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The wind howled, rattling the windows. The candles flickered. Layla felt suspended between two worlds—the one she’d been living in, all ambition and achievement, and this smaller, slower one, where she’d found something unexpected.

Christopher cleared his throat, looking suddenly nervous. “Would you like more soup?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral. Layla knew what he was doing, giving her a way out if she felt like the kiss had been a mistake.

But she didn’t feel like it had been a mistake. In fact, she really wanted to kiss him again. She wanted to pull him back to her and forget about fallen trees and storms and everything else. But she could see the uncertainty in his eyes, and she understood that this was too delicate to rush.

She smiled softly. “I’d love some.”

As Christopher disappeared into the kitchen, Layla sank back into her chair by the fire and felt something shift inside her. Something that had been locked up tight for years felt as if it was beginning to open up again, blooming slowly. She pulled out her phone and opened her notes app.

Her fingers moved across the screen, and for the first time in longer than she could remember, she began to write something other than an article or a pitch. She started to write about a storm and snow and candlelight and a first kiss, her cheeks heating slightly at the thought of anyone else seeing it, but she didn’t stop. It was just for her anyway.

In the kitchen, she could hear Christopher moving around, the clink of bowls and spoons, and she wondered what it would be like to hear that more often. For it to be a regular, normal, soothing sound.

She wondered, sitting there with her open phone on her lap, if maybe there really was a different kind of life that could be as fulfilling as the one she was living right now.

If, maybe, she’d been wrong to dismiss this all so quickly, when there was a part of her who had wanted to be a different kind of person all along.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The silence was what woke Christopher the next morning.

There wasn’t the usual morning sounds of Fir Tree Grove—the occasional car passing on Main Street, the sound of guests rising, the chirping of birds outside. Just deep, muffled silence, from a storm that had left so much snow it had buried every sound.

He lay in bed for a moment, staring at the ceiling and listening to the eerie quiet. The wind had finally stopped its relentless howling sometime in the early morning hours. He’d been awake for most of it, listening to the storm rage against the old Victorian, mentally cataloging every creak and groan, every rattle of windowpanes, making sure his home weathered the onslaught intact.

And, he had to admit, thinking about Layla.

He’d had a hard time thinking about much else since they’d sat together in the living room the night before, eating soup in the candlelight and then…

Then, the first kiss he’d had in years, the first kiss since…

Christopher pushed back the covers and swung his legs out of bed, the hardwood floor cold beneath his bare feet despite the thick wool socks he’d worn to sleep. The room was chilly—colder than it should be. He glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand and found it dark, its display blank.

The power was still out.

He’d expected as much. A storm like that would have wreaked havoc on the power lines. He had a generator, of course—one of the first investments he’d made when they’d bought the place. It would keep the essentials running: the furnace, the refrigerators, some lights. But most of Fir Tree Grove wouldn’t be so fortunate.

He dressed quickly in thermal underwear, flannel-lined jeans, a heavy wool sweater, and thick socks. This was the kind of day that would call for it, especially heading out into the snow.

He made his way downstairs and tried the front door, only to find that it wouldn’t budge. With a sigh, he went around to the back through the mudroom, where he was able to make his way out to start clearing a path.

The sight outside was enough to take his breath away. There was snow everywhere, as far as he could see. The world had been transformed overnight into a winter wonderland, with nearly two feet of fresh snow. The morning sun made it sparkle like it had been dusted with diamonds. The bare branches of the old oak trees in his backyard were laden with white, bowing under the weight, creating intricate patterns against the pale blue sky. He saw the one that had fallen, luckily not somewhere that would cause any damage.

He stood in the doorway for a long moment, just taking it in. Then his eyes swept across the landscape toward town, and his heart sank.

He could see the downed power lines, and the damage was extensive. It would take days to repair, maybe longer depending on how widespread the outages were and how quickly the utility crews could mobilize.

Christopher’s mind immediately went to his neighbors. Some of the businesses, like his, had generators and would be able to at least run partially, but most, if not all, of the families in town wouldn’t. He felt the familiar sense of responsibility to help that came with being a part of the community. When trouble came—and it always did, eventually—everyone looked out for each other. They did what they could to help.

Christopher turned back into the mudroom, thinking of what to do next. He’d need to head into town, assess the damage, see what needed to be done. Check on the elderly residents first, make sure everyone had heat and food. The B&B could serve as a warming station if necessary—he had the generator, plenty of firewood for the fireplaces, a well-stocked pantry. He’d done it before during an ice storm three years ago, opened his doors to anyone who needed shelter.

First, though, he needed coffee.

He made his way back through the house to the kitchen, footsteps echoing in the unusual quiet. The generator had kicked on automatically when the power failed, so the lights worked when he flipped the switches, and the furnace hummed reassuringly in the basement.

He filled the electric kettle and pulled out his French press, enjoying the feeling of something familiar in the midst of all the chaos. While he waited for the water to boil, Christopher moved to the kitchen windows and looked out at the front yard. The snow had drifted against the porch railings and his truck, parked in the small lot out front, was buried up to its wheel wells. The street beyond was completely impassable, a smooth expanse of white with no indication of where the road ended and the yards began.

It would take hours to dig out and even longer before the plows could make their way through town, clearing the main roads first, then the side streets, then finally the residential areas. He’d be lucky to get the truck out by noon.