"I Thought You Said You Could Handle a Little Ice."

### I. OCTOBER 12 [Vance: 11:22 PM] Are you still using that vintage cast-iron pan I gave you, or did you turn it into a decorative wall piece? [Me: 11:24 PM] It’s currently searing a ribeye, Vance. Some of us actually know how to maintain an edge. Why are you texting me at midnight? [Vance: 11:25 PM] It’s only eleven in El Paso. I was just thinking about that steak you made in '18. And the way you looked holding a chef’s knife. Dangerous. [Me: 11:27 PM] Go to sleep, Vance. You have a ranch to run. [Vance: 11:28 PM] The cattle are fine. It’s the owner that’s restless. I put the phone face down on the granite counter. The vibration of his next text sent a little jolt through the marble, echoing in the hollow of my chest. I’m forty-four years old. I have a design firm to run, two ex-husbands who are footnotes in a very long book, and a daughter in grad school. I do not get flustered by men who smell like cedarwood and CLP. But Vance has this way of standing—even in a text—that feels like he’s taking up all the oxygen in the room. He was my brother’s CO before he retired to that stretch of dirt in West Texas. He’s all discipline and hidden corners. [Vance: 11:32 PM] I bought the cabin in the Sangre de Cristos. The one we talked about. Come up in December. I’ll provide the wood. You provide the knife skills. I didn't reply. I just watched the steak juice pool on the plate, red and thick, and felt my pulse thrumming in my throat. ### II. NOVEMBER 3 [Me: 09:15 AM] I saw the weather report for Northern New Mexico. You’re going to be buried by Christmas. [Vance: 09:18 AM] I’ve got three cords of oak, a generator, and a pantry full of bourbon. Being buried is the objective, Mattie. [Me: 09:20 AM] You’re a solitary creature, Vance. You’ll be talking to the squirrels by day four. [Vance: 09:22 AM] I wasn't planning on being alone. The invite stands. Unless you’re scared of a little frostbite. [Me: 09:25 AM] I’m not scared of the cold. I’m scared of your cooking. [Vance: 09:26 AM] Fair point. Pack your spices. And that silk robe you wore in Austin. The navy one. I felt a heat crawl up my neck that had nothing to do with the central heating in my Houston office. Austin was three years ago. A weekend at a mutual friend’s wedding where we spent more time on the balcony than at the reception. We hadn't touched—not really. Just a hand on the small of my back to guide me through a door, a lingering look over the rim of a glass. But he remembered the robe. He remembered the way the silk caught the light when I stepped out to look at the stars. He was a man who noticed everything, the way a sniper notices the windage. [Me: 09:30 AM] I’ll bring the robe. But only because the cabin has drafty windows. [Vance: 09:31 AM] Liar. ### III. DECEMBER 14 The drive up the winding mountain road was a lesson in friction. The tires of my SUV gripped the salted asphalt, but the higher I climbed, the more the world turned into a monochromatic blur of grey and white. The air was thin, crisp enough to snap in your lungs. Vance was waiting on the porch of a cabin that looked like it had grown out of the mountainside. It was rugged—heavy timber, stone chimney, a roof weighted down with a foot of fresh powder. He looked exactly like he always did: blue jeans worn white at the knees, a charcoal thermal shirt pushed up to his elbows, and that steady, terrifyingly calm expression. "You made it," he said, his voice a low rumble that cut through the whistle of the wind. "I have GPS, Vance. I wasn't going to get lost." "I wasn't worried about you getting lost. I was worried about you turning the car around." He took my suitcase from the trunk. His hand brushed mine—cold skin meeting cold skin—but there was a spark under the surface, a static discharge that made my fingers twitch. Inside, the cabin smelled of burning pine and something metallic, like gun oil. It was masculine, sparse, and intensely warm. "The storm's coming in early," he said, gesturing to the window where the sky had turned the color of a bruised plum. "We’ve got maybe an hour of visibility left." "Good," I said, shedding my heavy coat. "I didn't come here for the view." He paused, my suitcase still in his hand, and looked at me. His eyes were the color of flint. He didn't smile. He just nodded, a slow, deliberate movement that felt like a promise. ### IV. DECEMBER 15 (02:00 AM) The power went out three hours ago. The only light came from the dying embers in the hearth and the pale, ghostly reflection of the snow against the glass. The wind was a physical weight now, slamming against the