Snowbound with the Billionaire Single Dad

Chapter 4: The Boy Who Doesn’t Speak

“Noah,” I repeated, and he nodded, pleased. “That’s a good name.”

He smiled. Just a tiny thing, barely there, but real. The first genuine expression I’d seen since waking up.

Then his eyes went wide, looking past me toward the door, and his whole body went rigid.

“Noah.”

The voice was cold and sharp, the same voice that had told me I couldn’t stay last night. I turned to find the man, Noah’s father apparently, standing in the doorway looking like thunder. He wasn’t looking at me though. He was staring at his son with something that looked almost like fear.

“Come here,” he said, quieter but no warmer. “Now.”

Noah’s small shoulders hunched. He grabbed for the drawing but I was faster, pulling it back gently.

“Can I keep this?” I asked him, ignoring his father completely. “I think it might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever given me.”

Noah looked between me and the paper, conflict clear on his little face. Then he nodded and backed away, moving to his father’s side but not touching him. The space between them felt deliberate. Careful.

The man’s hand landed on Noah’s shoulder, firm but not rough, and those ice blue eyes finally met mine. There was something in them I couldn’t read, something that might have been anger or might have been something else entirely.

“He’s not supposed to bother the guests,” he said.

“He wasn’t bothering me.”

“Nevertheless.” His jaw tightened. “It won’t happen again.”

He steered Noah out of the room, but the boy looked back at me over his shoulder, those eyes wide and questioning, and I gave him a small wave. His hand twitched at his side like he wanted to wave back but didn’t dare.

Then they were gone.

I sat there holding the drawing, staring at the three stick figures, and tried to ignore the ache spreading through my chest. That little boy, Noah, had drawn himself a family that included a stranger. Had snuck into my room to give it to me. Had spoken just one word, but spoken.

And his father had looked at him like it was something to be afraid of.

I smoothed out the paper, tracing the yellow haired figure again. The me that Noah had imagined. Smiling. Holding hands with them. Part of something.

Marcus used to tell me I was too emotional. That I got attached too easily, cared too much about things that didn’t matter. That I needed to be more realistic, more guarded, more like him.

I’d spent three years trying to shrink myself down to fit his definition of acceptable. Trying to care less. Feel less. Be less.

Looking at this drawing, at the hope and longing in every crayon stroke, I realized I didn’t want to be less anymore. I wanted to be exactly as much as I was, even if it hurt, even if it was messy, even if it made people uncomfortable.

Even if it made cold men with ice eyes look at me like I was dangerous.

I got out of bed and looked around for my clothes from yesterday, but they were gone. Instead, a neat stack of women’s clothing sat on the chair by the door. Leggings. A soft sweater. Undergarments still in packaging. All in approximately my size.

He must have had someone bring them. Or maybe he kept emergency clothes for stranded travelers. Or maybe this happened often enough that he had a system for dealing with unwanted guests.

I didn’t let myself think too hard about it. Just got dressed, grateful for clothes that actually fit, and tried to finger comb my hair into something presentable. No makeup, no products, just me and the face I’d been born with.

Marcus had always insisted I wear makeup. I said I looked tired without it. Washed out. Not enough.

I studied myself in the mirror. I did look tired. But I also looked alive, which was more than I could say for yesterday.

The hallway was quiet when I finally worked up the courage to leave the room. I followed the smell of coffee, because if there was one thing I desperately needed, it was caffeine and maybe some answers about the little boy who didn’t speak and the father who flinched when he did.

The kitchen was as aggressively perfect as the rest of the house. All marble and stainless steel and windows that should have shown mountain views but just showed endless white. The storm hadn’t let up at all. If anything, it looked worse.

The man stood at the counter, pouring coffee into a mug with mechanical precision. He’d changed from last night, now wearing dark jeans and a henley that probably cost more than my rent. His hair was damp like he’d recently showered, and in the morning light I could see the exhaustion carved into his face.

He sensed me before I spoke, his shoulders tensing.

“There’s coffee,” he said without turning around. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you.” I moved to the counter, hyper aware of the space between us, and poured myself a cup. The coffee was perfect. Of course it was. Everything in this place was perfect except the people living in it. “The clothes too. That was, you didn’t have to.”

“Yes, I did. Unless you wanted to walk around in my sweatpants all day.”

“Fair point.”

Silence stretched between us, awkward and heavy. He still hadn’t looked at me. Just stood there gripping his coffee mug like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

“Your son,” I started.

“Is none of your concern.” His voice went sharp. Final.

“He gave me a drawing.”

“I’m aware.”

“He seems like a sweet kid.”

“Miss Hart.” He finally turned, and the look on his face could have frozen the sun. “I allowed you to stay because the alternative was letting you die in a snowstorm. That does not give you the right to comment on my family or my parenting. Are we clear?”

I should have backed down. Should have apologized and retreated and remembered I was just a guest here, an unwanted one at that. But I’d spent three years backing down from Marcus, three years apologizing for existing, and I was done.

“Crystal clear,” I said, meeting those cold eyes without flinching. “But for what it’s worth, I wasn’t commenting. I was just saying your son seems sweet. Because he does.”

Something flickered across his face, too fast to catch. Then it was gone, replaced by that impenetrable ice.

“Breakfast is in the dining room,” he said. “I suggest you eat. It’s going to be a long few days.”

He walked past me, close enough that I caught the scent of expensive cologne and coffee, and disappeared down the hallway. Leaving me alone in his perfect kitchen with my imperfect coffee and a drawing of three stick figures that felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.