Chapter 9
NINE
NATALIE
By the time we get the tree into the cabin, effervescent and bubbling over. Like a bottle of champagne.
I am teetering on the edge of bursting into carols.
Meanwhile, Calder, looks like he’s questioning all his life choices that brought him here.
“You okay?” I ask as he wrestles the trunk into the stand.
He grunts. “Tree’s heavier than it looks.”
“You’re doing amazing.”
“I’m being attacked by pine.”
“It’s a team-building exercise.”
He shoots me a look over his shoulder, one that’s half glare, half amusement. “If sap gets in my hair, I’m blaming you.”
“Oh,” I say sweetly, “so you do have hair under control? Interesting.”
He exhales through his nose—the lumberjack version of a laugh. When he adjusts the tree again, I hold the stand steady, trying not to notice how close he is or how good he smells (woodsmoke, pine, something warm and familiar I can’t name).
We get the tree upright, step back, and look.
It’s perfect.
The deep green needles. The height. The symmetry. The faint sparkle of fresh snow still clinging to a few branches.
My chest warms. “Calder… look at it.”
“I’m looking,” he says.
“Do you see how good this is?”
“I see you’re very proud.”
“I’m proud of us.”
“Us?” he echoes, one brow rising.
“Yes,” I say firmly. “We are a Christmas tree–selecting unit now. It’s a sacred bond.”
He huffs again and crouches to tighten the screws on the stand. “If we’re bonded, you’re also helping vacuum up needles for the next month.”
I clap my hands. “A small price to pay.”
We work around the tree for the next hour, clearing space and repositioning furniture. Calder grabs the rug and shakes out old wood chips. I adjust the coffee table to create more flow for foot traffic.
At one point, we both reach for the same end of the couch to shift it.
Our hands brush.
Stop.
Stay there a beat too long.
We both freeze.
Then he pulls back, slow and careful.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
“You’re good,” I say, way too quickly. “Totally fine. Professional couch lifting.”
His eyes flick to mine, warm at the edges.
Something hums between us.
Something quiet yet powerful.
Something neither of us have named. Yet.
As the day stretches on, we fall into an easy rhythm.
I take inventory of candles, ribbons, hooks, leftover decor from past holidays. Calder checks the generator again, finds his supply of extension cords, and repairs a loose hinge on the pantry door.
We talk more than I expected. We laugh more than I hoped.
And every time he looks at me a moment longer than necessary, my stomach does a slow somersault.
By early afternoon, clouds roll back in.
The next storm is coming.
Calder notices it first. He stands by the window, jaw tightening.
“Those clouds aren’t good,” he murmurs.
I join him, peering out. The sky is darker, heavier, the bright winter morning giving way to something wilder.
“Is it going to be bad?” I ask.
“Not as bad as yesterday,” he says. “But strong enough to bury the roads again.”
“So we’re staying put.”
“Yeah. We should plan for at least another full day up here.”
A full day with him. Alone. In this cabin. With a tree and a fire and absolutely no distractions.
My pulse leaps.
He notices. Of course he notices.
His voice drops. “You okay with that?”
“Yes,” I say—much too fast. “I mean. Yes. It’s fine. Great. Cozy.”
His lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile. “Cozy.”
“Very cozy,” I insist, then want to sink into the floorboards.
He turns back to the window, but not before I catch the faintest grin cracking through the rough exterior.
Calder does not smile easily.
But he’s smiling now.
Because of me.
The realization does something embarrassing to my heart.
The snow starts falling again, softer this time, drifting like confetti.
I heat a can of soup on the stove, and we eat at the counter, sharing stories.
He tells me about growing up on this mountain.
I tell him about planning a Christmas gala where a proposal went wrong and I had to distract an entire ballroom while security looked for a stolen diamond ring.
He laughs—a real laugh, warm and surprised.
“You like this work,” he says.
“I do,” I admit. “Even when it’s stressful. I like helping people celebrate.”
“What about you?” he asks. “Have you ever had a Christmas that was just yours?”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“One you didn’t plan. One you didn’t work. One where you just… enjoyed it.”
I open my mouth—then close it.
It hits me with a soft, sad truth:
I can’t remember the last time Christmas was something for me.
“I guess not,” I say quietly.
Calder’s eyes soften. “Then you should get one.”
The warmth in my chest spreads. “You volunteering?”
His breath hitches—almost imperceptibly.
“Maybe,” he says.
The air shifts.
The silence stretches.
His gaze drops to my lips.
My breath catches.
We move closer together.
THUD.
Something hits the side of the cabin, and we spring back. It isn’t snow this time. It’s too heavy. A sharp thump that rattles a picture frame on the wall.
I jump again. “Okay, what the hell was that?”
Calder’s already moving toward the window. “Probably ice dropping from the roofline.”
“Your roof needs a lesson in relaxation.”
“You’re welcome to try teaching it.” He checks outside, then returns. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Every time you say that,” I mutter, “I worry more.”
He steps closer. Not much—just enough to make the air feel suddenly warmer.
“You’re safe here,” he says quietly.
My breath catches.
“I know,” I manage.
He studies me for a long, still moment. A moment that feels like it’s holding its breath. A moment that feels like the center of something shifting.
Then he nods toward the living room.
“Come on,” he says. “Help me finish rearranging for the cocoa bar.”
I exhale shakily. “Yes. Cocoa bar logistics. That’s smart.”
We move together again, easy and close, brushing past each other more often than necessary.
The snow thickens outside.
The tree glows faintly in the firelight.
And every second feels like something pulling tighter, drawing us closer, threading something between us that neither of us is ready to name.
But it’s there.
Oh, it’s so there.
And the next storm hasn’t even fully arrived.