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Samuel ‘Sam’ Caldwell

I WAS LATE , which was unheard of for me.

Ryan was typically the late one, losing track of time when he was buried in one of his projects, not me.

But something had gone sideways at the farm—a busted sap line, of all things, just when I thought I’d finished the week’s maintenance—and by the time I’d wrangled it back into working order, I was thirty minutes behind schedule.

The snow fell thick and fast as I trudged down the narrow path leading to the trailhead.

The Caldwell covered bridge loomed ahead, its red timbers dusted with white, picture-perfect in the way it always was after a storm.

And there they were, waiting for me under the old sugar maple at the trail’s entrance.

The three men—my best friends—were bundled up against the cold, hats pulled low, scarves wrapped high, like a mismatched set of snowmen.

Conor was the tallest, and his firefighter’s build was unmistakable, even under layers of winter gear.

Haider was easy to spot, too, bright red gloves flashing as he gestured at something Ryan had said.

And Ryan—well, our resident craftsman was easy to pick out because he was standing a little off to the side, examining a branch of the tree they were under as if imagining the things he could make with it.

“You’re late,” Conor called out when he saw me, his grin wide enough to be heard in his voice.

“Don’t sound so shocked,” I shot back, stuffing my hands deeper into my pockets as I approached.

“I didn’t think Ryan would be on time.”

Ryan glanced up; his face half-hidden behind his scarf.

“I set an alarm. Haider said he’d kill me if I were late for his birthday again.”

“Damn right,” Haider said, crossing his arms and squinting at me.

“And you—Mr. Reliable—what’s your excuse?”

“Farm stuff,” I muttered, kicking at the snow.

“A line broke, and I had to fix it.”

Conor’s eyebrows shot up.

“In this weather? You really love those trees, don’t you?”

“Someone has to,” I said, rolling my eyes, but I couldn’t help smiling.

“Come on,” Haider said, gesturing toward the trail.

“It’s my birthday, and I’m not spending it standing here in the snow waiting for you to explain your maple emergencies.”

We fell into step together, the four of us walking along the familiar path.

It was tradition to meet here on our birthdays and take this walk.

From the trailhead, we’d follow the bend in the path curving through the woods, past the covered bridge, and loop back to town.

I didn’t know who had suggested it first, but it stuck.

Some traditions were worth keeping.

Haider’s cheeks were red—not just from the cold but from his excitement when he told us one of his dating stories.

He was marching ahead, his red-gloved hands flailing as he talked, and Ryan and Conor were already howling with laughter.

I had no idea what I’d missed, but I didn’t want to be left out.

I really hated being late.

“Wait, wait, start over,” I called, catching up to them.

“What happened?”

Haider spun around, walking backward to ensure I saw his full level of exasperation.

“Okay, so I matched with this guy on the app—Benji. Cute. Seemed normal, you know? We decided to meet up at that coffee shop by the bookstore. You know the one.”

“Sure,” I said, grinning.

This was already promising.

“So, I get there first, right? Order my latte, sit down, whatever. He shows up, and—” Haider paused, throwing his hands up dramatically.

“The first thing out of his mouth is, ‘Wow, you look taller in your photos.’”

Conor let out a loud laugh.

“Classic. Always a great start to a date.”

“Right?” Haider groaned.

“And I’m just sitting there, thinking, What the hell do I even say to that? So, I’m like, ‘Uh, okay, thanks?’ And he shrugs like it’s no big deal. Strike one.”

“Wait, wait,” Ryan interrupted, grinning.

“Was he shorter than you?”

“Of course, he was shorter than me,” Haider said, gesturing to himself.

“And I’m not even that tall! Anyway, we’re making awkward small talk, and I’m trying to steer the conversation toward literally anything normal. Then the waitress brings his drink, and he looks her dead in the eye and says, ‘Thanks, but I don’t tip.’”

A collective groan went up from all of us.

“No,” I said, shaking my head.

“No way.”

“Oh, yes,” Haider said, eyes wide with mock horror.

“I wanted to crawl under the table. The waitress just gave him this look like, ‘Really?’ And then I ended up tipping extra because I was so embarrassed.”

“Strike two,” Conor said, smirking.

“Strike two and three,” Haider shot back.

“But no, it gets worse. He starts talking about how he’s ‘working on a screenplay’—because of course he is—and goes on this whole rant about how no one understands his vision and how he has this ‘intense connection’ to cats.”

Ryan frowned.

“Like, he likes cats. That’s not bad.”

“No, no,” Haider said, waving a finger at him.

“Not like he ‘likes cats.’ Like he thinks he was a cat in a past life. He literally said, and I quote, ‘I think my soul resonates with feline energy.’”

I almost choked on my laughter.

“What does that even mean?”

