Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

T essa

The rooster crows like it’s getting paid by the hour, piercing through the quiet morning air with a vengeance. I roll over in bed, groaning into my pillow. Why did I think getting a rooster was a good idea? Oh, right. Fresh eggs and the idyllic charm of country living.

But Finn isn’t going to see it that way.

I’m already bracing for the knock at the door when it comes, sharp and impatient. I toss on a sweatshirt, muttering under my breath about grumpy miners with zero tolerance for mountain life quirks.

When I swing the door open, Finn stands there, larger than life in his flannel shirt and work boots, his scowl firmly in place. Shep sits obediently at his feet, his tail wagging like he knows he’s about to witness some entertaining drama.

“Good morning, sunshine,” I say sweetly, leaning against the doorframe.

“Morning? Your damn rooster’s been crowing since before sunrise,” he grumbles, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His muscles strain against the fabric, distracting me for a second too long.

“And Shep dug up my marigolds again yesterday,” I counter, matching his glare.

Finn arches an eyebrow. “You want me to muzzle him or something? He’s a dog, Tessa. Dogs dig.”

“And roosters crow,” I shoot back, stepping onto the porch to square off with him. “You’ve got your noise, I’ve got mine. Welcome to mountain life.”

His lips twitch like he’s holding back a smirk, but he doesn’t let up. “This rooster’s got a vendetta against me. I’m half convinced it waits until I’m finally asleep just to start up again.”

I can’t help the laugh that slips out, and Finn’s gaze softens for a split second. But then he catches himself, straightening like he’s trying to regain the upper hand.

“Laugh all you want,” he mutters, “but that thing’s going to drive me to drink before noon.”

“Good thing The Devil’s Brew opens at ten,” I quip, turning to head inside. “Coffee?”

Finn follows me in and Shep trots after him, pausing to sniff at the boxes stacked in the corner of my small kitchen.

I grab two mugs, trying to ignore the way Finn fills the space like he owns it. His presence is infuriatingly magnetic, and I’m annoyed at how aware I am of him. The way he leans casually against the counter, his sharp blue eyes tracking my every move, like he’s trying to figure me out.

“What’s all this?” he asks, nodding toward the boxes.

“Just stuff from the move,” I say, setting the mugs on the counter. “I haven’t gotten around to unpacking everything yet.”

He picks up a photo album sitting on top of one of the boxes, flipping it open without asking. Typical Finn—gruff, unfiltered, and utterly unapologetic.

I cross my arms, watching him carefully as he flips through the pages. Most of the photos are from my childhood—me as a gap-toothed kid, my parents smiling in the background.

Finn freezes when he turns to a page near the middle. His brow furrows, and he looks up at me, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“Who’s this?” he asks, holding up the album.

I step closer, peering at the photo he’s pointing to. It’s one of my favorites—a winter snapshot of me as a kid, bundled up in an oversized ski jacket. A boy stands next to me, his arm slung protectively around my shoulders. Our grins are wide, and the snow-covered slopes of Devil’s Peak stretch out behind us.

I blink at the photo, a pang of nostalgia hitting me. “I don’t remember his name,” I admit. “He taught me to ski that winter. I was about eleven, maybe twelve. He was a few years older, I think.”

Finn’s jaw tightens, and something about his expression makes my heart skip a beat.

“That’s me,” he says gruffly, his voice low.

The words hang in the air like a punchline I wasn’t ready for. I blink again, trying to process what he just said.

“What?”

He taps the photo, his gaze meeting mine. “That’s me, Tessa. That winter, my dad and I were still living on the mountain before the divorce. I remember teaching a little girl to ski. That was you.”

For a moment, I’m speechless. Memories flood back—his patience as he helped me find my balance, the way he’d cheer me on when I made it down the bunny hill without falling. My first childhood crush, as fleeting as it was.

“You’re kidding,” I finally manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

Finn shakes his head, his expression softening in a way that makes my chest ache. “No joke. That was the last winter before my mom left my dad and took me to Vegas. Everything changed after that.”

I stare at him, the photo still open between us. “I always wondered what happened to you,” I admit quietly. “I can’t believe it’s been almost twenty years since then. You were… kind. I still remember that.”

His gaze flickers, something tender and raw breaking through his usual gruffness. “Don’t think anyone would describe me that way now.”

I smile, a little sad, a little unsure. “Maybe it’s still in there somewhere.”

Finn chuckles, but it’s a rough sound, like he doesn’t quite believe me. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

We stand there in silence for a moment, the photo album a fragile bridge between the past and the present. It’s strange, seeing him in a new light—remembering the boy who was once so patient and protective, and reconciling him with the grumpy, sarcastic man standing in my kitchen.

“Guess this changes things,” I say finally, closing the album and setting it aside.

“Yeah,” Finn agrees, his voice quieter now. “It does.”

There’s something in his gaze that makes my stomach flip, a flicker of vulnerability that he quickly hides behind his usual scowl.

“Your rooster still sucks, though,” he adds, a smirk tugging at his lips.

And just like that, the tension breaks. I laugh, shaking my head as I pour the coffee. “Shep owes me a new flowerbed, so I think we’re even.”

Finn takes the mug I offer him, his fingers brushing mine for just a moment. The warmth of the contact lingers, and I try not to think about how my pulse quickens every time he’s near.

“I’ll keep Shep away from your flowers,” he says, his tone softer now. “But I’m not making any promises about the rooster.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “Deal.”

We drink our coffee in relative silence, the air between us charged with something neither of us is ready to name.

As Finn heads for the door, Shep trailing behind him, he pauses, looking back at me.

“You know,” he says, his voice gruff but almost... warm, “that winter? It was a good one.”

I smile, a genuine one this time. “Yeah. It was.”

And as the door closes behind him, I can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, all these years later, there’s still something good left between us.