Falling in Vermont (Cozy Nights in Vermont #2)

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

SOPHIA

A few days later, with the raccoon paw prints scrubbed from the countertop at least three times, Sophia angled her camera tripod at her latest recipe, a plate of buttery garlic rosemary focaccia.

She’d need to perfectly capture the light hitting the glaze of oil on the pillowy bread. Hearty slices sat on rustic stoneware pottery plates surrounded by a rosemary garnish. The effect against the butcher block counter looked effortless yet aspirational. In the background, a cozy candle burned to set the mood.

She’d already fallen into a quiet rhythm here. For all of her jet-setting appeal as an influencer, Sophia was a homebody. She was most comfortable in sweats, mixing something delicious together in the kitchen with a cocktail in hand and FaceTiming her little sister who absolutely hated talking on the phone.

Young millennials, she thought with an eye roll.

She’d spent all morning going to farmers markets and produce stands to get the freshest ingredients as a small treat for making a dent in her recipes. But everywhere she went, the remaining twenty-four recipes followed her.

They’d toddled behind her, reminding her she was behind as she walked through the farmers markets. They’d stayed with her, increasing her anxiety on a bike ride that morning exploring the countryside. The twenty-four recipes seemed to have strong feelings that she’d bought flowers instead of ingredients at the last farm stand, but she wasn’t going to let them stop her joy of making time for herself.

“Forty days left, twenty-four recipes. I’ll be fine, right? I can just make a recipe every other day,” she mused as panic ran through her body.

She double-checked the camera angle before she hit record. Half her job as a content creator was just setting up B-roll cameras for her social media reels while hiding her baking chaos behind the camera. Her content had to look authentic, but polished. Fresh, but still hyper-relevant.

“I should be perfecting the soup section of my book. Instead, I’m making food look aesthetic,” she grumbled.

She had no choice though. All her content was old. She couldn’t recycle it any longer, so she decided to double down on the autumn vibe. She had to keep her viewer numbers up; otherwise, her publishers could renegotiate her contract.

Scratching sounds at the window made her jump. Wind whipped through the farm and tree branches were smacking against the windows. It looked like a storm was brewing outside.

Even better for my rainy day aesthetic.

Her next shot would be a cute selfie as she took a bite of the bread. She checked her hair and makeup in the camera preview. She’d decided on a casual look today, tossing her curls on top of her head, then artfully placing them in perfect spirals.

It had taken her forty-five fucking minutes to make it look so casual.

Her makeup was on point, as it always had to be for these. She was over-moisturized and over-contoured, but she looked barely normal compared to other content creators. She sighed, thinking of how much time and effort had gone into making herself look “barely normal.”

It was honestly exhausting.

She’d even looked at local baking gigs in Dallas just to change up her routine. The thought of getting up at three or four in the morning to spend time with hunks of dough didn’t seem so bad if she didn’t have to wear perfect makeup, have perfect hair, and care about her posting strategy.

Back to business.

She’d record the voiceover later, so all she had to do was smile, wave, and take a bite. She hit start on her camera.

A rattling sounded outside, and branches whipped against the windows again as the wind cranked up to a howl, making her jump. She pulled a face at the camera.

Maybe that’s something I can use for later. Her audience loved authentic moments that didn’t seem scripted, so the more allegedly authentic she got, the better.

She turned back to the camera, checking her positioning, and grabbed a thick piece of focaccia bread, showing it to the camera. Obligatory nail tappies showed off the bumps and grooves of the bread, and she took a big bite.

The garlic and salt hit her tongue and settled into her soul. She closed her eyes, savoring the soft, pillowy goodness and being so proud that she’d made something delicious.

She swiped a bit of the rosemary that had fallen off and winked at the camera as she licked it off her finger with a smile. She’d do some voiceover about how it was an extra treat to slow down and make something that made you happy.

A cracking sound overhead interrupted her thoughts. It sounded like a thousand cracks of a baseball bat in the wind.

She looked up as the living room ceiling— holy fuck —started to collapse. Her heart seized as she registered that something was falling on the cottage.

On instinct, she ducked beside the sturdy island. A booming crash sounded as debris and wind scattered into the living room. She tucked her arms over her head, hoping like hell that it wasn’t going to come into the kitchen, whatever it was.