“I have no idea!” Haider threw up his hands.

“I sat there, nodding like an idiot because I didn’t want to be rude. But then—then!—he says, ‘Do you ever feel like people just don’t understand your meows?’”

Conor lost it, doubling over with laughter.

Ryan wasn’t far behind, his laugh so loud it startled a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.

I couldn’t help myself, either.

I laughed so hard my sides hurt.

“So, what did you do?” I managed, wiping my eyes.

“What could I do?” Haider said, shaking his head.

“I excused myself to the bathroom, told the waitress good luck, and walked out. Blocked him on the app before I even reached my car.”

“You abandoned him?” Conor said, grinning.

“Cold.”

“Oh, please.” Haider snorted.

“The guy deserved it. And I’m pretty sure the waitress gave me a thumbs-up on my way out.”

“See, this is why I don’t date,” I said, still laughing.

“It’s too dangerous out there.”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Maple Boy,” Haider shot back.

“At least I’m trying. What about you?”

I shrugged, dodging the question.

“I’m not the one resonating with feline energy.”

The teasing continued as we walked, the cold forgotten for a while as Haider’s disastrous date story turned into the best entertainment we’d had in weeks.

I should have expected nothing less from him.

It wouldn’t be a Haider birthday without a story like this one.

“Thirty,” Haider groaned, dragging the word out as if it were a life sentence.

He kicked at a clump of snow on the path, sending it flying.

“How am I thirty and still single? It’s pathetic. I mean, come on. I’m a nice guy, right?”

He looked at us, waiting for validation.

Conor did this weird laugh-snort thing, while Ryan stayed quiet, biting his lip as if he were trying to decide how serious he needed to be.

“You’re a great guy,” I said, rolling my eyes at his theatrics.

“But maybe tone down the pity party. It’s only been your birthday for fifteen hours, so the day is young.”

“Fifteen hours is plenty of time for introspection,” Haider shot back, hands on his hips.

“I just think it’s ridiculous. I own my own business. I’m charming. I’m romantic. And I make the best damn chocolate in this town. Why am I still single?”

Ryan, who’d been lagging behind to brush snow off his boots, caught up.

“I’d date you just for the chocolate,” he said, deadpan, his breath visible in the cold air.

We all stopped walking for a second, staring at him, and then burst out laughing.

Haider crossed his arms, feigning offense.

“Just for the chocolate? Wow. Real flattering, Ryan.”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” Ryan replied, shrugging with a grin.

“Your truffles are, like, next-level. And you’re not bad-looking, I guess.”

“‘Not bad-looking’, he guesses,” Haider muttered, rolling his eyes.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“You’re welcome,” Ryan said, smirking.

“But for real, stop beating yourself up. You’ll find someone. Probably someone who’ll also date you just for the chocolate.”

Haider huffed but didn’t say anything, and Conor clapped him on the back, almost sending him stumbling into the snow.

“Ryan’s got a point, though,” Conor said.

“You’ll figure it out. And if you don’t, we’ll keep eating your chocolate and pretending we’re supportive.”

I chuckled, falling into step with them again as the trail stretched ahead.

For all his complaining, Haider wasn’t wrong.

He was a nice guy—one of the best, actually.

And yeah, his chocolate was amazing, but we all stuck around because he made life better, even when he was being dramatic.

Someone would figure that out eventually.

They’d be lucky to.

“Anyway,” Haider said with a grin, and I just knew what was coming.

“I’m not the one who made a pact with my best friend to marry him at thirty.” He whirled in the snow and pointed at me, and then Conor.

I groaned. I’d been drunk.

Scratch that—both Conor and I had been drunk.

We exchanged eye-rolls.

“Your birthday’s up next, Joker,” Conor said.

Joker. Yeah, because my birthday is on April 1, and isn’t that the most fantastic nickname ever for an April Fool’s baby?

Not.

I glanced at him, my stomach tightening.

“Yeah. It’s coming, and May the fourth’s not far behind, Jedi.”

The pact we’d made years ago, half-joking and half-serious, suddenly felt as if it had claws, digging in the closer we got to thirty.

And I wasn’t sure what terrified me more—the idea of going through with it or that part of me that didn’t hate the thought of not worrying about finding a date when I had more important things to think about.

Like the farm.

Haider clapped his hands.

“Sam-you-ell and Con-noor sitting in a tree—”

I pushed Haider into the snow, Conor sat on him, and Ryan lost his shit, laughing so loud he was bent at the waist.

My friends.

I loved them all.

We finally let a grumpy, icy Haider up, and snow fell around us, muffling everything but the sound of Haider’s cursing.

Which didn’t last long because he was perennial sunshine, and he laughed as he regaled us with another one of his dating horrors.

