Chapter 7
SEVEN
NATALIE
When I wake the next morning, it’s quiet outside, and Calder is already awake.
Of course he is.
He’s at the window, one hand braced on the frame, looking out at the world like he’s assessing it for structural integrity. The fire is low but steady, painting warm lines across his back.
His hair is mussed.
His henley is a shade of blue I’m pretty sure was engineered to ruin women.
And his voice—when he finally speaks—is a low morning rumble that makes the air shift.
“Storm’s moving out.”
I blink sleep from my eyes. “Is that good?”
“For now.” He glances over his shoulder. “We might get a break before the next system rolls in.”
“Next system,” I repeat, hoping I don’t sound as alarmed as I feel.
He smirks. “That’s winter on the mountain.”
I wrap my blanket around myself like emotional armor. “I see that now.”
His gaze lingers on me for one breath—two—and I swear something warm sparks in his expression before he turns away.
“Coffee’s on the stove,” he says.
I cross the room, pour a mug, and take a sip. It tastes exactly like yesterday’s—strong enough to wake the dead but comforting enough to feel like a hug.
While I’m drinking, he moves into the kitchen with that steady, deliberate stride of his, rummaging in a drawer until he finds a pencil.
I raise an eyebrow. “Are we doing math problems this morning?”
“Tree math,” he corrects.
“Oh.” I perk up. “Tree math is my favorite kind of math. I want to know everything.”
He hands me a scrap of folded notebook paper with measurements scrawled on it—beams, wall height, floor clearance. Exactly the sort of information I needed but hadn’t gotten to yet.
“You did this?” I ask, flipping it over.
“You needed the numbers.”
“You measured before I woke up?”
His jaw ticks. “You needed the numbers.”
Translation: Yes, and don’t make a thing out of it.
My heart does a small, traitorous flutter anyway.
I clear my throat. “Well. Excellent teamwork. Now that we have dimensions, we can figure out—”
A booming crash from outside interrupts me.
I flinch so violently my coffee nearly sloshes out of the mug.
Calder doesn’t flinch at all. “That’s the shed roof,” he says.
I glare at the window. “Your shed is trying to kill me.”
“It’s not,” he says quietly, amusement tugging at his mouth. “The snow’s just sliding.”
“Loudly.”
“Snow is heavy.”
“And here I was thinking your mountain was just being dramatic.”
He gives a low, genuine laugh, shocking us both. I try not to stare.
He moves toward the mudroom, grabbing his coat. “Come on. Roads might be clearer. We can check the jeep.”
“Jeep?”
“If we’re lucky, I can get us into town. If we’re not…” He shrugs a shoulder. “We’ll improvise.”
“Are we getting the Christmas tree?” I ask, too eager.
He pauses halfway into his coat.
“You really want that tree.”
“I really do.”
His eyes soften—barely, but enough. “Then yeah. We’ll get the tree.”
The snow outside is deep, but not impassable. Calder’s jeep, parked beneath a rough lean-to he built off the side of the cabin, is half-buried but intact.
I help brush snow off the windows, feeling entirely too proud of my ice-scraping skills. Calder tests the battery, then nods once.
“Good sign. She might start.”
“She?” I ask. “Your jeep is a she?”
“She’s stubborn,” he says.
“That tracks.”
He opens the passenger door for me without thinking about it, which makes my heart flip even though I absolutely pretend it doesn’t. I climb in, he rounds the front, and after two grumbling attempts, the engine catches.
“Ha!” I cheer. “Yes! We win!”
He glances sideways at me, expression caught between amusement and disbelief. “You celebrate like this every time a vehicle starts?”
“Only when it’s heroic.”
He shakes his head, but the smile is there.
We crawl slowly down the driveway, tires crunching through thick snow. The forest opens around us—trees bowed under the weight of white, branches glittering in pale sunlight.
“This is beautiful,” I whisper.
Calder’s hands tighten on the wheel. “Yeah.”
We reach the main road. Or what should be the main road. In reality, it’s a partially plowed suggestion of a road.
He leans forward slightly, scanning. “I can get us into town. We’ll have to take it slow, though.”
“Slow is fine,” I say, taking a deep breath to steady the knot forming in my belly. “I’m not in a rush.”
He flicks a glance at me—sharp, considering—but doesn’t say anything.
We drive in silence for a stretch, the kind of silence that feels comfortable, not strained. He’s focused, but calm. I’m warm, watching the scenery blur past like a living postcard.
And then—
“About yesterday,” he says suddenly.
My heart stutters. “Yesterday?”
“When I…grabbed you.” He clears his throat. “When the chair wobbled.”
“Oh.” My face warms instantly. “Right. That. It was fine. Good. Helpful.”
He doesn’t laugh. He keeps his eyes on the road, tone steady but low. “I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t.”
Another beat passes.
“I noticed you were nervous,” he adds quietly. “Didn’t want to make that worse.”
“You didn’t,” I repeat, softer this time. “Honestly, you made it better.”
His jaw flexes.
“Natalie,” he says, “I’m trying to be careful.”
I inhale sharply, unsure how to answer, unsure what exactly he’s being careful about, even though I think I know.
I turn toward him.
“You don’t always have to be.”
He blows out a slow breath, eyes fixed on the snowy road. “I do right now.”
The meaning sinks through me warm and aching.
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
He shifts his grip on the wheel like my answer did something to him.
We ride in silence for a while that doesn’t feel empty.
Then I brighten. “So. Lumberjack tutorial?”
He visibly relaxes. “If we find the right tree.”
“Oh, we will,” I promise. “I have a sixth sense for these things.”
“We’re not choosing a tree by… vibes.”
“We absolutely are.”
He snorts. “Trees don’t have vibes.”
“You’re wrong and I’ll prove it.”
He gives the most exasperated sigh I’ve ever heard from a human. “Please don’t try to spiritually commune with a pine tree.”
“Too late.” I grin into my scarf.
Something between us is shifting, and we’re both pretending not to notice—but only because noticing it might make it real too soon.
And for now, it’s enough.