Page 6 of Big and Grumpy
He looks down at our joined hands, and I see something shift in his expression. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough." My voice is soft but certain. "I know you're kind enough to fix a stranger's porch. I know you take pride in your work. I know you make me feel safe in a way I haven't felt in a long time."
The words slip out before I can stop them, more honest than I intended. But looking into Holt's eyes, seeing the surprise and something that might be hope, I don't regret them.
When he finally stands to leave, I walk him to the door, reluctant to let the evening end.
"Thank you for dinner," he says, pausing on my porch. "And for... listening."
We're standing close now, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, can smell the clean scent of his soap. For a moment, I think he might kiss me, and my breath catches in anticipation.
Instead, he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle and brief. "Goodnight, Marigold."
"Goodnight, Holt."
As I watch him walk back to his cabin, I press my fingers to my cheek where he touched me and admit what I've been trying to deny all week: I'm falling for my grumpy neighbor, and I have no idea what to do about it.
four
Holt
Theweatherforecastcallsfor a massive storm system moving through the mountains—the kind of early winter storm that can knock out power for days and make the back roads impassable. I spend Friday morning securing everything that could blow away and making sure my generator is ready to go.
I'm stacking firewood on my covered porch when I see Marigold outside her cabin, struggling to move a heavy patio table that's definitely going to become a projectile if she leaves it where it is.
"Let me help with that," I call out, jogging across the clearing before she can hurt herself trying to wrestle the thing into her storage shed.
"I can manage," she says, but she's breathing hard and the table hasn't budged.
"I'm sure you can. But it'll be faster with two people." I grab one end of the table, noting how her cheeks are flushed with exertion. "This thing weighs more than you do."
"Are you calling me small?"
"I'm calling you smart enough not to give yourself a hernia over patio furniture."
We get the table secured, along with her outdoor chairs and a decorative wind chime that would definitely not survive what's coming. I move with efficient purpose, checking her cabin's storm preparations with the thoroughness of someone who's weathered his share of mountain storms.
"You've got enough food?" I ask, examining the heavy shutters someone had the foresight to install on the cabin's windows.
"I think so. Canned goods, bread, plenty of coffee."
"What about heat? This place have a backup heat source?"
She gestures toward the stone fireplace. "Fireplace works, and there's about half a cord of split wood in the shed."
"That's not enough." My expression grows grim as I look up at the darkening sky. "Storm this size could last two days, and if you lose power, that fireplace is going to be your only heat source."
"I can always come knock on your door if I run out."
The words are meant lightly, but something in my chest tightens at the thought of her alone in her cabin during a storm that could knock out power for days.
"Actually," I hear myself saying, "might be smarter if you just stayed at my place tonight. My cabin's bigger, better insulated, and I've got a wood-burning stove that'll heat the whole space."
The offer surprises me as much as it does her. I hadn't planned to ask—hadn't even consciously made the decision. But the thought of Marigold alone during what could be a dangerous storm makes every protective instinct I have flare to life.
"I couldn't impose like that," she says, but I can see her wavering.
"It's not an imposition. It's practical." I'm already mentally preparing the guest bedroom, making sure it's clean andcomfortable. "Besides, if something goes wrong with your cabin, you'll be right next door instead of stuck here alone."
