“There’s a heat lamp in there.”

I shoot him a flat look, earning his laughter.

“What if I help thaw your ass after?”

“Yeah, you will,” I mutter.

“God, I missed your bad attitude.” His fingers curl around the back of my neck to give me a soft, playful squeeze. “Come on … Let’s get this place up and running.”

“You can lose the coat and boots. I think it’s finally warm enough.” Jonah shoves another log into the woodstove. The orange glow from within flares.

I test his claim by blowing into the air. When we first stepped inside this quaint cabin of knotty pine, our hot breath billowed in the cold. Now, though, with a roaring fire and a heater pumping out warmth, only a mild chill lingers.

I kick off my boots and shrug out of my parka, swapping it for my red-and-black-checkered flannel jacket and wool socks that I dug out of my suitcase. With the glass of red wine I poured after unloading our food—mostly snacks and premade meals from Agnes’s freezer, but also a turkey breast ready to go into the small propane stove—I settle onto the futon, careful not to knock the oil lamp that casts a dim but warm light. “How often do Bobbie and George come here?”

“A week or two in the summer, and a lot of weekends once the busy season dies down. They’re usually here from Christmas till after New Year’s.” He prods the burning logs with a poker one last time before shutting and latching the little door. “They’re gonna retire here. Get the place set up to live in comfortably year-round.”

“Year-round? I think I’d get bored.” My curious gaze drifts around the interior, with Bobbie’s cute little touches—an embroidered cushion, a pastel watercolor of a bush plane floating on a lake, a kitschy sign about hearth and home—that feel very much like the bubbly grocery store cashier with a faded Alabama accent.

Above us is a tiny loft, with just enough room for a double bed and two narrow side tables. I’m struggling to picture George, a sizeable man with a handlebar mustache, ambling up that ladder at night. “How’d they get all that furniture up there?”

“Painfully, on ropes. I was here for that.” Jonah sinks into the futon next to me with a groan. He hasn’t stopped since his boots hit the snowy ground hours ago: emptying and securing the plane, bringing in firewood, loading and mounting his gun on the wall, setting up the various propane, oil, battery, and solar-panel power sources that keep this cabin operational. He’s already talking about chopping more logs and taking the ATV to get water from the town well tomorrow.

I lean in to rest my jet-lagged head against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of burning wood as I absorb the silence, save for the sound of the crackling fire. I can’t recall the last time I was so content. “It’d be nice to have a place like this to escape to.”

His eyebrow arches. “Even with the outhouse?”

“I’d only come in summer.” I discovered the three-piece bathroom in the back of the cabin, operational in warmer months when the water can’t freeze in the pipes.

“There’s my little princess,” he teases, his hand sliding over my thigh affectionately. But then his voice turns softer, more serious. “We can have this, too, once we figure things out. Give us a few years to get settled somewhere and then we can look at buying a patch of land somewhere up here and building our own place.”

“Like this?”

“Maybe a bit bigger.” He pauses a beat. “Big enough for us and twelve kids.”

“Only twelve?” I mock as flutters stir in my stomach. “How about we try for one and see how it goes?” Of all the things I appreciate about Jonah, his directness is near the top of the list. It forces conversations to happen that otherwise might not, if I’m left to my own devices. He first brought up the topic of kids back in Toronto. Almost as a checkpoint, I suspect, because his relief when I confirmed that, yes, I do want kids eventually, was palpable.

“Sounds good to me.” Jonah seizes my waist and hoists me onto his lap to face him, guiding my thighs around his. A deep sound rumbles in his chest as his hands grip and outline my curves, working from my hips to my waist, to the swell of my breasts in one smooth motion.

I toy with strands of his ash-blond hair as my body responds with raw need. Meanwhile, my chest surges with a new level of appreciation for this man. I have no intention of becoming a mother anytime soon, but that Jonah is so resolute, so confident, so unafraid of the idea is unexpectedly sexy. And here, I didn’t think he could become more so.

With dexterous fingers, he slides my flannel coat down my arms, letting it fall to the floor behind me. My sweater goes next, leaving me in a thin cotton shirt. I shudder, though I’m no longer feeling the cold.

“What did you think about that place?” I ask, smoothing my hands over his broad shoulders, across his hard chest, over the ridges of his defined stomach. Jonah credits his Norwegian genes for his physique. I haven’t seen him venture out to a gym since I met him, so maybe it’s true.

“Which place?” His calloused fingers slip beneath my shirt, skimming over my back to find the clasp of my bra. With a flick, the tension in the material gives way. An eager shiver runs through my body as he pushes the lace aside and cups my breasts within his palms, his touch far gentler than I ever expected from him.

“The one I sent you on Saturday?”

“You sent me a listing for a 3000-square-foot house in Anchorage, near a Walmart.” He guides my arms up and then hikes my shirt over my head. He discards my bra as if it’s a scrap, exposing my upper body to the cool night air. He leans back for a long moment, as if to admire my naked flesh and decide what he wants to do with it first. It’s such a simple move, and yet my breasts grow heavy and my nipples harden and blood rushes to my core.

“It was a big lot. And the rent isn’t too bad.”

His gaze flickers to mine. “I’m gonna be thirty-two in April, Calla. I don’t wanna rent anymore if I don’t have to. Let’s look for somethin’ to buy. Somethin’ that’s a hundred percent ours. A smaller house with more land. No Walmart in our backyard.” His hands splay across my back, pulling my body closer. He leans in to lick one peaked nipple before taking it into his mouth and sucking hard.

I revel in the conflicting feel of his bristly facial hair—it’ll be another month before I can call that a beard again—and his wet tongue, but my mind is spinning with thoughts. Jonah has mentioned buying instead of renting once before. My mother has been pushing hard for the latter. It’s far less permanent, she insisted. Less complicated to sort out should things not work between us. Easier for me to pick up and come home.

Like she did.

She insists she’s only doing her job as a mother, warning me of pitfalls before I tumble into them.

But I am not her, and Jonah is certainly nothing like my father. He wants to settle down and have kids, with me. There are no accidental pregnancies guiding our decisions.

That he’s so confident in us and our longevity gives me courage. “Okay. I can start looking at places for sale too—”

“Calla?” Jonah whispers against my skin, his hot breath sparking goose bumps. I love the sound of my name on his low, raspy voice.