logs, making the whole structure groan like a ship at sea. I couldn't sleep. The silence was too loud. I went out to the main room, wrapped in that navy silk robe, my feet bare on the cold floorboards. Vance was sitting by the fire, a glass of bourbon in his hand. He wasn't wearing a shirt. His back was to me—a map of old scars and hard-earned muscle. He looked like something carved out of the mountain itself. "Can't sleep?" he asked, without turning around. "The wind is rattling the rafters." "It’s just the house settling. It’s built to take the hit." I walked closer, stopping just behind his chair. The heat from the fire hit my shins, but the heat coming off him was more localized, more intense. "You don't seem bothered." "I’ve slept in worse places, Mattie. Places where the wind didn't just rattle the rafters, it blew them off." He turned then, looking up at me. The firelight danced in the amber of his glass and the dark hollows of his collarbone. He reached out, his fingers grazing the hem of my robe. The silk hissed against his calloused skin. "You brought it," he murmured. "I told you. Drafty windows." "Come here." It wasn't a request. It was a command, softened by a decade of wanting. I stepped between his knees. His denim was rough against my bare thighs. He set the glass down on the hearth and put his hands on my hips, his thumbs hooking into the silk tie of the robe. "I've been thinking about this since Austin," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Actually, before that. Since the first time I saw you at the change of command ceremony in '14. You were wearing a red dress and looking at me like I was something you needed to dismantle." "You were arrogant," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "I was focused. There’s a difference." He pulled me closer, burying his face in the crook of my neck. His breath was hot, smelling of oak and high-proof spirits. He didn't kiss me yet. He just breathed me in, his hands tightening on my hips until I felt the pressure of his palms against my pelvic bones. "You’re shaking, Mattie." "It’s cold, Vance." "I thought you said you could handle a little ice." He looked up, a challenge in his eyes, and then he leaned forward and bit—just a sharp, playful nip—on the sensitive skin of my shoulder. I gasped, my head falling back, and that was the end of the restraint. ### V. THE STORM His mouth was a siege. It wasn't gentle; it was a claim. He tasted of bourbon and salt, his tongue sliding against mine with a calculated rhythm that made my knees go weak. I tangled my fingers in his hair—it was thick and coarse—and pulled him closer, needing the weight of him to anchor me against the storm outside. He stood up, never breaking the kiss, and lifted me. I wrapped my legs around his waist, the silk robe falling open, my bare skin suddenly exposed to the cool air and then immediately pressed against the scorching heat of his chest. He carried me to the heavy oak table—the one I’d imagined searing steaks on—and cleared the books and maps off with one sweep of his arm. He sat me down on the edge, the wood cold against my ass, and knelt between my legs. "Vance," I moaned, my hands sliding down to his shoulders. "I've waited three years to see you like this," he growled. He parted the silk entirely, revealing my breasts, the nipples already peaked and hard from the chill. He didn't rush. He looked at me—really looked at me—with a reverence that felt more intimate than any touch. "You’re beautiful, Mattie. Like a goddamn sunset over the Pecos." He leaned in, his tongue circling one nipple, then the other, before drawing the whole length of me into his mouth. The suction was intense, a deep throb starting between my legs that felt like a countdown. I arched my back, my fingers digging into the wood of the table, as he moved lower. He stripped his jeans off with a frantic efficiency I hadn't seen from him before. His cock was thick and heavy, standing straight out from the dark hair at his groin, pulsing with his heartbeat. He didn't go for it immediately. Instead, he used his hands. He spread my thighs wide, his fingers finding the damp heat of my pussy. "You're so wet for me," he whispered, his thumb circling my clit while two fingers slid deep inside me. "Tell me what you want." "You know what I want. Stop being an officer and start being a man." He let out a short, dark laugh and stood up, grabbing my hips and pulling me to the very edge of the table. He guided himself to my opening, the broad, blunt head of his cock rubbing against my folds, spreading my own moisture around until I was slick and aching. Then