“Where are you going?”
Tugging on his boots, he cast a wild-eyed look around for his hat and gloves. He didn’t need his coat. He was going to heat up plenty just by throwing the ax. “They have to have a stockpile of hardwood around the property somewhere. I’m going to chop some wood. We’re going to be here for days. Days. And we’ve already burned through half of the logs on the hearth.” He pulled open the door and sucked in a breath of cold, clean air.
“It’s going to stop snowing any minute now,” she called after him.
“Keep dreaming,” he yelled back just before she closed the door with a resounding thwack. Great. So much for keeping things positive.
DAYS! NO, THEY WERE not going to be there for days. For one thing, they didn’t have enough food for Tom to last that long.
Chloe would be fine. She had crackers for miles.
But secondly and more importantly, she wasn’t sure she could handle days of Tom right now. Especially this new, earnest Tom.
It was like he’d retreated into a chrysalis and emerged a fully-formed grown-up with emotional IQ and a deep understanding of intimacy.
It had to be a trick.
No, not a trick. He didn’t have any cruel intention. He never had. And he’d always been earnest in a way she’d adored. Right up until she told him she was pregnant, and then he—
He’d reacted in a perfectly human way.
She’d told him she was scared.
She’d acknowledged he was terrified.
So what was she mad about?
She stomped into the kitchen and glared at the clean breakfast dishes drying next to the sink, Tom’s tiny bottle of biodegradable camping soap right there.
The man had literally everything they needed in his truck. It was insane. He’d pulled a full kitchen out of his bag—everything from a six-spice dispenser to the sponge to clean up at the end of the meal. He probably could live here for days.
Weeks, even.
Weeks of glaring and fighting and yelling and saying the wrong thing and then more fighting.
It was a nightmare.
They couldn’t keep this up. She needed to get a handle on her raging emotions, and he needed to accept that it wasn’t a problem that she hadn’t consulted him on her plans.
She didn’t need to. Not yet. Eight months down the road would be a different story. They would need to figure out some kind of happy medium for co-parenting. But right now was the last time bit of time that would be entirely hers for the next eighteen years.
Eighteen. Years.
It was a long time. It was worth fighting through the assumed “right path” to make sure she actually did this the real right way, the way that would mean her child was wholly loved. But she had to fight smarter. No more yelling at the grumpy man on his way out to chop wood. For one thing, that gave him the moral advantage, since he was being productive. That wouldn’t do.
Maybe she could figure out something to make for dinner.
In her exploring of the cottage, she’d realized the mudroom off the back of the house hadn’t been cleared out. That included a supply pantry of canned goods. It also had a nice view of Tom and his mad woodchopping.
She put on her toque, tugged on her boots, and marched into the mudroom, which was freezing cold, holy crap. Between surreptitious glances out the window, she took a quick summary of what was on the shelf. Spaghetti sauce but no spaghetti. Tinned tomatoes, kidney beans, corn...
She could make chilli.
Maybe.
She thought about calling Jenna for a precise recipe, but that would require explaining why she was making chilli for Christmas dinner and if she’d talked to Tom and yes, he was going to share the chilli, and no, they weren’t going to fall madly in love over the unconventional holiday dinner and live happily ever after.
No calling a friend for a recipe. Nope.
The internet would have to suffice, even though Chloe’s experience in converting recipes into actual meals was spotty at best.
Cooking was not her strong suit.
From the other side of the cottage, she heard the front door bang open, and she startled. Wood clattered loudly against the hearth, then the door slammed shut.
Well, maybe it didn’t slam.
It closed with purpose.
She watched him tromp back through the heavy snow to the stump he’d been chopping at.
And he started again.
She dashed her cans into the kitchen, then slid back into the glassed-in mudroom to watch.
He moved like a machine, grabbing a thick log from the covered shelter, stacking it on the stump. Without missing a beat, he picked up the axe and swung it, cleanly cleaving the log into two. He held the axe in one hand and grabbed one of those pieces with the other. Up. Chop. Repeat.
She watched the hypnotic routine until he shoved the axe aside and started stacking logs in his arms.
This time, when he stomped in the front door, she was busy at the counter opening cans of things.
She listened as he clattered logs into the wood cradle beside the fireplace. As he moved back to the door and sighed while he kicked off his boots. She could picture all of it so clearly, because Tom was nothing if not a creature of routine.
Ten bucks said that when he wandered into the kitchen to check on her, he’d be running his fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp. In the past, when she got to his place before him, she’d usually let herself in because he always left the door unlocked for her. And she’d listen to him do exactly that. Watch with affection as he scratched his hair back to life after being squished under a hat all day.
And then—back in those simpler days when they were fuck buddies—she’d have grabbed his hand and dragged him to the shower to get all clean before they got dirty again together.
Not today.
“Hey.”
She glanced over her shoulder as he filled the doorway, leaning against the frame withe one shoulder. His other arm swung up and he ruffled his hair.
Swallowing a smile, she nodded. “Hey.”
