Chapter 3
Merry
Rowan's cabin grows quieter as the storm settles in.
The wind still howls outside, rattling the windows now and then with enough force to make the glass shudder in its frame, but inside the fire has found its rhythm.
The heat seeps into my bones, thawing fingers that had gone numb long before I knocked on his door.
I cradle the mug in my hands and breathe in the peppermint scent.
I didn't realize how tense I was until I start to relax.
My shoulders drop. My jaw unclenches. The panic that had been quietly building during that last mile of driving—when I couldn't see the road, couldn't see anything but white—finally ebbs away.
Rowan stands at the workbench with his back to me, shoulders broad beneath his flannel as he works.
Pine boughs cover the table in thick, fragrant piles, and his hands move with steady confidence—measuring, twisting, trimming with small, precise snips of his shears.
There's something calming about watching someone who knows exactly what they're doing…
someone who doesn't second-guess or hesitate.
Something attractive too, if I'm being honest. Hotter than Mercury.
He's tall, broad in a way that comes from actual work rather than a gym.
His hair is dark, a little too long, curling slightly at the nape of his neck.
His flannel is worn soft at the elbows, and his jeans are faded in a way that says comfort, not fashion.
There's a quiet strength to him, a solidness that makes me feel safe.
I shift in the chair and tuck my feet closer to the stove, letting the warmth seep through my socks. "So," I say lightly, breaking the quiet, "how long have you been making wreaths?"
He doesn't turn around. "A while."
I smile to myself. "That's a very mountain-man answer."
One corner of his mouth lifts, just barely. I catch it in profile. "Long enough."
I sip my tea and watch him work. Up close, the wreaths are even more beautiful than the photos online.
Thick and full, not overly styled or fussed over.
Natural, but intentional. Every branch looks like it belongs exactly where it is, like he's not arranging them so much as discovering their proper place.
"You forage all of this yourself?" I ask.
"Yes."
"All year?"
"Most of it," he says, his hands never pausing. "Some things only grow when it's cold. Winterberry. Certain mosses. You have to know where to look and when."
I think about that. About patience, and timing, and letting things come when they're ready instead of forcing them. It's the opposite of how I usually work—always rushing, always three steps ahead, always trying to anticipate what people will want next season.
"My customers are obsessed," I admit. "I've never had people ask for one specific thing like this before. Wreaths are always big sellers, but customers usually just focus on the size or the style. They’ve never requested a wreathe based on the designer before. You’ve gone viral on decorator sites.”
He pauses, wire held still between his fingers. "That's not why I make them."
"I figured." I meet his gaze when he finally turns. "But it is why I drove up here in a snowstorm."
Something unreadable passes across his face. Then he nods once, like he accepts that answer, like it's sufficient. "You want to see how it's done?" he asks.
My brows lift. "Really?"
He shrugs, turning back to clear a small space on the workbench. "Might as well. How else are you going to pass the time?”
"I would love that," I say, standing and moving closer to the workbench.
The space feels smaller when I'm standing next to him. I'm not short, but he's tall enough that I have to tilt my head slightly to meet his eyes. He smells like pine and wood smoke and something clean, like fresh-fallen snow.
He clears a small space and sets a fresh wire ring in front of me, along with a bundle of pine. His hands are confident as he demonstrates, no wasted movement. "Angle it like this," he says, his voice low and patient. "You want it full, but not bulky. See how the branches layer?"
I copy him, my fingers clumsy at first. The wire bites into my palm, and the pine needles are stiffer than I expected. "I usually let the greenery boss me around."
"That shows," he says mildly.
I laugh. "Rude."
He huffs, the sound warm despite the word. "Here."
He steps closer, reaching around me to adjust my grip. His chest brushes my shoulder, solid and warm, and his hands close over mine, guiding them gently. The contact sends a surprising jolt through me, sharp and electric, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
His hands are rough with calluses, strong and sure. They dwarf mine completely.
"Twist the wire tighter," he murmurs, his voice close enough that I feel the vibration of it.
I do. The wire snaps.
"Oops."
His mouth curves again, more clearly this time. I can see it now, the hint of a smile that softens his entire face. "Easy, Merry."
The way he says my name—low and steady, like he's tasting it—makes my pulse stumble. He doesn't move his hands right away, and for a second we're both very aware of how close we are. His breath is warm near my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
Then he steps back, the cool air rushing in where his warmth had been.
"Try again," he says.
I do better the second time, and by the third attempt, I'm starting to get the hang of it. My fingers ache pleasantly, and there's something deeply satisfying about shaping something solid and beautiful with my hands, about creating something that will last.
Outside, the storm continues to rage. The wind howls, and I can hear snow hitting the windows like thrown sand.
"Sounds like it's getting worse," I say, glancing toward the window.
"Yes," he says simply.
"And the road?"
"Gone for the night." He doesn't sugarcoat it. "Maybe longer, depending on when it stops and when the plow comes through."
I swallow, surprised by the flicker of relief that follows. Not fear. Not frustration. Relief. It occurs to me that I want to stay with Rowan a while. "Okay."
He studies me, like he's checking for fear or regret, then nods. His expression gentles slightly. "You'll be safe here."
The certainty in his voice settles something in my chest, something I didn't realize was still unsettled.
I return to the chair while he finishes the wreath, the fire crackling and the cabin wrapped in quiet again. But it's not an uncomfortable silence. It's the kind that feels full rather than empty, charged with awareness rather than awkwardness.
After a moment, I say, "Thank you. For letting me stay."
"I wasn't going to send you back out there," he says, like it's obvious, like there was never any other option.
"I know." I smile into my mug. "Still. Thank you."
He turns back to his work, but I catch the way his shoulders ease just a little, the way the tension I hadn't even noticed seems to drain away.
The cabin feels smaller in the best way. Cozy and intimate. Rowan looks at me then, and something in his gaze softens.
"I’ll find you something comfortable to sleep in tonight and I’ll let you have the bed," he says.
My heart skips, but I keep my voice steady. "All right."
A feeling of hope sparks within me. Maybe this detour to his cabin will turn into something more… something I didn't plan for but don't want to avoid.
The fire pops, the snow piles higher against the windows, and Rowan returns to his workbench while I sit by the stove, warm and watching him.
And what a beautiful sight it is…