Bits and pieces fell around her, but then, beyond the howling of the wind, everything settled.

She looked up, trying to register what had happened.

Gray sky poked through the cottage roof. She heard Blake screaming her name and his footsteps running toward the cottage.

He threw open the door that had remained unscathed, and she waved an arm as she sat up on her haunches, brushing debris from her hair.

“I’m here. I’m fine,” she added quickly. He looked around like a madman, eyes wild, and rushed to her, kneeling down.

He gathered her in his arms and crushed her against him, but then yanked her away. “Are you okay? Oh my god. I was in the barn when I saw the tree just cave in.” He was out of breath, searching her body for injuries. “Are you hurt? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said calmly, willing him to stop worrying.

Leave it to someone with chronic anxiety to be calm in a shitstorm.

He stood, holding out a hand. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

“But my stuff,” she said, looking around her. She grabbed her phone and tripod that had fallen beside her.

“It’s not safe to be in here.” He helped her up like she was injured and looked wearily up at the cottage roof that now sported a nature-made skylight.

The wind whipped around them as they walked out. “I ate a bite of focaccia, and then a tree crashed through the ceiling,” she called over the wind, still trying to process the crazy last thirty seconds.

“Did you hit your head? Did anything fall on you?” he yelled, glancing over her as they walked against the wind.

“Blake,” she said, putting her hands on his arms. “Breathe with me. I’m fine.” She sucked in a breath and blew it out slowly to show him.

His eyebrows furrowed. “Come on.” The wind whipped around them like it was out for vengeance as leaves tumbled past. “I’ll calm down when you’re inside and safe.” He laced his fingers through hers and pulled her toward his house. “It’s entirely my fault. I should have had the tree removed months ago.”

“Blake, it’s not your fault.”

He wrapped his other arm around her as they got closer to the farmhouse. “You could have been hurt or…or worse,” he said, wrenching open the door, his voice catching above the howling wind.

He didn’t let go once they were inside. She liked the feeling of his hand clutching hers as he led her through his entryway.

He pulled her into his darkened kitchen. “Are you sure you’re okay? No cuts or scratches anywhere? Sometimes the adrenaline hides injuries.” He looked her over, but she could only concentrate on his hand grasping hers. On the light freckles across his cheeks that seemed so at odds with his hulking stature.

“Oh shit,” he said, looking at the side of her neck.

He turned her chin gently with his free hand and a shiver went down her spine at the contact.

“You’re cut. Shit. I’m so sorry, Sophia.” His voice was anguished.

“I’m fine,” she laughed, feeling for the cut that must have been a mere scratch. Her finger had a small trickle of blood when she looked at it. Oh. Maybe worse than it feels.

His hand broke away from hers, and she held it to her for some reason, wanting to keep the warmth he provided.

“Here, sit.” Blake pulled out a wooden chair from the table and turned on the kitchen lights.

She hadn’t been in his place yet, but now she gaped as she took in the kitchen.

“Whoa.”

A long white wall of subway tile gave way to beautiful old cabinets that had been lovingly restored, a high-end designer fridge, and?—

Holy Mother of the Food Channel Gods.

She gasped. “Is that a Viking ?” she screamed the name in disbelief, walking to the oven and ignoring the chair.

“Uh, yeah. I think so,” he said, seeming distracted. He walked to her with a first aid kit. “Here, do you mind if I…?” He gestured to her neck.

“Oh, sure,” she said absentmindedly, running her hands over the sex god of ovens, the Viking Series 7. She’d stared at it on her computer multiple times over several glasses of wine, dreaming of what it would be like to use something other than the builder-grade oven in her apartment.

“This thing is gorgeous. I think this literal model is on my ‘when I hit the lottery’ vision board.” She sighed with longing. “How did I not know you were a foodie?”

“I’m not,” he laughed, clicking open the first aid kit. “My parents splurged on a redesign about ten years ago, but it’s been lost on me since I took over the farm.”

She popped open the smaller of the two oven doors. I could make lasagna and roast vegetables at the same damn time. “This was your parents’ place?”

“They took it over from my grandparents. When they decided it was time to retire, I took over.”

