Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Not from the past. That’ll always be there. Not from the scars or the noise.
Free to want something beyond survival.
Free to imagine a future that has more in it than horses and snow and ghosts.
Free to hold this woman on my couch in my storm-wrapped cabin and think, I’m not letting her go without a fight.
She drifts, breaths evening out, fingers twisted in my shirt like she’s anchoring herself to me in sleep.
I stare into the fire and make myself a quiet promise:
When the roads open, I’ll drive her back to Saint Pierce if that’s where she needs to go.
But I’m damn well going to give her a reason to come back up the mountain.
ELEVEN
IVY
I wake up to the feeling of someone breathing against my neck.
For one disoriented second, I think I’m back in my tiny Saint Pierce apartment, and the someone is my pillow, and the warmth around me is just a bunch of blankets and a space heater on overdrive.
Then the “pillow” shifts and tightens an arm around my waist.
Definitely not a pillow.
I blink my eyes open.
The fire in the stove has burned down to a soft, reddish glow. Early light is creeping in through the small windows, painting the cabin in pale gold. I’m curled on the couch with my back pressed to Rhett’s chest, his arm snug around me, our legs tangled under the heavy quilt like we’ve been doing this every morning for years.
My heart does a slow, tumbling flip.
We must have fallen asleep like this after sex last night. One minute I remember kissing him, warm and dizzy and happy, breathing him in while the fire crackled. The next minute…he’s inside me. I loved every minute of it. My body still hums in the afterglow.
I don’t hate it.
I don’t hate it at all.
“Morning,” he rumbles against my hair, voice low and sleep-rough.
The sound shivers straight down my spine.
“Morning,” I mumble back, trying very hard not to think about how perfectly I fit against him. Or how good he smells—like woodsmoke and soap and something warm that’s starting to feel like home if I’m not careful.
For a moment, we just lie there.
Breathing.
Existing.
Pretending the world outside the cabin doesn’t have roads or responsibilities or bosses who send emails with subject lines like CONTENT STATUS?? in all caps.
I could live in this moment forever.
Except I can’t.
Because at some point, the roads are going to open, and I’m going to have to drive back down the mountain and return to my life in Saint Pierce. The thought pokes a tiny, sharp hole in my chest.
“I can feel you thinking,” Rhett murmurs.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’ll file a noise complaint with management.”
His chest rumbles with a quiet laugh. “What are you thinking about?”
“Deadlines,” I lie, then sigh and tell the truth. “Leaving.”
His arm tightens just a fraction. “Yeah.”
One word. Loaded with everything we’re not saying.
I take a breath and reach for the thing I can control. “Okay. Before I spiral into existential snow-globe depression, I need cozy footage today.”
“Cozy…footage,” he repeats.
“Lazy cabin morning,” I say, warming to the idea, because if I can’t stop time, I can at least press record. “Soft light, socks by the stove, mugs of coffee, anonymous snuggly silhouettes. Very ‘we survived a storm and learned feelings.’”
His chin brushes my temple as he shifts. “You want me in that?”
Yes.
“Only if you’re okay with it,” I say instead, twisting a bit to look at him. His hair is messed up, his eyes are still heavy with sleep, and there’s a faint kiss-bruised look to his mouth that makes satisfaction bloom low and warm in my belly.
He studies me for a beat, then nods. “No faces. Just…whatever you said. Socks.”
“Rustic intimacy,” I say, smiling. “You’re a natural.”
He snorts. “Don’t get used to it.”
Pretty sure I already am.
We eventually peel ourselves off the couch and shuffle into morning mode. He pokes up the fire as I set water to boil and pull out my tripod and the little remote I keep in my tote like a tiny magic wand.
I dig in my bag for my cozy socks—the red ones with little white snowflakes on the toes—and wriggle into them. When I glance up, Rhett’s watching me from by the stove, holding his own pair of thick wool socks.
“What?” I ask, feeling my cheeks go warm.
“Nothing,” he says, but his mouth does that almost-smile thing. “You’re very…on brand.”
“As in festive and irresistible?” I ask, wiggling my toes at him.
“As in impossible to ignore,” he says, a little rough, and I have to look away before my heart explodes.
We set up the first shot with our feet stretched out toward the stove, socks side-by-side. I hit record, tuck the remote out of frame, and lean back until my shoulder finds his.
“Don’t move,” I whisper.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he says.
The flames lick quietly behind the glass, casting orange light over our legs. My brain is already editing the footage—bells from yesterday’s ride overlaid with this cozy visual. A soft piano track. Simple text: Sometimes the quiet moments are the loudest.