Chapter 4
Rowan
I tell myself I'm focused on the work.
The wreath on the table needs finishing—berries wired in with careful precision, ribbon measured and tied just right, each element balanced—but my attention keeps drifting.
Every few seconds, I'm aware of her presence behind me.
The quiet way she breathes, slower now that she's warm.
The soft shift of the blanket when she moves in the chair by the stove.
The occasional small sound she makes, barely audible, as she settles in.
She fits too easily in my space.
That's the problem.
I've spent years arranging my life so nothing unexpected gets close enough to matter. The mountain is predictable. The seasons are predictable, their rhythms steady and known. People aren't. People leave, or they want things I can't give, or they try to change what works.
But Merry watches me work like she's not in a hurry, like she doesn't feel trapped by the storm or the narrow walls of my cabin. When I finally glance back at her, she's leaning her chin in her hand, eyes warm and curious behind those slightly fogged glasses.
"You always this quiet?" she asks.
"Most of the time."
She smiles. "I like it. Most feel compelled to talk just to fill the silence. You only speak when you have something worth saying."
That shouldn't land the way it does, settling heavy and warm in my chest.
I set the wreath aside and reach for another bundle of pine, my hands moving on autopilot. "You don't know me well enough to say that."
"Maybe," she says. Her voice is thoughtful, not argumentative. "But I know you let a stranger into your cabin during a snowstorm. That counts for something."
I snort softly. "I’m a grouchy recluse, but my mother tried her best to teach me manners. And leaving people to freeze outside in the snow would not meet with her approval.”
"Still." She lifts one shoulder in a small shrug. "You could've been a lot grumpier about it. The woman at the mercantile made it sound like you'd bite my head off."
“Oh, that’s who gave you my address?” There’s laughter in his eyes now. “She likes to exaggerate."
"Does she?" Merry's smile widens. "Or do you just have a reputation to maintain?"
I glance at her again. She's tucked into the chair like she belongs there, cheeks warm now, eyes bright and teasing.
"You hungry?" I ask, changing the subject.
Her brows lift. "A little."
I move to the small kitchen without waiting for an answer.
There's stew on the stove, something I put together earlier in case the storm hit hard and I needed something warm that would last. I ladle it into bowls, the rich smell of herbs and beef and root vegetables filling the room, and add thick slices of bread I'd baked two days ago.
When I hand her the bowl, our fingers brush again. The contact is brief, but it sparks anyway, sharp and unwelcome.
Or maybe not so unwelcome. She’s stirring feelings in me that I thought were long gone.
She takes the bowl and smiles up at me, genuine and unguarded. "This smells amazing."
"It's simple."
"Simple can be perfect," she says, and I don't miss the way her gaze holds mine when she says it, like she's talking about more than food.
We eat in companionable silence, the kind that doesn't feel awkward or forced. She asks me where I learned to make wreaths, and I tell her about my grandfather, about foraging with him as a kid, learning which plants to harvest and when, how to read the mountain's moods.
She listens intently, like these small pieces of my life are worth holding onto. Most people don't listen like that. Most people are already thinking about what they're going to say next.
"He sounds wonderful," she says softly when I finish.
"He was."
She nods, understanding what I don't say. The loss. The way some absences never quite fill in.
When we're done, she sets her bowl aside and stretches, the movement subtle but distracting all the same. The blanket slips just enough to show the graceful line of her neck, and I have to look away.
"This is going to sound strange," she says, breaking the quiet, "but I feel… calm here."
I lean against the counter, arms crossed. "Most people find it too quiet. They prefer to hear sounds of people and traffic outside."
She looks around the cabin, taking in the exposed beams, the simple furniture, the stacks of greenery waiting to be transformed. “I’m a shop owner. I love to be around people. But at the end of the day, I think it would be nice to retreat to a place like this.”
“It works for me.”
But I’d like it better if I had a pretty woman to share it with.
Our gazes meet again, something unspoken passing between us. The fire crackles, the storm presses closer, and the space between us feels suddenly smaller, charged with an awareness I'm not sure either of us knows what to do with.
"Merry," I say, my voice lower than I intend.
"Yes?"
I take a step toward her. Then another. I stop just close enough to feel her warmth, close enough to see the way her breath stutters when she realizes how near I am.
"This isn't a good idea," I tell her.
She doesn't step back. Doesn't look away. "Then why does it feel like one?"
That's all it takes.
I lift my hand slowly, giving her time to pull away, to tell me to stop. She doesn't. My fingers brush her cheek, warm and soft beneath my thumb. Her skin is impossibly smooth, and the jolt that runs through me is unmistakable.
Her lips part, a soft intake of breath.
I lean in and kiss her.
It's not rushed. Not rough. Just a slow, careful press of my mouth to hers, like I'm confirming something I already know but need to prove.
She melts into it with a quiet sound that goes straight through me, her hand curling into the front of my flannel, holding on like she doesn't want me to pull away.
I don't.
The kiss deepens, and I slide my hand to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair. She tastes like peppermint and something sweeter, and when her tongue touches mine, tentative and seeking, I groan low in my throat.
When I finally pull back, her eyes are dark and searching, pupils blown wide.
The storm howls outside, sealing us in.
And I know, with sudden, terrifying clarity, that this is only the beginning.