“Wow.” She mentally cataloged what she could make that used all eight burners on the stove. “Do you know that this thing heats nearly instantly?” She resisted the urge to moan as she saw one had the wok attachment. The wok attachment, for chrissakes. Jesus, it looked practically brand new. “This oven is ten thousand dollars’ worth of homey goodness.”

“My mom has expensive tastes, unfortunately. Hasn’t always been a great fit for a husband who is a farmer, but my dad tried to spoil her. All I know is that it heats up frozen pizzas pretty well.”

She gasped. “Blasphemy. Frozen pizzas in this thing? Not even fresh homemade ones?”

“’Fraid not. Ready?” A gentle hand lifted her chin. “This may hurt a little.”

“Can’t sting as badly as how you’ve misused the Jaguar of ovens.”

The corner of his mouth curled up at her teasing.

She liked the feeling of his fingers brushing her throat as he took care of her. Her eyes fluttered closed at that little bit of contact, but she flinched as the warm gauze hit her cut as he cleaned it.

“So what kinds of things should I be making in this oven?” he said, probably to distract her.

It worked.

“Ooh,” she thought with excitement, wiggling around. “Maybe some homemade bread. You could use a big Dutch oven to do a peasant-style loaf. Very Jean Valjean. I’d insist you flavor it with the rosemary that I got from Mabel.”

“Mabel the sheep?” he said in a soft voice, smiling. She could almost feel the puff of his breath against her cheek as he put antibiotic ointment on her cut.

Delicious .

“If I got it from Mabel the sheep, I would have said ‘ Maaaaaaybel ,’” she said, making the obligatory baaaa sheep sound. Maaay bel was the local superstar animal at the Chestnut Hollow Inn and Farm next door, and Sophia had met both farmer and sheep Mabels when she’d stopped to check out their farm stand.

“Okay,” he said, stepping back. “All done.”

“Thank you.” A small shiver traveled through her body and her teeth chattered. Weird. She pulled her sleeves over her hands and wrapped her arms around her middle. “Why do I feel cold?”

“I think you’re in shock.” He reached into a hall closet.

“Psssh.” She waved him away. “I’m not in shock.” That was what other people experienced. She could handle practically anything.

Though she hadn’t realized she’d had a wide cut on her neck…

“A roof almost fuckin’ fell on you, Sophia. You’re allowed to be in shock. Here, this should be clean.” He held a thick flannel shirt open for her, and her insides flip-flopped.

If my system is already in shock, I don’t think I can handle an honest-to-goodness gentleman on top of it.

She slid it on and he tugged it up onto her shoulders. The warmth of it felt like heaven. It smelled like him—that cologne and ivory soap scent of manliness, maybe with a hint of wood smoke. “Thank you,” she said quietly, wrapping the shirt around her.

“I’ll call Mabel and see if she has an open room at her inn. Or my uncles at the Clovely Inn.” He looked out at the cottage where half a tree stuck out of the roof. His brow scrunched with worry as he turned around, looking pained. “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get the roof fixed. It’ll definitely take more than a couple of days.”

He wiped a hand over his face, letting out a loud sigh. “But I’m not sure if either of them will have availability for a whole month. They’re usually booked solid this time of year.” He looked down, chewing on his cheek. “I can give you your money back so you can go home early.”

He looked pained as he spoke to her, like a thousand different worries were sitting on his shoulders.

But I don’t wanna go home.

She’d sublet her apartment in Dallas, and she desperately didn’t want to go back yet. The air here was too crisp, the veggies too local, the man in front of her too handsome.

She’d planned to spend Thanksgiving with Iris and her new boyfriend Sam in Boston a couple hours away. It seemed silly to fly all the way back with her stuff early, only to have to crash with a friend for four or five weeks and come back.

She looked around the gorgeous kitchen—the designer fridge, the oven porn behind her.

Ample granite counters would be perfect surfaces for rolling out heaps of dough and chopping endless vegetables.

She peered over the countertop into the open-concept living room. A large cobblestone fireplace wound its way up the wall. Comfy sofas sat facing it. The old farmhouse kitchen table had decades of character built into it.

And she’d have a kind, sexy roommate to talk to.

One that worried about her, even when he didn’t need to.

“What if…I stayed here?”