he pushed. He went in all at once, a slow, punishing slide that filled me completely. I let out a jagged cry, my eyes fluttering shut as my body stretched to accommodate him. He was huge, a solid presence that anchored me to the earth. He stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed against mine, both of us breathing in synchronization. "Look at me," he commanded. I opened my eyes. He was searching my face, his own expression tight with a mixture of pain and pleasure. "You okay?" he asked, his voice strained. "Move, Vance. For God's sake, move." He started a slow, deliberate grind. Each thrust was a tactical strike, hitting the exact spot on my G-spot that made my toes curl. He wasn't just fucking me; he was mapping me. His hands stayed on my hips, his thumbs pressing into my hipbones as he hammered home. The sound of our bodies meeting—that wet, rhythmic slap—was the only thing louder than the wind. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him down so I could bite his earlobe. "Harder," I hissed. He didn't need to be told twice. He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter, sharper, more frantic. I felt the pressure building, a coil of wire tightening in my gut. My inner muscles clamped down on him, milking him, and I heard him groan—a deep, guttural sound that started in his boots. "Mattie... I'm gonna..." "Go," I urged, my own climax crashing over me like a wave. "Come for me, Vance." He gave three more powerful lunges, burying himself so deep I felt his balls slap against my thighs, and then he shuddered. I felt the hot, thick jet of his come hitting my cervix, over and over, as he collapsed against me, his weight pinning me to the table. My own body was vibrating, the aftershocks of the orgasm rippling through my legs and lower back. We stayed like that for a long time, the only light the dying orange glow of the logs. The storm was still howling, but inside, the air was still. ### VI. DECEMBER 15 (08:00 AM) The morning was blinding. The clouds had broken, leaving a sky so blue it looked painted. The world was buried in white, the snow drifts reaching the bottom of the windows. I woke up in the big loft bed, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket. The smell of coffee and bacon drifted up from the kitchen. I felt sore in places I’d forgotten I had, a dull, satisfied ache in my hips and the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. I went downstairs to find Vance at the stove, a towel slung over his shoulder. He was wearing his jeans, but he was still shirtless. The scars on his back were highlighted by the morning sun. He heard me and turned, a mug of coffee already held out. "Power’s still out," he said. "But the gas stove works fine." "How long are we trapped?" I asked, taking the coffee. "Plow won't be through until tomorrow, maybe the day after. We’re officially cut off." I leaned against the counter, watching him flip the bacon with the same precision he used for everything else. "Is that a problem, Colonel?" He stepped toward me, taking the mug from my hand and setting it on the counter. He put his hands on either side of me, trapping me against the wood. He smelled like soap and woodsmoke. "No," he said, his eyes dark and focused. "It’s a strategic advantage." He kissed me then, a slow, lingering taste of coffee and morning skin. ### VII. JANUARY 2 [Me: 10:14 PM] I’m back in Houston. The humidity is a nightmare and my cat is judging me for being gone so long. [Vance: 10:16 PM] The cabin feels too big. I keep finding blue silk threads on the floorboards. [Me: 10:18 PM] You should probably sweep, Vance. Discipline, remember? [Vance: 10:20 PM] I think I’ll leave them. They remind me of the way you sounded when the power went out. [Me: 10:22 PM] I have a business to run, Vance. I can't be distracted by retired officers in the mountains. [Vance: 10:25 PM] Check your mail on Tuesday. I sent you something. [Me: 10:26 PM] What is it? [Vance: 10:28 PM] A key, Mattie. For the next time the windows get drafty. I stared at the screen for a long time. The city lights of Houston blurred outside my window, a frantic, buzzing contrast to the silence of the Sangre de Cristos. I thought about the weight of his hands on my hips and the way he looked at me in the firelight—not like an architect, or a mother, or an ex-wife, but like a woman who was worth the wait. [Me: 10:35 PM] I hope you have enough wood for February. It’s supposed to be a cold winter. [Vance: 10:36 PM] I’ll start chopping tomorrow.

"I Thought You Said You Could Handle a Little Ice."

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