CHAPTER THREE
AARON
I've made a terrible mistake.
The quiet of my cabin feels different now, three days after Leah Jones breezed into my life, disrupted my peace, and left with my reluctant permission to use the access road.
Her scent still lingers on the blanket she'd wrapped around herself. Something warm and spiced, like cinnamon and vanilla. I should wash it. Instead, I find myself sitting in the same spot on the sofa, coffee in hand, staring at the place where she'd sat, her green eyes bright with passion as she told me about her sister.
Damn it. That's what did it. The sister. The cancer. The Christmas spent in hospital beds.
I know something about that. More than I'd ever tell her.
I take a long sip of my coffee, grimacing at the bitterness. I've been making it stronger each morning, trying to shock myself out of whatever the hell this is. This... awareness. This curiosity about a woman who represents everything I've been avoiding for the past two years—connection, community, Christmas.
The rumble of engines in the distance tells me they've arrived. Setup day. Just as we agreed.
I stand and move to the windows facing the access road. A caravan of vehicles moves slowly along my property boundary—trucks pulling trailers, vans loaded with supplies, volunteers in cars decorated with holiday garland. All carefully staying on the road, just as Leah promised.
Her red SUV leads the procession. Even from this distance, I can make out her animated gestures as she directs the convoy toward the meadow, her dark hair spilling from beneath the same knitted hat she'd worn during our standoff.
I shouldn't be watching. I should be in my workshop, losing myself in the furniture commission I need to finish before the new year. Or hiking deeper into my property, away from the noise and chaos that's about to descend on the neighboring meadow.
Instead, I grab my coat and step onto the porch.
The cold December air bites at my face as I survey the activity. More vehicles arrive, and people begin unloading equipment. I can hear faint laughter, calls back and forth as they begin setting up what looks like large tents and structures. Christmas music drifts on the wind.
I tell myself I'm just making sure they're keeping to our agreement. No encroachment. No disturbance. That's all.
A flash of red catches my eye again. Leah stands at the edge of the meadow, clipboard in hand, directing a truck hauling what appears to be parts of a carousel. She's everywhere at once—checking a delivery manifest, helping unload boxes, stopping to greet each volunteer with a smile that lights up her entire face.
Her energy is magnetic, even from a distance. Every person she interacts with seems to stand taller afterward, moving with renewed purpose.
Growling at my own foolishness, I turn to go back inside when I see her break away from the group and start heading in my direction. Toward my cabin. My private space.
My body tenses as she approaches. She's already violated one of our conditions, and they haven't even finished unloading.
She stops at the property line, exactly where I'd told her to place the markers, and waves up at me. She doesn't cross the boundary, just stands there until I acknowledge her with a reluctant nod.
"Good morning!" she calls, her voice carrying in the clear air. "Just wanted to make sure we're not disturbing you too much!"
I don't respond immediately, struck by the simple consideration of the gesture. She could have ignored me completely, gotten what she wanted and carried on.
"It's fine," I finally call back, the words feeling rusty in my throat.
She smiles, and even from this distance, it's like a punch to the gut. "We're setting up the lights today, but we won't turn them on until tomorrow! I didn't want you to think we were having the event today!"
I nod again, unsure why she's telling me this, why she cares what I think at all.
"I brought you something!" She holds up a paper bag. "A thank you!"
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I find myself walking down the steps of the porch, across the yard, until I'm standing at the property line opposite her. Close enough now to see the flush of cold on her cheeks, the bright sparkle in her green eyes.
She extends the bag across the invisible boundary between us. I take it, careful not to let our fingers touch.
"Cranberry orange muffins," she explains. "I baked them this morning."
The bag is still warm. "You didn't have to do that."
