Snowbound at Harbor's Rest

Heather led me to the bar, the empty room echoing with our footsteps. She moved behind the polished mahogany, grabbing a set of darts from a case on the shelf.

“Rules are simple,” she said, handing me three darts. “501, double out. Loser buys the winner a drink.”

I took the darts, testing their weight in my hand. “You’re on.”

The first game was a close one, Heather’s throws precise and controlled, mine a little wild at first but settling into a rhythm as I found my groove. She won by a narrow margin, a triumphant grin spreading across her face.

“Looks like you owe me a drink, Walsh,” she said, her eyes glinting.

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. “One more game. Double or nothing.”

“You’re on.” She pulled the darts from the board, handing me my set. “But don’t think I’ll go easy on you.”

The second game was even closer, the lead shifting back and forth until it came down to the final throw. I took a deep breath, eyeing the board, and let the dart fly. It hit the double ring, just a breath away from the winning segment.

Heather stepped up, her expression focused. She threw, and her dart landed squarely in the double 20, winning the game.

“Better luck next time, hotshot,” she said, her grin wicked. “Now, about that drink…”

She poured me a whiskey, neat, and I sipped it slowly, savoring the smoky burn. We chatted easily, Heather’s sharp wit making me laugh, and I felt some of the tension in my shoulders ease.

Over the next few weeks, I settled into the rhythm of life at the lodge. My days were filled with managing reservations, coordinating with the staff, and ensuring everything ran smoothly. But it was the moments with the women that I found myself looking forward to the most.

One afternoon, I found Bethany in the kitchen, her hands deep in a mound of bread dough. The kitchen swam in the warm, yeasty aroma of baking, and I lingered in the doorway, observing her work.

She looked up, a smudge of flour on her cheek. “Hey, Whitney. Come to help or just to watch?”

“I was hoping for a lesson, actually,” I said, stepping into the room. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to make bread.”

Bethany smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Then grab an apron and wash your hands. Let’s get you started.”

She guided me through the process, her hands over mine as we kneaded the dough. Her touch was firm and sure, and I felt a spark of something warm and unfamiliar unfurl in my chest.

“You’ve got good hands,” she murmured, her whisper brushing my ear. “Strong, but gentle.”

I gulped, my pulse accelerating. “Thanks. I’ve had a lot of practice.”

She chuckled, the sound low and rich. “I’ll bet you have.”

Our eyes connected, and for a moment, the space between us seemed to vibrate with silent tension. Then Bethany stepped back, dusting her hands on her apron. “Okay, let that rest for a bit. I’ll show you how to shape the loaves.”

I followed her lead, my hands clumsy at first but growing more confident under her patient guidance. When we slid the loaves into the oven, I felt a sense of accomplishment that went beyond just baking bread.

A few days later, my knee was acting up, the dull ache flaring into a sharp, persistent pain. I mentioned it to Brynn in passing, and she insisted on giving me a massage.

“Come on,” she said, her lavender eyes warm with concern. “I’ve got some free time now. Let’s get you sorted.”

I followed her into the spa, the air scented with essential oils and soothing music playing softly in the background. She led me to a treatment room, gesturing for me to lie face-down on the table.

Her hands were magic, warm and strong as they worked the knots from my muscles. She started at my shoulders, her thumbs pressing into the tight spots until they released, then worked her way down my back and legs.

When she reached my knee, she was exquisitely gentle, her touch feather-light as she massaged the swollen joint. I felt the pain ease, replaced by a deep, soothing warmth that spread through my whole body.

“You carry a lot of tension here,” she murmured, her voice soft and soothing. “Both physical and emotional.”

I sighed, my eyes drifting closed. “It’s been a rough year.”

“I know,” she said, her hands never stopping their soothing motion. “But you’re here now. You’re safe. Let yourself relax.”

Under her tender ministrations, I felt the last of the tension melt away, replaced by a sense of peace and well-being I hadn’t felt in months.

One evening, as I was getting ready for bed, I noticed a leak under the bathroom sink. I tried to tighten the pipe, but it only made the leak worse, and I cursed under my breath.

A knock sounded at the door, and I opened it to find Teagan standing there, her toolbox in hand. “Heard you having some trouble,” she remarked, her face inscrutable. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Please,” I said, stepping aside to let her in. “I think I made it worse.”

She brushed past me, the scent of her—like sawdust and sea air—filling my senses. I watched as she knelt in front of the sink, her movements efficient and sure as she assessed the damage.

“It’s just a loose connection,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “Easy fix.”

She set to work, her hands deft as she replaced the worn washer and tightened the fitting. I hovered in the doorway, watching the play of muscles in her forearms as she worked.

When she finished, she turned on the water, checking for leaks. “That should do it.”

“Thank you,” I said, my voice softer than I intended. “I really appreciate it.”

Our eyes met in the dim light of the bathroom, and for a moment, something flickered between us—something raw and intense that made my breath catch.

Then Teagan cleared her throat, looking away. “Just doing my job.”

She packed up her tools and left, leaving me standing there, my heart hammering in my chest, wondering what had just transpired between us.

The memory of Teagan’s intense gaze and the lingering scent of her skin haunted me as I tried to fall asleep that night. My body hummed with restless energy, and I tossed and turned, seeking a comfort that eluded me. Finally, I gave up and slipped downstairs, drawn by the faint glow of light from the kitchen.

I found Bethany there, her back to me as she stirred something on the stove. The air was rich with the savory aroma of garlic and herbs, and my stomach growled in response.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked without turning around, her voice soft and warm.

“No,” I admitted, padding into the room in my bare feet. “My mind won’t shut off.”

She glanced over her shoulder, her dark eyes glinting in the dim light. “I find cooking helps with that. The repetitive motions, the focus on the task at hand… it quiets the noise.”

She turned back to the stove, and I watched the play of muscles in her back as she worked. “Smells amazing,” I said, leaning against the counter beside her. “What are you making?”

“Just a simple marinara,” she replied, giving the pot a stir. “I find it soothing. The way the flavors deepen and meld… it’s like magic.”

I peered into the pot, watching the rich red sauce bubble gently. “It’s beautiful,” I said, my voice hushed. “Like edible art.”

Bethany chuckled, the sound low and rich. “I don’t know about art, but it’ll taste damn good on some pasta tomorrow.”

She set the spoon down and turned to face me, her eyes warm and inviting. “You want to help me taste test?”

“I’d love to,” I said, my pulse quickening at her nearness.

She ladled a small amount of sauce into a bowl and handed me a spoon. I blew on it gently before taking a taste, the flavors exploding on my tongue—sweet tomato, pungent garlic, the earthy tang of fresh herbs.

“Wow,” I breathed, my eyes widening. “That’s incredible, Bethany.”

She smiled, her cheeks flushing with pleasure. “Glad you like it.”

We stood there for a moment, the space between us charged with something unsaid. Then Bethany reached out, her thumb brushing a smear of sauce from the corner of my mouth. Her touch was feather-light, but it sent a shock of energy through my body.

“You had a little…” she murmured, her voice husky. “Right there.”

“Thanks,” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Her hand lingered, her fingers following the curve of my jaw. “You’re welcome.”

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “Bethany, I—”