3. Noelle

NOELLE

“ I promise I'm fine, Mom. I'm safe and warm, and—” The line crackles, making it hard to hear my mother's worried voice on the other end. “Mom? Hello?”

I press the phone closer to my ear, but static takes over all sound before the line goes completely dead. “Great.” I hang up the ancient phone and sigh. At least I managed to let my family know I’m not frozen in a ditch somewhere, even if I didn't get to hear the end of Mom's lecture about listening to her instead of driving in snowstorms.

The silence after the call feels heavy and I check on the time. By now, my family will be gathering in the living room, all wearing the matching pajamas Mom gets us every year. Great-Aunt Pearl would be organizing them all for the annual Christmas Eve photo, making sure everyone's Santa hats are positioned just right. My cousins would be sneaking peeks at the presents under the tree, trying to guess what's inside by shaking the boxes when they think no one's looking.

And here I am, stranded in a grumpy stranger's cabin, missing it all.

I wrap my arms around myself, fighting back the wave of homesickness. The scent of Mom's delicious cookies won't be filling the house this year—at least not for me. No competitive charades tournament that always ends with Dad doing his infamous mime in a box routine. No midnight cookie decorating session with my sister where we always end up eating more frosting than we put the cookies…

“Get it together, Noelle,” I mutter to myself, forcing a smile. “At least you're not stuck in your car becoming a human popsicle. And your host may be grumpy, but he's...” Gorgeous? Intriguing? Definitely not willing to wear a matching Christmas pajama set with a goofy Santa hat…

With a heavy sigh, I turn around and try to figure out where my grumpy mountain host has disappeared to. His cabin's bigger than it looked from outside. Or maybe it just looks bigger because there's barely any furniture in it. It’s all rustic wood, minimal decoration, and absolutely zero Christmas cheer.

But it's the little details that catch my eye, the ones that tell a story about the man who lives here. There's a soft throw draped over a leather armchair, worn in spots like someone's spent countless nights curled up there reading. A stack of well-loved books on the coffee table shows evidence of frequent use—dog-eared pages, cracked spines, and what looks like coffee ring stains on their covers. The gentle warmth coming from the well-used fireplace suggests he at least believes in comfort, if not decoration.

I head over to the table and pick up one of the books, an extensively annotated guide to exotic plants. The margins are filled with neat, precise handwriting, notes about growing conditions, temperature requirements, and there are slips of paper with beautiful little pencil sketches of different flower formations. Each page shows the care and attention of someone obsessed with details. Beneath it, I find more books about rare species cultivation, botanical illustrations, and something that looks like it might be in Latin.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” I murmur, carefully placing the books back exactly as I found them. This is definitely not your typical mountain man reading material—not that I’d really know what that is.

Moving deeper into the space, my fingers trail along the rough-hewn beams that frame the doorways. Everything about this place feels intentional, from the sturdy wooden bench in the entryway to the precise arrangement of hooks for coats. It's like he's created his own perfectly ordered world up here, and I've just crashed right through its boundaries—literally.

I peek into the next room, which seems to be some kind of workshop. The space is a perfect blend of science and artistry. Pots of various sizes line metal shelving units, each labeled with that same precise handwriting I saw in the books. Tools are arranged on a long workbench with the kind of organization that would make Marie Kondo proud. Several large jars filled with mysterious concoctions sit on a shelf against the wall, their contents varying shades of green and brown.

But it's the door with frosted glass panels next to the shelving that really catches my attention. There's something about it... something that calls to me like a mystery waiting to be solved.

Just as I reach for the handle, it swings open and Sawyer appears, blocking the entrance with his impressive frame. His sudden appearance startles me, but not enough to miss how his shirt pulls across his shoulders as he moves to shut the door behind him. Yum.

“What are you doing in my workshop?” His voice is gruff and low as he blocks the door behind him so I can’t see through the glass.

“I... I was just looking around,” I stammer, feeling like a trespasser. “It's fascinating.”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “It's a mess. And dangerous.”

“I don’t think you understand what a mess is,” I counter. “What's behind the door?” The journalist in me (three months on the college paper totally counts) is dying to know what he's hiding.

“Nothing that concerns you.” His tone brooks no argument, but there's something in his eyes—worry, maybe?

“Is it plants? There’s a bunch of stuff to do with plants around the place.”

“Quit cataloging my space.”

I take a step back. “I’m not cataloging anything. I’m just curious about what one does all alone in a secluded cabin.”

“Well, curiosity killed the cat.”

“Ah. So it’s a murder dungeon you’re hiding back there?” I joke, trying to lighten the mood. “Secret lab? Ooh, or maybe you're building an army of robot Santas!”

He just stares at me, but I swear I see his lips twitch. “Do you always talk this much?”

“Only when I'm nervous. Or excited. Or breathing.” I follow him back toward the living room, unable to help myself. “So, what do you do up here all alone? Besides perfect your Grinch impression?”

“I work.” He pulls blankets and pillows from a storage chest.

“On what?”

“Things.”

“What kind of things? I was looking at your books and?—”

“Private things.” He dumps the bedding into my arms.