Another year, another birthday, and the same thought gnawed at the back of my mind—how did thirty sneak up on me so damn fast?

“I might have a new guy to look at anyway,” he said, his voice dripping with exaggerated nonchalance.

Conor groaned. “Here we go.”

Ryan, always the slower one to pick up on Haider’s antics, tilted his head.

“A new guy? Where?”

“In town,” Haider said smugly, savoring the moment like one of his chocolates.

“Harriet Thompson’s great-nephew is moving to Caldwell Crossing.”

Harriet was the town librarian and ran the local crafting group, which meant she heard and saw everything and discussed it with her friends while knitting.

She also frightened me at school whenever I was late returning a book.

“Harriet has a nephew?” I repeated, frowning.

“Great-nephew,” Haider corrected.

“Apparently…” He paused, letting the word linger in the air as if he were announcing the winner of some dramatic reality show.

“He’s super-sweet and cute, coming here to unwind after some big-city burnout. Boston, I believe.” He halted abruptly, planting his hands on his hips like a diva mid-performance.

Snow swirled around us, but Haider was in his element.

“And I call dibs on the new guy in town.”

Ryan groaned, throwing his head back.

“You can’t call dibs on a person, Haider. That’s not how it works.”

Haider spun on his heel to face us, waving dismissively.

“Of course I can. It’s efficient. Saves everyone time and energy.”

I smirked.

“He might not even be into you, Haider,” I pointed out.

“You ever think of that?”

“And he might not be into guys at all,” Conor added, shrugging.

Haider gasped as if we’d just insulted his very existence.

“You don’t think so?” he said, gesturing to himself with a dramatic flourish.

He tossed his head back, flipping an imaginary mane of hair.

“I mean, come on. Who wouldn’t be into this?”

I snorted, shaking my head.

“You’re impossible.”

“Thank you,” Haider said, flashing me a grin.

“But seriously, Harriet Thompson’s great-nephew—Ben, I think?—sounds like a catch. He’s a big-city escapee, and she says he’s cute, but I bet he’s all broody and sad, but in a sweet way. I’m into it.”

“You’ve met him then.”

“No, but Ben is a sexy name, right?”

“So, based on a name, you’re already planning your future together,” Ryan said dryly, brushing snow from his coat.

“Someone has to plan,” Haider retorted.

“Otherwise, how will it happen?”

We all laughed, the sound echoing through the snowy forest. Haider’s theatrics were nothing new, but they made our meetups feel special.

Still, as we continued walking, I couldn’t help but wonder about this guy Ben.

Burnout, Harriet’s family—he didn’t seem like someone who’d fit into Haider’s usual circle.

Not that I cared. I didn’t.

Really.

We split up at the trail’s end.

“Don’t forget my presents at the party,” Haider called after us.

“I didn’t get you anything,” Conor teased.

“Deal with it.”

Haider rolled his eyes but grinned as he turned toward the parking lot.

I watched the others go, their laughter fading into the distance as the snow muffled the world around me.

I tucked my hands into my pockets and headed back to my truck, the thought of home pulling at me.

I had so much to do today, which wouldn’t be achieved by hanging around here.

First, I needed to stop at Lakeside Inn, with its weathered stone facade and green shutters—venue for Haider’s party later.

The inn sat nestled beside the lake, where the frozen water stretched smooth as glass mirroring the dark clouds in the overcast sky.

I stayed long enough to drop off maple products for their guest baskets.

Then, it was back to the farm.

The drive was quiet, and there was a stillness around me that could allow me to let my mind wander if I wasn’t careful.

Snow still fell, light and steady, blanketing the trees and fields on either side of the road.

The fencing running along the edge of our property was in my sight when I noticed it—a car pulled off to the side of the road and half-hidden by the snow.

I eased off the gas, my grip tightening on the wheel.

It could’ve been abandoned, maybe left behind when the late winter storm rolled in over the weekend.

But something about the angle—its nose tilted forward—didn’t sit right.

I pulled over, my tires crunching over the compacted snow as I flicked on my hazards and killed the engine.

The icy wind cut through my coat when I stepped out, biting at my cheeks and numbing my fingers.

The car before me had seen better days—a battered scarlet Prius with a front end half-buried in a slushy mix of mud and snow.

A layer of frost and grime dulled its paint, and as I approached, the wind whipped around me, the snowflakes stinging like tiny needles.

Leaning closer, I squinted through the frosted driver’s side window, my breath fogging the glass.

There was someone inside.

A man slumped over the wheel, his short dark hair sticking up in uneven tufts.

For a second, my stomach dropped.

He wasn’t moving, and for a heartbeat, I thought—

I knocked on the window hard enough to startle myself.

“Hey! You okay in there?”

The figure shifted, groaning as he turned his head toward me.

