Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
“Jesus, Holley.” Dr. Kline pops his head out of exam room two. “Rough morning?”
Rough month. Rough year. Rough everything.
“Just tired,” I murmur.
He doesn’t push either, but he watches me too long before going back to the patient.
By noon, my whole body feels dipped in cement—heavy, slow, uncooperative.
I can’t keep doing this.
But what choice do I have?
When my shift finally ends, I pull my coat tight around me and step back into the biting air. Snowflakes swirl lazily at first, but the clouds rolling in promise something heavier. I’m shivering by the time I reach my car.
My phone buzzes.
Tony Chili on the stove. Come eat with me.
I stare at the message longer than I should.
Tony. The man has practically become the magnetic energy my life keeps tilting toward even though I keep telling myself not to. He’s too much—too steady, too solid, too kind in a way that feels dangerous after how my marriage ended. But he makes me feel seen. Not pitied. Not judged.
And truth is, I’m starving.
My thumbs move before my brain catches up.
Me: That actually sounds amazing. I’ll head over.
His response is immediate.
Tony: Drive careful. Roads are slick.
Something warm threads through my chest at that. Unexpected but welcome.
By the time I reach the cabin, snow is falling faster—thick flakes that stick to my windshield and blur the trees. Light glows from the windows of the place, soft and golden, like a hearth in a storybook.
Jesus, the smell has my mouth watering as soon as I walk through the door. Chili, simmering and rich, thick with spices, tomato, and something smoky that makes my stomach growl loud enough he hears it.
He grins, stepping aside. “Get in here before you freeze to death.”
“I’m fine,” I lie automatically, brushing snow from my coat.
He gives me that look—the one that feels like he’s reading my pulse through my eyes. “Sure you are.”
The warmth inside hits me like a physical touch. A pot bubbles on the stove. The air hums with quiet music—low, slow blues that vibrate through the room more than play in it. Suddenly my cabin feels like a dream becoming a reality.
“Sit,” he orders, pointing to the stool at the counter. “You look wrung out.”
“I just didn’t sleep much.”
His jaw tics, barely perceptible unless you’re watching him the way I do. Like someone who’s grateful for distractions.
“Eat first,” he instructs. “Then we talk about sleep.”
It should irritate me—any hint of someone deciding things for me. My ex-husband was good at that. Too good. But with Tony it doesn’t feel like control. It feels like care. Like someone stepping in because I’m too tired to step in for myself.
He serves me a steaming bowl with cheddar cheese on top, and when I take the first bite, a sound slips out of me that is embarrassingly close to a moan.
“Good?” he asks.
“Unfairly good.”
He smirks. “Thought you could use a meal made by someone who knows their way around a kitchen.”
It’s simple. Teasing. And god help me, it works.
We talk, light touches of conversation, nothing deep. My body slowly warms. The ache in my bones eases. And for a little while, I feel human again. But when I stand to leave, snow slams against the window in sheets.
“Damn,” I whisper. “It wasn’t this bad earlier.”
Tony checks out the door. “It’s coming down fast. You should stay until it slows.”
“I can’t impose like that.”
“You’d be safer staying here. And it is your house.”
I shake my head. “I’ll be fine.”
He arches a brow. “Holley. You’re exhausted. And this storm’s gonna get worse before it gets better.”
He’s right, but stubbornness is muscle memory for me.
“I just, I don’t want to be a burden. You’re on vacation after all.”
His voice drops low, firm without being harsh. “You could never be a burden.”
I swallow, emotion thickening my throat. I nod, barely.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Just for a little while.”
After dinner, he hands me a towel and points me toward the bathroom.
“You’ll feel better if you warm up properly,” he says. “Shower’s yours.”
The idea of hot water hitting my freezing skin is too tempting to refuse. I step inside, steam already fogging the small bathroom. When the water cascades over me, I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
For the first time in days, maybe weeks, I’m warm all the way through.
When I step out, wrapped in one of the oversized guest towels, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror—cheeks flushed from heat, hair damp, eyes softer than they were this morning. I get a fresh set of sweats from my drawers.
I feel refreshed and look alive.
When I reenter the living room, Stud is on the couch, sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing as he tosses another log onto the fire. His eyes sweep over me, darkening just enough to send heat straight to my lungs.
“You look better,” he remarks.