“Sorry about before.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“I do want to talk. I want to listen. I want to be better at all of this.” He crossed his arms over his chest and gave her a long, solemn look. “But maybe we’re having the wrong conversation.”
Her heart leapt into her throat. “What conversation should we be having?”
He walked closer. Gently, quietly. Like she was a deer he didn’t want to startle. “That’s the thing. I don’t know. I just know that we’ve got this big, life-changing thing that’s happened to us—you more than me right now, I fully acknowledge that—and I want to do right by you, and me, and definitely the baby. Can we talk about that?”
“That’s a big conversation.”
“Yeah.” He gave her a tight smile. “Good thing we’re here for a while.”
“Not days,” she whispered.
He just shrugged.
There was so much about this situation that felt out of control. The emotions, the circumstances...but they could control their reactions. They could control how they started their lives as parents.
She took a deep breath and looked up at him. “I’m pregnant,” she whispered.
He reached out and touched her cheek. Not a stroke, exactly. Just the gentlest of caresses. An acknowledgement, really. “I know. Wow.”
Wow. Yeah, that was the word. She nodded. “I’m scared.”
“Me, too. Less now that we’re talking about it.”
Another nod.
“We’ll talk more. We’ll talk all day, in little bits and pieces, until we put them all together. Okay?”
“Yeah.”
He glanced past her to the counter. “What are doing right now?”
“I thought I’d get some chili simmering for dinner.”
He swept his gaze over the cans she had out. “Sounds good.”
She was pretty sure it didn’t, not with what she’d found so far.
“I, uh, need to look up a recipe.”
“Can I open those while you do that?”
“Thanks.” She handed him the can opener, ignoring how good his fingers felt against hers and the fresh smell of outside still lingering on his skin.
But when she fetched her phone from the living room, she couldn’t get anything to load on the browser. She jabbed at the screen. The signal strength flickered from one bar to no signal, then back to no bar. Not enough to grab any kind of data service. “Can you search for a recipe?” she asked as she returned to the kitchen. “I don’t have a great cell signal.”
He dug his phone out of his back pocket and frowned. “Neither do I.”
This happened sometimes in storms. It was one of the realities of living on the peninsula. She powered her phone down, but when she turned it back on, there was still no signal.
So much for Google.
“We can wing it, right?” She tipped her head to the side and looked at cans he’d opened. “How hard could it be to make chilli?”
Tom cleared his throat. “Not hard at all.”
She jerked upright. He was doing his best to maintain a straight face. “Wait, you know how, don’t you?”
“Yeah, because I’m a grown-up.” But his eyes were still gentle.
Waving at the pot which he’d somehow magicked onto the stovetop, she gestured for him to show her. “Be my guest, Gordon Ramsay.”
“We don’t need to put it on quite yet,” he said. “It won’t take six hours to cook.”
“Then why did you open the cans?”
He shrugged. “You wanted me to. I’m not going to tell you that you’re wrong. Actually, let’s get it going now. Maybe we’ll eat early. Christmas lunch.”
Chloe paced back and forth as Tom turned on the stove. He dumped the tomatoes into the pot, added a bunch of spices, then started rinsing the canned beans. She was pretty sure she’d have remembered to do that.
Maybe.
She’d have to learn how to cook in order to feed their child.
There was still time. The wee thing wouldn’t be eating real food for...a while. She bet Tom would know. “When do kids start eating real food?”
“Six months, I think?” He was an uncle twice over. He’d be a great dad. “Maybe closer to a year by the time they are actually eating a lot. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
He glanced her way. “I think they make it clear that they want to put stuff in their mouths and you follow that lead. Also, there are books about these things.”
“I know there are books,” she said hotly.
She was a librarian after all.
She’d walked down that aisle yesterday morning, on her last shift ever in the Pine Harbour Public Library.
It had freaked her out.
She was freaking out right now about it, too. She didn’t know how to make chilli. Or anything.
Hot, angry tears pricked the back of her eyelids and she spun on her heel.
Chapter Five
CHLOE NEVER CRIED. Never, ever, ever. She swore, she yelled, she bit her lip until it bled. But she didn’t cry, because crying made her feel like shit.
There was nothing worse than being so sad she couldn’t keep her emotions inside, and then being alone to bear all of that on her own.
Except she wasn’t alone.
Tom was right behind her, she could feel him, and she didn’t know what to do with that, either.
But she didn’t want to fight again. She was so done with that, for reasons she needed to tell him sooner than later, but not right now.
“I’m going upstairs.” Not looking in his direction, she grabbed the afghan off the couch, and the novel she’d been reading. “With my blanket and my books. And my...” She looked around for the saltines. “Crackers.”
Her arms overflowed as she stopped at the base of the stairs and looked in his direction, although not right at him. “I need some space. I needed all of this space, but then you showed up. And I see you, Tom. I see you cooking and talking and chopping wood, but my head is spinning.”