“Are they illegal things? Because I should probably know if I'm harboring a criminal. Not that I'm judging! Everyone has their reasons. Like Robin Hood—he was technically a criminal, but for good causes. Are you a mountain Robin Hood?”

“No. And technically, I’m the one who’s harboring you.”

“Oh. Right.” I stare down at the blankets and pillows I’m holding. “So...what should I do with these?”

“Make a bed.”

“Where?”

“On the couch.” He gestures toward the worn leather sofa like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“The couch?” I glance at it skeptically. It's barely big enough for one person to sit comfortably, let alone for someone of my size to sleep on. “I mean, I don't want to sound ungrateful, but I'm not exactly built for tiny spaces...”

“It's a pull-out.” He takes the big cushions off to reveal the fold-out mattress underneath. His movements show off the muscles in his arms, and I find myself momentarily distracted until he looks at me and frowns. Oop!

“Oh! Sure. A pull-out? That's wonderful! I love pull-out couches.”

“Really,” he says, moving to take the bedding off me.

“Absolutely. They're so... practical. And convenient. And...” I watch as he returns to unfolding the couch, the mattress looking decidedly thin and lumpy. “...somewhat uncomfortable. But that's OK! I'm really good at making the best of things. Did I mention I once had to film an entire toy unboxing video in a supply closet because the office power went out? Talk about improvising! Though I suppose that's not quite the same as sleeping on a probably ancient pull-out couch during a blizzard...”

Sawyer pauses in his task of arranging the bedding, those intense eyes of his studying me. “You really don't do silence, do you?”

“Silence is highly overrated. Did you know talking to yourself is actually a sign of intelligence? I read that somewhere. Probably Twitter. Or maybe LinkedIn? I manage social media for Wonder Toys—best job ever, by the way. I basically get paid to play with toys and spread joy. Today I made a hot cocoa board for Santa. Do you like hot cocoa? You seem more like a black coffee person, which tracks with the whole mountain man aesthetic you've got going on...”

The corner of his mouth twitches, and for a moment, I think I see something soften in his expression. His hands look like he knows how to be both rough and gentle as he tucks in the corners of the sheets, making sure everything's secure. And just the idea of this giant of a man showing me a little rough and gentle makes my knees press together.

“I'll get you some extra blankets,” he says, disappearing down the hall before I can get too lost in my fantasy. When he returns, it’s with an armful of thick quilts. “It gets cold at night.”

“Thank you.” Our fingers brush as he hands them to me, and that same electric spark from earlier shoots through my body. “I really appreciate all this. You didn't have to help me.”

“Couldn't exactly leave you out there to freeze.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking almost uncomfortable with my gratitude. “Make yourself comfortable. There are eggs and things for sandwiches in the fridge if you’re hungry. I've got work to do.”

“At night? During a blizzard?”

“Yes.” He heads back toward his workshop and the mysterious door.

“But it's Christmas Eve!”

He pauses, looking back at me. “Then I suggest you get some sleep so Santa can come.”

“But there's no tree!”

“Stick a candle on top of that stack of books. Same thing.”

“Candles? On books? Are you serious? That's like, a major fire hazard! And also slightly sacrilegious to both Christmas and literature.”

“Improvise,” he grunts, disappearing behind the door.

The door.

I can't help but stare at it. There's something about it... something that calls to me. Like it's a portal to another world, a world filled with secrets and mysteries. Insight into him.

But I know better than to pry. This is Sawyer's space, his sanctuary, and I'm just an unexpected guest. An unexpected guest who can't stop talking, apparently.

I turn my attention back to the couch, which, it turns out, is surprisingly comfortable as a pull-out. I fluff the pillows and snuggle under the thick blankets, but sleep feels impossible. The bare walls seem to mock me, their emptiness a stark contrast to what Christmas Eve should look like. Even the warm glow from the fireplace can't quite chase away the clinical feel of the space.

Sitting up, I bite my lip as I look around the space. “Well, he did say I could improvise,” I say to myself, already forming plans. The social media prop box in my car is a treasure trove of possibility—battery-operated twinkle lights that could transform these stark walls into a starlit wonderland, silver and gold tinsel that would catch and reflect the firelight, and even a tiny artificial tree that could bring some much-needed holiday charm to that empty corner by the fireplace.

My fingers itch to start decorating, to breathe life and warmth into this beautiful but austere space. Even the wooden beams are begging for a touch of sparkle. I could drape the lights along them, creating a soft, magical glow that would make the whole room feel more intimate. The stack of plant books could become an impromptu Christmas tree stand, topped with battery-operated candles—much safer than his suggestion of real ones.

Sure, Sawyer might growl when he sees what I've done, but sometimes people need a gentle push toward joy. And there's something about this cabin, about him, that feels like it's crying out for a little Christmas magic.

Rising from the pull-out, I wrap one of the quilts around my shoulders like a cape and pad toward the front door. The storm still rages outside, but my car isn't far. A quick dash through the snow would be worth it to transform this space into something special.

“Sorry, Sawyer,” I whisper to the empty room, “but every Grinch needs a Cindy Lou Who.”