Chapter 11
ELEVEN
NATALIE
I don’t sleep well.
Not because I’m uncomfortable. The bed is warm, the quilt is cozy, and the storm outside has settled into a soft, steady hush. No, the problem is inside my chest, unspooling thoughts like tangled ribbons I can’t put back into a neat bow.
Because we almost kissed.
Almost.
Not quite.
Close enough that I felt the heat of his breath against my cheek and the weight of his attention like a hand pressed lightly over my heart.
My pulse betrays me every time I replay it—which is roughly once every seven seconds.
Sometime near dawn, I give up on sleep entirely.
When I pad out into the living room, the fire is still warm but low. Calder isn’t there. His boots are gone from beside the door. So is his coat.
I pull my blanket tighter and check the window.
He’s outside, sweeping snow off the porch and the rooftop overhang with a long-handled brush. His hair is mussed, breath clouding in the cold. His movements are steady, efficient, purposeful.
He looks…good.
Too good.
I open the door a crack.
“Morning,” I call.
He glances back, that familiar tug at the corner of his mouth appearing and disappearing in a second. “You’re up early.”
“So are you.”
“Storm dropped more snow than I expected,” he says. “Roof needed clearing before the sun hits it.”
I step out onto the porch, blanket wrapped around my shoulders like a cape. “You should’ve woken me. I could’ve helped.”
“You were sleeping.”
I blink. “How did you know?”
“You’re quiet when you sleep.”
I stare. “You… came to check on me?”
He looks away, brushing snow from the railing. “Door was cracked open a little when I walked by. Just made sure you were warm enough.”
Warmth blooms from the center of my chest outward. “Thank you.”
He clears the last of the snow, nods toward the doorway. “You shouldn’t be out here without shoes.”
“Bossy,” I say.
“Correct,” he replies.
I step back inside with a smile that is absolutely, one hundred percent, embarrassingly obvious.
He comes in a few minutes later, brushing snow off his shoulders. “Coffee?”
“Yes,” I say instantly. “Always.”
While he pours, I open the curtains. The world outside glows white—fresh snow softening every hard line, the sky a pale watercolor blue. The tree stands tall in the corner, faintly sparkling even without lights.
“My family loves Christmas mornings,” I say absently. “My mom used to make us wait at the top of the stairs until she lit all the twinkle lights. She said the glow made magic feel real.”
Calder hands me my mug. Our fingers brush again, that now-familiar static passing between us like a quiet promise.
“You grew up with big holidays?” he asks.
“Very big,” I say. “Too big. Loud. Color-coded. Tiered dessert tables. Elaborate traditions. Glitter everywhere. Unless the house looked like the North Pole exploded, my mom wasn’t satisfied.”
He huffs. “Sounds like the opposite of my childhood.”
“Better or worse?”
He considers. “Just…different.”
I sip my coffee. “Do you miss it?”
“The quiet parts,” he says. “The simple parts. The rest…” He shrugs. “Grief turned it into something else.”
I nod. “Grief does that.”
He glances at me. “You’ve had that too.”
It’s not a question.
I swallow. “I’ve had… disappointments. Loss, but not like yours. Mostly I’ve just… lost time, I guess. Lost the holidays to work. Lost the feeling behind them.”
He studies me for a long beat. Not pity. Not curiosity. Just… recognition.
“You’re trying to get it back,” he says.
I look up, surprised. “How do you know?”
“Because you light up around all this,” he says, gesturing toward the tree, the decorations, the cocoa mix still on the counter. “You want this holiday to work. Not just for me. For you too.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Is it that obvious?”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “But not in a bad way.”
My heartbeat grows unsteady. Warm. Full.
Before I can answer, he clears his throat, straightens. “We should check the road again after breakfast. See if we can grab the last of the supplies from town.”
“Supplies,” I repeat. “Yes. Good. Responsible. Totally normal topic shift.”
His mouth twitches.
He doesn’t call me out on it.
He never does.
And that somehow makes it worse.
We head to town midmorning, the jeep crawling carefully over the partially-plowed road. The sky is deceptively clear. Sunlight glints off the snow in blinding sheets. The wipers squeak. The heater hums.
I glance at him. “So what exactly are we grabbing?”
“Food. Decorations. Firewood bundles. Extra blankets. A backup propane tank.”
“That’s a lot.”
“My family is loud,” he says. “Chaotic. They’ll need space and snacks.”
“I love snacks.”