“I understand,” he said quietly. “I’ll stay out of your hair.”
And he did.
She curled up in the quiet master bedroom and tried to distract herself with the book. It took flipping through fifteen unread pages to calm down. Then she fell asleep, and didn’t wake up until the weak, blizzard-filtered light had shifted to the other side of the house. Long shadows stretched across the bed, and for a second, she didn’t know why she was upstairs.
Then she smelled the chilli wafting up from the kitchen, and remembered losing it on Tom and stomping upstairs.
She rubbed her gritty eyes and looked at the ceiling, trying to process what the hell was happening inside her body.
Downstairs, dishes clattered in the kitchen. The sound ricocheted through the empty house, easily carrying up to where she lay.
She was struggling to process what was happening here in this cottage, too. Maybe the first step in her own journey to real honest between them was admitting what she didn’t know, what made her anxious.
And what she did know. What she’d experienced growing up.
She stopped in the washroom to pee and wash her face, then she went to find the chef. The father of her future child.
Her unwanted but not unappreciated roommate for the duration of the blizzard.
She found him stirring their dinner.
“That smells really good,” she said as she eased her way into the kitchen.
“Hey.” He glanced over at her. “You’re up.”
“I guess I slept for a while.”
“The whole afternoon. That’s okay. You needed it.”
“Apparently.”
“Full disclosure, I came up to check on you. I’m not sure where that falls on the spectrum of leaving you the hell alone, but...”
She made a face. “I deserve that.”
“I was prepared for you to throw something at me. Not a book. Maybe crackers.”
That made her laugh. “Those are almost as valuable as books!”
“Do you want some with your chilli? We might want to ration our bread a bit.”
What had she gotten them into that they needed to carefully measure out food to last through a blizzard? “Are we going to be okay here?”
He waved his hand. “Oh yeah. I’ve got hard rations in the truck if it needs to come to that.”
“Do I want to know what those are?”
“Vacuum packed things that approximate food popular in the fifties.”
“Gross.”
“Better than going hungry.”
Her pregnant stomach wasn’t sure about that, and she made a promise to herself to make the crackers last as long as possible.
“Can I ask how you’re feeling now?”
She blew a raspberry, and he laughed. Then she sighed. “This is a crazy rollercoaster of emotions. I don’t say that as an excuse, just a statement of fact.”
“I don’t know what to say to make it better.”
“You don’t need to say anything right now.” She held up her hand. “I do want to talk. Tonight. But let’s eat first.”
He grinned. “I won’t stand between the pregnant lady and sustenance. Coffee and food always come first, I promise.”
TOM SERVED UP CHILLI into their mugs, hers with the spoon from his camping pack, his with the fork.
She watched him pull the utensils apart with more interest than she’d ever shown before in his outdoors-ing. “You don’t have one of those sporks? I mean, I’m not complaining. This way we both get something to eat with, so that’s great.”
He shook his head. “Never did understand those. They’re a crap spoon, and a crap fork. What are you saving, an ounce or two in weight? Carry both and eat properly.”
“Huh.”
“I have strong opinions about most things sold at outfitters to rubes from the city.”
“I’ve never stepped foot in an outfitters,” she said,
the corners of her mouth turning up in a smile.
We’ll have to change that, he wanted to say, but now was not the time. One step at a time, and that was way down the map.
“Uh, okay, I’m going to get my crackers,” she said. “My contribution to Christmas dinner.”
He carried their food to the coffee table and set it down. While she’d slept, he’d cut and decorated the mantle with evergreen boughs from outside, and he quickly adjusted those before she came back.
When she did, she stopped and breathed in the scent before sitting down. “Merry Christmas,” she said quietly as she stared into the flickering flames.
He smiled. “I thought we weren’t celebrating today.”
“I won’t force my humbug attitude on you.” She touched his hand. “You slaved over the...everything, after all. Thank you.”
It was a peace offering, and more than he could have expected.
Today hadn’t gone as he’d hoped. She hadn’t fallen into his arms and allowed him to make grand promises. But she’d shared some hard truths about how she felt, and pushed him to be honest in the same way with.
It wasn’t what he’d come for, but it was progress in the right direction.
And while she’d slept, he’d been able—after much cursing and refreshing—to pull up a forecast for the next thirty-six hours. The storm was only going to get worst.
He couldn’t have asked for better news, not that he’d frame it that way to the woman who wanted to run away as fast as she could.
Tomorrow would be another opportunity to show her he wasn’t going to flake.
“I’ve never been a big Christmas person,” he admitted. “My mother is...”
Chloe cleared her throat. “Particular?”
That was an understatement. “Well, you know my mother. She’s intensely Italian for someone who has no Italian blood. So growing up, it was all about mass on Christmas Eve, and big meals around that. Christmas morning we had presents, but the biggest effort was over and done with. And by the time I was a teenager, we’d basically merged Christmas Day with the Fosters. What do fourteen-year-old boys get each other?”
“Smokes? Booze? Porn?”
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