Chapter 1

Chapter One

T hrough the frosted cabin window, I watch the fluffy white specks sailing down from the overcast sky. The blanket of snow covering the surrounding woods from the last downfall is deceiving, making it difficult to discern how much more has accumulated today. I hope Henry can still make it to the café tonight. I haven’t heard otherwise from him yet, so I should stop worrying.

Still, I can’t fight the urge to check the Holidate app again just in case he sent me a message that he’ll have to cancel. Setting my level down on the kitchen counter, I wipe the sawdust from my hands and dig my phone out of my jeans pocket.

No.

Oh, no.

The dreaded circle-backslash icon.

Service has been spotty at best since we’ve been working out here on the Thornton cabin. Now, however, I’m certain bad weather is on the way if I’ve gone from four bars to zilch. There is no way I’m missing my chance to show my cousin Trent up at Christmas this year. I refuse to walk into my aunt and uncle’s house, appearing pathetically single yet again .

“That’s it. I’m calling it,” I inform Ronny, but he doesn’t even pause nailing on the trim above the kitchen cabinets.

I’d like to think he didn’t hear me over the howling wind outside and whir of the client’s space heater—running in front of the open sink cabinets, keeping the pipes from freezing—but after his quick dismissal of my last few concerns, I know I’m being ignored. I know little about Ronny Carmichael except that he’s aggravating, his perpetual smirk topping the list. Of all the crew to volunteer for this mid-winter job, it had to be him. No matter that I told our boss could manage it on my own.

“We need to head out or we’re going to end up marooned here,” I add more firmly, packing up my tools. “I’ll take the heat from Sal if he gets pissed about the job not being finished today.”

Sighing, Ronny jumps off the last rung of his stepladder. “Clearly, you’ve never seen a Minnesota winter. I’m telling you, it’s just a light dusting, nothing to worry about.”

Outside, a wicked gust whips against the window, fueling a blinding flurry of the harmless white powder, obliterating my view of the forest. “Our definition of ‘ light dusting ’ is obviously not the same. I’m done. Come back after you drop me off at the shop if you want.”

Finally, Mr. Eccentric looks at me. I hold his gaze, determined, but it costs me an uncomfortable flip of my stomach. Someone as smug as him has no right to be so attractive. It’s one more reason I’m not a fan of Ronny- The Italian Stallion -Carmichael. I don’t even like brown eyes.

Whatever he sees—probably my pathetic worrying—has him shaking his head in defeat. “Okay, Curly. You win.”

Curly , reason number fifty-four why Ronny is obnoxious. It’s not my fault I have this stupid cowlick at the top of my hairline.

After the nuisance takes an eternity packing up his tools, we wade out toward the work truck. My legs are frozen to my knees from the accumulated snow and my face numb from the wind by the time we reach it. This is so much worse than I thought. If someone hadn’t been blaring music on his phone all day, I might’ve heard sooner how bad out it was. At least, this is the last job of the year, so I’m done with him until spring.

I’ll drive back here after the storm and finish the job myself. Sal said the client wanted to surprise his wife on New Year’s by revisiting the place he proposed to her almost thirty years ago. It seems over-the-top to buy and fix up a rundown cabin as an anniversary gift, but then again, I’m perpetually single. The dating prospects in Minnesota are even more abysmal than they were in Illinois.

‘You’re a good son, Marshall, moving out of state to look after your mother. I don’t deserve you.’ Mom’s words from three years ago, when I relocated to be near her, comfort me as I kick the snow off my boots and hop in the truck. I made the right choice.

She has Aunt Joyce and Uncle Bill nearby, but they’re not our kind of people. Sure, they’re nice enough, regardless of their precious over-achieving son, Trent, but they don’t have our dynamic. Or maybe… I just missed her too much after losing Dad.

I like the little house I found not too far from Mom’s place. The job I got at Sal’s has lent me the opportunity to do more finite carpentry work than what I worked on in Springfield. I see Mom several times a week and keep myself busy on woodworking projects during the winters. My stall at the local craft mall has become a hit. All-in-all, life is good, even if slower-paced and barren of dateable men.

Fifteen bumpy, slippery, nausea-inducing minutes later, life is not good. Not at all.

Gripping the dashboard, my arms strain to keep myself in the passenger seat at our awkward angle now that the truck has finished sliding down the steep embankment of the driveway. We’re twenty miles from town and still half a mile from the country road that leads to the cabin’s primitive driveway.

‘You’re a good son, Marshall.’

Those words are no longer true, as I silently curse myself for moving to North America’s armpit. Ronny’s physical appeal has lost whatever lure it had, as he looks at me sheepishly from the driver’s seat.

“Uh…looks like we’re stuck.” He winces, scrubbing his hand over the dark stubble on his face. “Sorry. I forgot where this drop-off was.”