Page 23 of Pregnant in Plaid
"Don't thank me yet," he says, but there's something almost like a smile tugging at his mouth. "You haven't seen my place since that night. Might change your mind."
Tessa hugs me goodbye—tighter than necessary, whispering "call me if you need anything" in my ear—and then Trace and I are walking out into the cold night. He opens the passenger door of his truck, waiting until I'm settled before closing it gently and loading my suitcase in the back.
The drive to his cabin is short—maybe twenty minutes down a snow-covered road that winds through dense forest. Neither of us speaks. The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything unsaid. The heater blows warm air that does nothing to ease the tension coiling in my chest.
I watch the trees pass by in the headlights, their branches heavy with snow, trying not to think about the fact that I'm about to stay at a stranger's house. Except he's not a stranger. He's the father of my baby.Which somehow makes this both better and infinitely more complicated.
My phone buzzes. A text from Tessa.
Tessa: You okay?
Me: Define okay.
Tessa: Fair point. He's a good guy. I promise.
Me: I know. That's what makes this scary.
Tessa: Call me tomorrow. I want details.
Me: There won't be details. This isn't like that.
Tessa: Yet.
I resist the urge to throw my phone out the window.
His truck finally turns onto a narrow drive, and his cabin appears through the trees.
It's bigger than Gage's. Not mansion-big, but solid. Substantial. The place looks like it's been here forever and will be here long after we're gone. Warm light spills from the windows, and I can see a workshop attached to one side, large enough to be its ownbuilding. The whole property has this... settled quality. Like someone cares about it.
"You built this?" I ask, breaking the silence.
"Most of it." He kills the engine, and the sudden quiet feels louder than the drive. "Bought the land five years ago. Cabin was here but falling apart. I've been renovating since."
"By yourself?"
"Mostly. Gage helps sometimes. Keeps me from doing anything too stupid with the electrical." He gets out, coming around to open my door before I can do it myself.
I take his offered hand—again, that warm steadiness—and step down carefully. The cold hits immediately, stealing my breath and making my eyes water.
"Come on," he says, grabbing my suitcase. "Let's get you inside before you freeze."
The front door opens into a large main room that's somehow both rustic and comfortable. Handmade furniture—a couch that looks butter-soft, a coffee table with intricate carved details, chairs that look sturdy enough to survive an apocalypse. A stone fireplace dominates one wall, already crackling with a fire that must have been going before he left. The mantel holds a few framed photos and what looks like a hand-carved bear that's either very good or slightly terrifying. The kitchen is open, visible from the living area, with dark wood cabinets and countertops that gleam even in thedim light. Everything is clean, organized, lived-in but not cluttered.
Everything smells like wood and smoke and something baking that makes my stomach growl despite the emotional chaos.
"I had bread in the oven," he says, noticing my reaction. "Forgot to take it out before I left. Hopefully it's not burned." He moves to the kitchen, pulling on an oven mitt and rescuing what turns out to be a perfectly golden loaf. The smell intensifies, and my stomach growls louder.
"You bake bread?"
"Sometimes." He sets the loaf on a cooling rack and shrugs off his coat. "Helps me think. Clears my head when I can't figure something out with wood or power tools."
I'm trying to process the image of this large, intense man kneading dough and puzzling through life's problems when he gestures down a hallway.
"Guest room's this way."
I follow him, taking in details as we walk. Pictures on the walls—mostly landscapes, a few of Trace and Gage in what looks like military gear. A bookshelf overflowing with a chaotic mix of woodworking manuals and what looks suspiciously like fantasy novels. Everything is clean but lived-in. Real.
He stops at a door and pushes it open.
