doing.”
I don’t have an answer for that.
Mostly because I think she might be right.
By the time evening settles again, we’ve cleared furniture, mapped out traffic flow for his family’s arrival, and made a list of supplies we desperately need once the roads reopen.
Natalie is reviewing her notes on the couch, blanket around her shoulders, pen tapping rhythmically against her lip.
“What’s tomorrow look like?” I ask from the armchair.
“Depends on the storm,” she says. “If the roads still aren’t safe, we’ll reorganize the kitchen and start prepping anything that doesn’t require electricity.”
“I can get the camping stove from the shed.”
“Perfect.” She scribbles something. “And once it’s safe to go to town, we’ll get a tree.”
She brightens at that last part. Practically glows.
“You really like Christmas trees, don’t you?” I say.
“Like? Calder.” She presses a hand to her chest. “I am powered by trees. They are my entire personality from December first through thirty-first.”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. She beams.
“I can show you how to choose a good one,” I offer. “If you want.”
She gasps. “Is this a lumberjack tutorial?”
“No.”
“It is absolutely a lumberjack tutorial.”
I shake my head, but she’s already delighted.
Her joy does something dangerous to me. It does something… earth-shattering.
She’s so warm. So bright.
So damn unexpected.
She and her joy make me want to let her have every version of Christmas she’s been trying to build for everyone else.
And that is exactly the thing I need to be careful with. Because she’s not here forever. Because I’ve learned better than to get attached to people who will leave.
Because my family arrives in a few days and I need to be functional, not wandering around with my heart knocking into walls.
But then she yawns, and the blanket slips from her shoulder. My heart hitches.
“You should get some rest.”
She blinks up at me, like a kid who’s trying to avoid bedtime. “I am not.”
“Yes, you are.” I gently tug the blanket back into place. “You look like you’re two minutes away from purring like a kitten in front of a fireplace.”
She scrunches her nose. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m speaking the truth.”
She pushes herself to her feet, swaying only slightly. “Okay. Fine. I’ll go to bed.”
“Good idea. We have an early start tomorrow.”
Without thinking, I fall into step beside her. I walk her as far as the bedroom door, stopping myself just short of opening it for her.
“Night, Natalie.”
She pauses in the doorway, hand on the frame.
Looks up at me. Her full lips curve up. “Goodnight, Calder.”
That little smirk of hers plays over and over in my mind. Imagining what it would feel like against my lips. On my body.
Wrapped around my cock.
It’s a thought that keeps me awake, and hard as a rock, well past midnight.