Finn
“You look ridiculous,” Gabe says, watching me struggle to zip up my third layer.
I glare at him through the narrow gap between my pompon hat and the thick wool scarf wound tightly around my neck.
“It’s freezing outside,” I mumble through the wool.
Gabe leans against the doorframe, looking unfairly comfortable in just a flannel shirt and an unzipped winter jacket.
The man runs hotter than a furnace, which makes him perfect for cuddling, but insufferable during arguments about proper winter attire.
“You’re wearing electric socks.” He points to my feet, where the battery packs peek out from my boots.
“And I’m still cold. That’s how cold it is.”
I tug on a second pair of gloves over my first pair. My fingers are now so thick that they’re mostly useless.
Exactly as planned.
“You won’t be able to move.” There’s amusement in his voice, the kind that usually means he’s caught on to my game.
“That’s a shame.” I waddle toward him, arms slightly extended from my sides because the layers won’t let me lay them flat.
Gabe’s eyes narrow. “You’re not getting out of helping.”
“I’m from Sunny Cove. My biceps are strictly decorative.” I have a PhD in literature, for God’s sake, not lumberjacking.
I make a show of bending down to adjust my boot, nearly toppling over in the process. From the kitchen counter, where she’s nursing her coffee and typing furiously on her laptop, Melody stifles a laugh.
“Jesus Christ,” Gabe mutters. “You’re going to roll down the mountain.”
“I’m dressing for the weather,” I say. “Some of us weren’t raised in the tundra.”
Melody snorts, then winces at the movement.
Poor thing. Bourbon plus wine equals the hangover from hell.
I attempt to adjust my hat, but my arms remain stubbornly extended. “I’m physically incapable of holding an axe now. Tragic.”
“Coward.”
“Strategic,” I correct. “I’ll supervise from a safe distance, preferably near a fire.”
Gabe gives me that look—the one that says I’m insufferable but loves me, anyway. It’s a look I never tire of, even after three years.
“At least I brought my contacts today,” I say, counting small victories. “Another reason to hate the cold—they fog up my glasses every time I breathe. One minute I can see, the next I’m legally blind with two tiny ice rinks attached to my face.”
Melody laughs from her spot at the counter, then immediately presses a hand to her temple with a groan.
“Karma,” I tell her with a sympathetic wince. “That’s what happens when you try to out-drink Everett’s special cocoa.”
“I wasn’t trying to out-drink anyone,” she mumbles. “I was trying to forget that my family had abandoned me for Christmas.”
“Well, now you have us,” I chirp. “One that forces its members into manual labor in subzero temperatures.”
“So, um, what’s happening today?”
She looks like she’s trying very hard to be casual, even though she’s sharing her rental cabin with two strange men she drunkenly invited to stay.