Page 5 of Big and Grumpy
"I should let you get back to your wood," I say eventually, though I'm reluctant to break the moment.
"Yeah." But Holt doesn't immediately pick up his axe. "Marigold?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks. For the cookies. For all of it."
His voice is gruff, almost embarrassed, like he's not used to expressing gratitude. But there's something in his eyes that makes my breath catch—a warmth that hadn't been there before.
"You're welcome," I say softly.
That evening, I'm working on my laptop when I see a light come on in Holt's cabin. Through his kitchen window, I can see him moving around, probably making his solitary dinner. The sight makes me sad in a way I can't quite explain.
On impulse, I grab my phone and send a text to the number he'd given me in case of emergencies:Made too much chili. Want some?
The response comes back almost immediately:On my way.
By the time he arrives at my door, I've set the table for two and opened a bottle of wine. He's wearing the same jeans and flannel from earlier, but his hair is damp like he's just showered, and he smells like soap and something woodsy that's entirely him.
"Perfect timing," I say, stepping aside to let him in. "I just finished making cornbread to go with it."
His cabin may be stark and masculine, but mine smells like home—like cinnamon and vanilla and something indefinably warm. I see him pause in my doorway, seeming to take in the cozy atmosphere.
"You didn't have to go to all this trouble," he says, accepting the bowl I hand him.
"It wasn't trouble. I like cooking for people."
"People in general, or people specifically?"
The question comes out more loaded than I think he intended, and I feel heat creep up my neck.
"Depends on the people," I say softly.
We eat at my small kitchen table, and for the first time since I moved here, the cabin doesn't feel too big or too quiet. Holt is more relaxed than I've seen him before, asking questions about my work and actually seeming interested in the answers.
"Marketing consulting," he says, shaking his head. "Can't say I understand it, but it must pay well if you can afford to live out here and work remotely."
"Well enough. And after my engagement ended, I realized I didn't need a big salary to support someone else's expensive tastes." I take a sip of wine, noting how Holt had accepted a glass without hesitation. "What about you? You mentioned you used to have a construction business."
His expression immediately shuts down, and I realize I've stepped on a landmine.
"Used to," he says curtly.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."
He looks at me for a long moment, then seems to make a decision.
"Had a business in Whitepine. Hartwell Construction. Built custom homes, mostly, some commercial work. Made this cabin when I was just starting out, before everything was official. Got hooked." His voice is carefully controlled. "Ex-wife was my business partner. When the marriage ended, so did the company."
The bitterness in his voice is unmistakable, and suddenly his guardedness makes perfect sense. I want to ask what happened, want to offer comfort or understanding, but something in his expression suggests the subject is firmly closed.
"That must have been devastating," I say quietly.
"It was." The simple acknowledgment seems to lift some weight off his shoulders. "Spent ten years building something I thought would last forever, only to watch it disappear in a matter of months."
I reach across the table and cover his hand with mine. The contact is simple, comforting, but I feel him tense at the touch.
"I'm sorry," I say. "For what it's worth, I think she was an idiot to let you go."
