Chapter 12
TWELVE
CALDER
We finish the tree, but not because either of us is focused—more because working keeps our hands busy while our heads do circuits around everything we aren’t saying out loud.
Natalie loops ribbon around branches with a concentration that looks fierce enough to bend the laws of physics. Every so often she pauses, adjusting a bow or tucking a sprig of faux berries into place, and I swear my chest tightens a little more each time.
She’s making my cabin look like Christmas again.
She’s making it feel like Christmas again.
And that… is something I don’t know how to deal with.
When she steps back to survey the final effect, her hands press together in front of her chest.
“Oh,” she breathes. “Calder.”
I turn.
The tree is—there’s no other word—beautiful.
The good kind of beautiful.
The kind that feels earned.
Warm white ribbons glow among soft pine branches. The star-shaped ornament sits perfectly at the top. The whole tree looks alive in a way I haven’t seen in years.
Her voice softens. “Your family is going to love this.”
Something inside me tightens again—not the painful kind, the startling kind. The kind that comes from realizing you want to believe someone.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
She looks up at me—really looks. Her joy is genuine. Her pride is genuine. Her belief is genuine.
And I know I’m in trouble.
Not because I don’t want this—whatever this is—but because I do.
We clean up the ornament boxes, rearrange a few last pieces of furniture, and then she pulls out her clipboard, tapping it like a general assembling a battle plan.
“Okay,” she says. “We need to finalize the sleeping arrangements before your family gets here.”
I grimace. “Right.”
“I’ve been thinking,” she continues, flipping through notes. “Since there are kids involved, keeping them in the bedroom with your sister makes the most sense. Your mom gets the loft—she has the best mobility. Your uncle and aunt get the couch. The cousin gets the camping mattress. And you…”
I raise a brow. “Me?”
She hesitates. “You and I… might have to share the downstairs space.”
I blink. “Share?”
She flushes. “Just the room. Different sides. Like a Christmas Switzerland.”
I stare at her for a beat too long.
She clears her throat. “It’s just space. Totally platonic. Totally fine.”
“Right,” I say. “Fine.”
Her eyes flick to mine. Something flickers there. Something electric.
She immediately drops her gaze to the clipboard again.
“We should also talk about meals,” she says in a bright, too-fast tone. “Breakfasts, dinners, Christmas Eve, Christmas morning—”
“Natalie.”
She freezes.
Her pen hovers over the paper. Her breath catches audibly.
“Yeah?” she says.
I take a slow step toward her—just one—enough to let her know I’m here, I’m listening, and I’m done pretending everything between us is strictly professional.
“You don’t need to fill every silence,” I say softly.
Her lips part. “I… know.”
“You can slow down.”
She swallows hard. “If I slow down, I’ll think.”
“And if you think…?”
She lifts her eyes slowly. Her voice is barely a whisper. “I’ll feel.”
Yeah. I know the problem.
Because I’m feeling too. More than I should.
Before either of us pushes the moment further, the wind howls against the cabin wall, shaking loose a thin cascade of snow from the eaves. Natalie jumps again, just slightly.
I step in—close enough for her to feel me but not touching, giving her the choice.
She breathes in slowly, steadying.
“I’m okay,” she says.
“I know,” I murmur. “But it’s allowed to rattle you.”
She lets out a small laugh. “You’re not helping me stay objective.”
“I’m not trying to.”
Silence stretches—warm, charged, inevitable.
Then she looks down at her clipboard as if remembering it exists. “We should finish prepping dinner. Your family will be hungry tomorrow.”
“Right,” I say, stepping back even though my whole body argues the decision. “Dinner.”
She exhales shakily, breaking the tension with practiced skill. “We make a good team.”
“Yeah,” I say. “We do.”
She smiles—soft, warm, tired. My heart hitches.
The evening settles into a steady rhythm: chopping vegetables, stirring soup, prepping breakfast casseroles for tomorrow. She moves around my kitchen like she’s memorized the space, humming again under her breath.
I catch myself watching her more than once.
The steady sway of her hair.
The shape of her hands.
The curve of her mouth when she’s concentrating.
By the time the soup simmers, she’s leaning against the counter, rubbing her arms.
“Tired?” I ask.
“A little.” She smiles. “Feels like the calm before the chaos.”
“Yeah,” I say. “My family can be… a lot.”
“I can handle a lot.”
“I know.”
Her eyes lift to mine, and the room feels smaller.
“You’ve been carrying this alone for a long time,” she says.
I pause. “Yeah.”
“You don’t have to tomorrow.”
The words hit harder than she knows.
I open my mouth to answer—thank her, warn her, I don’t know—but before I can sort out the mess in my chest, another sound interrupts us.
The crunch of tires on snow.
My stomach drops.
Natalie looks toward the window, startled. “Are they… early?”
“No.” I wipe my hands on a towel. “They said tomorrow.”
But the sound is unmistakable—an engine struggling up the last incline, headlights cutting through the drifting snow.
Natalie steps closer to me without thinking.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
I exhale slowly. “Guess we’re about to find out.”
The headlights grow brighter. The shadows shift across the cabin walls. The jeep door slams outside.
Footsteps draw closer and closer. Onto the porch.
Then—
Three sharp knocks.
Natalie whispers, “Oh god.”
I whisper, “Yeah.”
She squeezes her clipboard like a lifeline.
I reach the door, hand hovering over the knob.
Heart steady. Chest tight. And a single, undeniable thought circling my mind:
I’m not ready for this. But with her beside me. I might be.
I open the door.
And everything changes.