Relief hit me fast and sharp.

He was alive, thank God.

“Hey, can you hear me?” I knocked again, this time with less force, my voice cutting through the muffling quiet of the snow.

The man blinked, his jade-green eyes glassy, as he tried to focus on me.

His face was pale, and his lips were tinged with a bluish hue that didn’t look right.

He squinted as if it took effort to lift his head, his breath fogging the window, and then he opened his eyes wider as he tried to focus on me and failed.

“Hold on,” I said, more to myself than him, as I yanked at the car door.

It was locked, of course, and I tapped on the window.

“Hey, unlock the door if you can.”

His hand fumbled for the lock, shaking as he managed to hit the button.

The door gave a click , and I pulled it open, the cold air rushing into the small space.

He shivered, and that was when I realized how badly off he was.

He had no coat, just a thin hoodie and jeans, and with the engine off, he was sitting in an icebox.

His hands were bare, his fingers trembling on the steering wheel.

“Shit, should I try to move you? What if your neck…” I reached in to touch his shoulder, and he winced.

“I need to call paramedics,” I told him, but more for myself.

“What the hell are you doing out here dressed like that?” I asked, crouching down to get a better look at him.

My tone was sharper than I intended, but I was rattled.

He didn’t answer. He leaned back against the seat and rolled his neck—okay then, no neck injury.

Or would he still move if he was paralyzed?

“Okay,” I said, forcing myself to stay calm.

“Stay there, and I’ll get a blanket.”

I headed to my truck, scrambling up the small bank, but a noise behind me—a groan—had me turning back—the idiot had climbed out of the car and fallen to his knees in the snow.

“Jesus… what are you… We need to get you somewhere warm. Can you walk?”

He shook his head a little, his gorgeous eyes drifting shut.

“Hey, no. No sleeping. Come on.” I slid an arm under his body to support him.

He was too light, worryingly so, and his legs refused to cooperate as he staggered against me.

His breath hitched, and for a moment, I feared he might pass out again.

“Easy,” I said, practically carrying him to my truck.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Whoever this guy was, he hadn’t planned to end up here, not in a ditch in the middle of nowhere.

And judging by his state—pale, shivering, a bump rising on his head—he wouldn’t last much longer in this weather if I didn’t do something.

“What’s your name?” I asked, my voice steady despite the growing knot of worry in my chest.

He groaned, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Huh.”

“Your name?”

He closed his eyes, and I poked him.

“Open your eyes!” I ordered, and he blinked at me.

“What’s your name?”

“B-b-Ben,” he managed.

At least he was coherent.

“Okay, Ben,” I said, glancing at him as I reached into the back seat and grabbed the emergency blanket I always kept there.

He was so small, curled in on himself, his breath coming in shallow puffs of white.

He blinked at me, green eyes bright with emotion and it struck me like a fist to the chest.

“You’re safe now,” I murmured, buckling him into the passenger seat and wrapping the blanket around him.

My fingers brushed his as I tucked the edges in, and I felt how cold he was—too cold.

His trembling only worsened, and something fierce and protective rose inside me.

I climbed into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the heating controls as I blasted warm air into the cab.

Was that the right thing to do?

It wasn’t as if I was stopping to consult the internet.

The vents roared to life, and I adjusted them to point toward him.

He shivered harder, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, his teeth chattering.

“Hang in there, Ben,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady as I reversed onto the road and focused on steering us back to solid ground.

As the truck found traction, I glanced at him again.

His head lolled against the seat, the bump on his forehead looked worse out from beneath the shadows of the pine trees lining the road.

I debated my options.

I could take him to my parents’ place—Mom would know what to do.

She’d fuss over him, get him warm, and ensure he was okay.

But that bump on his head…

What if it was more serious?

What if he needed more help than Mom’s fussing and hot soup could provide?

I decided before I could second-guess myself.

I tightened my grip on the wheel and turned onto the main road, heading straight for the hospital.

The snow continued to fall thick and fast, but the thought of getting Ben somewhere safe kept me focused.

“Almost there,” I said, more to myself than to him as I pressed the gas pedal gently, the truck humming steadily beneath us.

He didn’t respond, his head lolling again, but his breathing was steady, and that was enough to keep me going.

I glanced at him one more time, my chest tightening at how vulnerable he looked, swaddled in the blanket, small and fragile in my truck.

Whatever had brought him here or left him like this didn’t matter now.

All that mattered was getting him to safety.

He was mumbling something, but I couldn’t make it out at first. Then bits and pieces made sense—a name—Harriet.

And he said he was Ben?

I put two and two together—was this Harriet’s great nephew—big-city-burnout Ben?

Too much of a coincidence not to be.

If it was him, he’d picked one hell of a way to make an entrance.