“Here?” he echoed, his eyes going wide. He gulped. “In this house? Where I am?”

It looked like his brains had been dumped into a deep fryer.

She shrugged as she looked around the kitchen. It was spotless. He’d probably be a better roommate than most women she’d roomed with. “It’s a big farmhouse. Is there a guest bedroom?”

He huffed out a surprised laugh. “Uh, yep. Across the hall from my room. We’d have to share a bathroom, though.”

She thought back to the conversation she’d overheard between him and his aunt.

Okay, the one she’d eavesdropped on.

He was already worried about money on the farm, and she hadn’t seen many people stop by for pumpkins, despite other farm stands being overrun with tourists.

“You could even keep the money.” She bit her lip, starting to get her hopes up. She’d get to see him every day, get to spread her wings in this gorgeous farmhouse kitchen on a dreamy pumpkin farm.

“I can’t let you do that. I mean, you’re welcome to stay here.” He scratched his ear in what looked like panicked thought. “But you can’t pay me to stay in my place. I’d love for you to…” He shook his head, blushing. “I mean, you’d be welcome to stay here.”

“Your kitchen is amazing.” She placed a lingering touch on the stovetop. “A lot more space than my kitchen at home, and better tools.”

She opened the fridge door to take a look, and her face fell as she saw rows and rows of nothing but packaged protein shakes. She ripped open the freezer and saw stacks of microwave TV dinners and frozen pizzas.

“Where is your food?” she said, turning around with concern.

“Right there.” He shrugged, crossing his arms.

“These are nutrients. Where’s your food ?” She peeked behind the rows of bottles filled with perfectly balanced macros, but likely zero happiness.

He closed the fridge door. “I just don’t really know how to cook.”

“Do you like drinking only protein shakes?” She scratched her head, dumbfounded.

He huffed out a laugh. “No, but they’re fast. I usually don’t have free time. I just chug one and keep going to do whatever needs to be done.”

She grabbed his arms, shaking him for emphasis. “But you deserve to feel good when you feed your body, Blake. Food is life. Food is love in your mouth.”

His cheeks went red at that.

Oh god, she loved doing that to him. She realized how close she was to him—nearly toe to toe—and took a step back.

She could be a little intense ; she knew this.

“Well, that settles it. I have to move in. I have to feed you. Otherwise, my 4'11" Italian nonna will rise from her grave, crawl here from Sarasota, and haunt me until I do.”

He smiled at her, looking a little embarrassed. “I’d love anything you’d care to make, but you don’t need to worry about me.” He grabbed the jacket he’d tossed off when they’d come in. “I’m going to go look at the damage in the cottage. Is there anything else you need tonight?”

You, holding my chin again while you take care of me.

“My computer’s on the kitchen table,” she said. She was tempted to add “a red thong” to see him blush again, but she didn’t dare. He’d take her too seriously and risk injuring himself. “Oh, and Kim Carbdashian.”

He halted in confusion. “Kim what?”

“She’s my sourdough starter in the fridge.”

“And you’re getting your money back,” he shouted as he walked out.

“Not unless I can take this oven with me back to Dallas,” she shouted back.

The back door clicking shut was his response.

Star trotted up to her and leaned her full body weight against Sophia’s legs.

“Hey, Star girl.” She got in close for a cuddle. An overwhelming wave of exhaustion came over her, and she yawned into the dog’s fur. A small tongue lick grazed her cheek, and she smiled into the cloud of black.

“You gonna give me a tour?” she asked, as Star’s mouth opened with a smile, panting her puppy breath onto Sophia’s face. “How about I get a tour of the couch first?” she said tiredly.

Maybe this whole ordeal had tired her out more than she realized. She’d been hustling nonstop since she’d arrived five days ago.

As she curled up on the comfy overstuffed couch, it seemed to fold her in, and she settled under the heavy, soft blanket that Blake kept on the edge of the couch. She was thankful for being safe and warm in a cozy old farmhouse as Star settled onto her legs.

The image of Blake ripping open the cottage door and running toward her flashed in her mind as she processed the last twenty minutes. She sighed, thinking about how he’d crushed her to his chest and the overwhelming wave of safety she’d felt when he’d gotten there.

Maybe, if I’m lucky, he’ll hug me one more time.