Chapter 5

I don’t know what kept me awake more, the wind screaming outside my window all night or the conversation I had with Mom still bouncing around in my head. Talking about Graham felt like poking a bruise to see if it still hurt. Spoiler alert: it did.

The world outside was unrecognizable when I finally dragged myself out of bed the next morning. The snow had swallowed everything. My window framed an uninterrupted wall of white, except for a lone branch sticking out like a hand waving for help.

I stood there momentarily, trying to shake off the strange stillness that comes after a storm. It was quiet now, but the kind of quiet that felt like the world was holding its breath.

Downstairs, however, the house was already awake. I heard Mom’s voice carrying over the hum of the radio, probably directing Noah like a foreman on a construction site. Something clanged in the kitchen, followed by Noah’s exaggerated groan, and I didn’t need to be psychic to know she’d asked him to set the table for breakfast.

The idea of being snowed in with a whole hockey team, and Graham Fletcher, of all people, made me want to crawl back under the covers. But there was no escaping it. I grabbed a hoodie off the back of my chair, telling myself that if I had to deal with them, at least there’d be pancakes.

I entered the kitchen and began helping Noah finish setting the table, and then took a quick break to fuel myself up for what felt like a long day ahead. I stood at the kitchen window, cradling a warm cup of tea, watching the slow ebb of the storm. It was finally slowing down as if it might have burned itself out from sheer ferocity. The glass fogged slightly from my breath, blurring the chaotic scene outside into a swirl of gray and white. Somewhere in the distance, a power line swayed dangerously, its dark silhouette barely visible through the gusting snow.

The sharp whistle of the kettle broke through the steady roar outside. It was a shrill reminder that life inside hadn’t stopped, even if the world beyond the walls had.

“Isla, can you get that?” Mom’s voice carried from the hallway, strained and rushed. She’d been up since before sunrise, juggling guest requests, weather updates, and a constant stream of phone calls like a one-woman disaster management team.

I set my cup down, the heat of the tea lingering against my palms, and moved to the stove. The kettle’s handle was hot to the touch, and the steam rising from it smelled faintly metallic. I poured the boiling water into our old teapot, the one decorated with tiny blue flowers and intricate swirls, and watched the steam curl into the air before vanishing.

“Any word on school?” I asked, glancing toward the hallway.

“Closed,” Mom replied, stepping into the doorway. Her cheeks were flushed from rushing around, and several strands of hair had escaped from her bun, sticking out at odd angles. Despite the chaos, she held her clipboard like a battle commander ready to take charge of the day. “And the hockey team’s stuck here until further notice. The tournament director just called. The tournament’s postponed, no one can do anything until the snow plows start making their way through town.”

I sighed, glancing at the snow piled high against the window. The swirling gusts added insult to injury as if the storm was mocking us by painting over every attempt at clearing a path. “So, they’re officially our prisoners now?” I joked.

“Think of it as a bonding opportunity,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, her optimism stretched thin. Then she disappeared back into the hallway, her voice already calling out instructions to Noah about clearing a path to the front door.

I looked back at the snow creeping up the window, pressing my palm to the glass. The cold seeped through immediately, and I pulled away with a shiver.

Bonding opportunity. Sure. Nothing like being snowed in with a group of restless teenage hockey players and the smug arrogance of Graham Fletcher to bring people together. '

I sighed again, this time louder, hoping someone would hear it and take pity on me. No one did. Instead, the storm howled louder, like it had overheard my frustration, and decided to pile on.

The tea steeped as I leaned against the counter, listening to the muffled chaos of the house. Somewhere down the hall, Noah was arguing about shovels, Mom’s voice was a rapid-fire list of tasks, and the distant sound of boots stomping in the mudroom signalled the hockey team was starting to stir. I tightened my grip on the teapot, bracing myself for the inevitable collision of personalities that was about to unfold.

The snowstorm wasn’t the only thing that was going to test my patience today.

Breakfast was a disaster waiting to happen, and I could feel it brewing long before Graham walked into the kitchen.

Noah, who had been tasked with buttering the toast, was now balancing a butter knife on his nose, much to the amusement of two hockey players. Mom was flipping pancakes like her life depended on it, and I was tasked with keeping the coffee cups filled while dodging elbows and chaos.

Breakfast was already teetering on the edge of disaster when Graham strolled into the kitchen like he owned the place.

“Morning, sunshine,” he murmured, his voice still gravelly with sleep as he sank into a chair at the far end of the table. His hair stuck up in wild angles, and he wore an oversized hoodie that somehow made him look both approachable and infuriating.

I plunked a mug of coffee in front of him, my politeness stretched so thin it could snap.

“Morning,” I said in a tone that made it clear I was only speaking to him out of obligation.

His eyes flicked up, lazy and amused, and for a second, there was something almost warm in them. But then the smirk came back, smug and maddening. “Are you always this cheerful in the morning?”

“Only when I’m trapped in a house full of townie hockey 'stars',” I shot back, reaching for the syrup.

Across the room, Noah was still trying to balance that butter knife on his nose, much to the hockey team’s delight. “Hey, Isla,” he called out, his words slightly muffled by his attempt at concentration. “Did you know you can’t lick your own elbow?”

I paused mid-pour and raised an eyebrow. “Did you know you’re not supposed to use the good silverware for your circus act?”

The butter knife clattered to the table, and Noah grinned sheepishly. “Relax. It’s just a butter knife. And we don't even have any good silverware."

“It’s not just a butter knife. It’s the only one left that doesn’t look like it’s been through a war,” I replied, pointing at the drawer of mismatched utensils for emphasis.

Graham leaned back in his chair, cradling his coffee like it was some kind of precious treasure. “Big house, big problems,” he quipped, his tone lightly teasing.

I didn’t look at him, just rolled my eyes as I grabbed a new stack of plates. “Big city, big egos.”

The hockey players snickered, one of them murmuring a low “Oooh,” like we were in a middle school cafeteria instead of a chaotic bed-and-breakfast kitchen.

Graham chuckled softly, his smirk softening into something dangerously close to endearing. “Touché.”

The pancakes were flying off the griddle faster than Mom could plate them, the room buzzing with the overlapping sounds of laughter, forks scraping plates, and boots stomping in the hallway. For a moment, I let myself relax, caught in the strange chaos of it all.

But when Graham leaned forward, catching my eye with a glint of mischief, I knew the truce was temporary.

“Gonna be a long day,” he said, his tone half warning, half challenge.

I grabbed the coffee pot and tipped it dramatically toward his mug. “Better fuel up then.”

And with that, the kitchen erupted into another round of controlled chaos, the storm outside now nothing more than a backdrop to the one brewing inside.