He gives me a sideways glance. “I’m aware.”
I swat his arm lightly. “Excuse you.”
“You ate half a sleeve of those snowflake cookies yesterday.”
“They were tiny.”
“They weren’t that tiny.”
“Your face wasn’t that tiny.”
He actually laughs, shaking his head. “Now you’re not even trying.”
I grin shamelessly. “I’m warming up.”
Which is technically true, but also dangerously close to admitting a deeper truth:
I feel warm around him. Too warm. Like every minute we spend together shifts something inside me I’m not prepared for.
The general store is open but bustling with storm-delayed shoppers. Calder takes the lead, grabbing things efficiently, navigating narrow aisles without hesitation.
I follow with the cart, watching him move through this environment with a blend of capability and ease. He knows the shopkeeper by name. Holds the door open for two different people. Inspects the produce like he’s judging it in a competition.
He looks good here.
Like someone who belongs.
It hits me unexpectedly that I want to know what it feels like to belong in a place like this—with him.
Which is incredibly off-limits and wildly impractical.
Focus, Natalie.
“Okay,” I say, scanning my checklist. “We need oranges, cinnamon sticks, whole cloves—mulled wine supplies.”
“For the adults,” he reminds me.
“Yes, because nothing soothes family tension like hot fruit and alcohol.”
He huffs a laugh. “True enough.”
We grab everything. Pay. Load the jeep. Drive back up the mountain.
The sky is darker now. The wind picking up again.
When we pull into the driveway, snowflakes swirl around us like glitter.
“We should get things inside quickly,” Calder says. “Storm’s worsening again.”
I hop out of the jeep. “Got it. Fast-mode activated.”
We make two trips, unloading groceries and decor bins. My hands are freezing by the second one, but I’m proud of myself for not complaining.
Then—while my arms are full of oranges and cinnamon bundles—the wind gusts hard.
The door slams shut.
I yelp. “That door has feelings.”
Calder opens it from inside and braces it with his foot. “It’s just wind.”
“No,” I say, stepping in. “It’s a vendetta.”
He takes the groceries from my arms. Our fingers brush—again—and warmth blooms under my skin like someone lit a match.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say brightly. “Totally fine. Super normal.”
He watches me a second longer than necessary, like he’s trying to decide if I’m lying.
Which I am.
But he lets it go.
For now.
We unload the rest and settle things into place. While I’m tucking the oranges into a decorative bowl for “ambience,” Calder pauses, watching me carefully.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re smiling.”
“Am I not supposed to?”
He shakes his head once. “No. It’s just… It’s good to see.”
My breath catches.
My pulse stutters.
Something shifts in the air again.
He moves closer—not too close, just close enough to feel.
“Natalie,” he says quietly.
I look up.
He looks down.
And then—
His phone rings.
The moment snaps like a twig.
Calder mutters something under his breath, steps back, and grabs his phone from the counter.
“It’s my sister,” he says, thumb hovering over the answer button.
My heart sinks.
His family.
Reality.
He takes the call, tone instantly different—concern, care, a low rumble of protective brother energy.
I busy myself with the oranges, pretending I’m not listening.
“Yeah,” he says. “We’re ready. As ready as we can be.”
Pause.
He exhales. “I know. It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”
Another pause. Longer.
His jaw tightens. “No. Don’t—hey. Don’t put that on yourself.”
My chest aches a little.
They’re coming with baggage. Grief. Tension. Worries he carries alone.
And I’m here to help with the holiday—but I’m not sure I’m ready for the emotional load he’s been shouldering for years.
When the call ends, he sets the phone down and presses both hands to the edge of the counter, head bowed.
I step toward him. Slowly. Softly.
“Calder?”
He lifts his head.
His eyes are shadowed, distant.
“They’re arriving tomorrow,” he says. “Early. Roads are clearing faster than expected.”
“Oh,” I say, heart thudding. “Okay. That’s fine. We’re prepared.”
He shakes his head. “No. We’re close, but—not ready. Not for all of them.”
“We will be,” I promise. “I’ll help you.”
He looks at me then—a long, searching look.
Not grateful.
Not relieved.
Something deeper.
Something that feels dangerously like need.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”
He steps back before the moment can stretch into something neither of us is prepared to manage.
“Let’s finish the tree,” he says roughly. “We don’t have much time.”
But the way he says it feels like he’s talking about more than decorations.
And the way my heart answers terrifies me just a little—
Because I want more time too.