Chapter 2
Rowan
She shouldn't be here.
That's my first thought as I open the cabin door and cold air rushes in, sharp and biting enough to make my lungs contract. Snow clings to her dark coat and hair. She looks determined, bright-eyed, and very much out of place at the end of my long, narrow drive.
She’s a city girl, I’m sure of it.
I don't need to ask to know.
"Hello,” she says, raising her voice over the wind that's picked up considerably in the last hour.
I glance past her at the car parked crooked near the trees. Small. Low to the ground. Already half-buried in fresh powder. Not built for this road once the snow really starts coming down. Which it already has.
"You're lost," I say.
She shakes her head, snowflakes flying loose from her dark hair. "No. I'm right where I meant to be. That is, if you’re Rowan Hale.”
That gets my attention.
I study her more closely. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, her glasses slightly fogged at the edges. There's something stubborn in the set of her jaw, something that tells me she didn't end up here by accident.
"I'm Merry," she adds, like that explains anything. "I own a Christmas shop in Knoxville. I'm here about the wreaths."
Of course she is.
I let my gaze flick back to the sky. The clouds have dropped low and heavy, filled with snow and ready to wreak havoc on my world. The wind gusts again, rattling the porch rail, and I swear under my breath.
"You drove up here in a storm?”
She smiles, undeterred, and there's something about the way she stands her ground—feet planted, shoulders back despite the cold—that makes my chest tighten. "I figured I could beat it."
"You didn't."
Her confidence wavers, just a touch, as another gust sends snow swirling around her boots in miniature cyclones.
She glances back toward the road, now already half-lost beneath fresh powder, the tire tracks from her car filling in fast. Then she returns her gaze to me, and I see the moment she realizes what I already know.
She's not getting back down that mountain tonight.
"I just need a few minutes," she says, trying to sound reasonable. "I can pay today, in cash, and I'll be quick."
She's trying to bargain with the weather. It would be charming if it weren't so dangerous.
I cross my arms over my chest. "Even if you turned around now, you’d end up in a ditch before you make it a quarter mile."
Her lips part, then press together. I watch her process this, see the moment the reality settles in. "Okay," she says carefully. "So… what do you suggest?"
The wind answers before I can.
Snow starts coming down harder, thicker, erasing the road behind her in fast-moving sheets. The temperature is dropping fast too. I can feel it in the way the air bites at my exposed skin. I watch it happen and make a decision I don't like but can’t argue with.
"Get inside," I say, stepping back and pulling the door wider.
Relief flashes across her face, quick and unguarded. She doesn't waste time arguing, which tells me she's smarter than her choice to drive up here suggests.
She hurries past me, bringing a gust of cold air and snowflakes with her. I shut the door behind her, the sound solid and final, sealing us in together as the storm howls louder outside.
She takes a few steps in, looking around with open curiosity.
The cabin is small but well-kept—one main room with a kitchen area, a woodstove crackling in the corner, and my workbench covered in pine boughs and half-finished wreaths.
The ceiling beams are low and dark with age, and the windows are already frosting at the corners.
"Wow," she says softly, her breath still coming quick from the cold. "It smells like Christmas in here."
"Sit," I tell her, nodding toward the chair by the stove.
She does, immediately, tugging off her gloves with stiff fingers and rubbing her hands together. Her fingers are pink from the cold, the tips almost white. I hang her coat on the hook by the door and notice how damp the shoulders are already, how snow has melted into the fabric.
Another ten minutes outside and she would've been soaked through.
I grab a thick, wool blanket from the back of the couch and hand it to her without a word. She wraps it around herself with a quiet sigh that does something unpleasant to my focus, something that makes me too aware of the small space we're sharing.
"Thank you," she says, looking up at me through those fogged glasses. "I didn't mean to cause trouble."
"I suspect you bring a little trouble with you wherever you go,” I mutter.
She smiles at that, like she's been told that before and has made peace with it.
I pour hot water into a mug from the kettle I keep on the stove and add a peppermint tea bag without thinking too hard about why I'm bothering with hospitality.
When I hand it to her, her fingers brush mine, light and brief, but it sends a sharp awareness through my chest that I wasn't prepared for.
I step back immediately.
She looks up at me, eyes searching, and I wonder if she felt it too. The firelight catches in her hair, turning the dark strands almost copper at the edges.
"How long am I stuck?" she asks.
I glance toward the window. Snow batters the glass in thick, steady waves. The wind is strong enough now that I can hear the trees groaning outside. "A while."
She nods, accepting it with surprising calm. No panic. No demands to call someone or find another way down. "Okay."
I turn back to my workbench, picking up the wreath I'd been assembling before she arrived. Pine needles crunch softly beneath my fingers as I twist wire into place, trying to remember why I value quiet so much when the silence now feels too loud.
Behind me, she sips her tea. I can hear the small sounds she makes—the blanket shifting, the mug being set down on the arm of the chair, her breath evening out as the warmth seeps into her.
"You really make all of these yourself?" she asks after a moment.
"Yes."
"All by hand?"
"Yes."
She hums, impressed. "That explains the hype."
I don't respond. Compliments are slippery things. Best not to grab hold. I've learned that the hard way over the years.
After a moment, she says, "I can place the order now, if you want. Before I forget what I came for."
I pause, wire held mid-twist. "You're serious?"
"Very." Her voice is steady, no-nonsense despite the unusual circumstances. "I didn't drive all this way to window-shop."
I turn to look at her. She's curled into the chair, wrapped in my blanket like it's always been hers, steam from her peppermint tea fogging her glasses slightly. Snow taps the window behind her like a reminder that neither of us is going anywhere, that the mountain has made this decision for us.
"How many?" I ask.
"All you can spare," she says without hesitation. "I'll make it work. Whatever you have, I'll take."
Something tightens in my chest at that. The certainty. The trust that I'll deliver quality, not quantity.
"I don't rush my work," I tell her.
"I wouldn't ask you to."
I study her for a long moment, weighing my options, the storm, and the way she fits into my space like she was always meant to be here.
"Then you'll have to stay until I'm done," I say. “It’ll be a day or two.”
Her smile spreads slow and genuine. "Deal. But I have to get in touch with my assistant. There’s no cell service up here?”
“Afraid not.”
“Wi-fi?” she asks hopefully.
“Nope.”
“There’s no way to reach the outside world at all?” she asks, chewing her bottom lip.
My mouth twitches into a half-smile. “There’s a satellite phone for emergencies, but the calls are expensive.”
She nods. “I’ll keep the call very brief.”
I reach into the counter drawer for the phone and hand it to her. Our gazes hold a second too long.
The fire pops. The storm presses closer. Outside, the wind picks up even more, howling now like something alive.
I turn back to my work before I do something reckless.
Because once this snow clears, she'll leave.
She has a life down the mountain. A business. Probably people waiting for her.
And the fact that I already don't like that idea is a problem I'm not ready to face yet.