The UnLucky Pull of Gravity
788 Words
The morning arrived with a heavy, expectant stillness. Elara stayed in bed longer than usual, her ears straining for the familiar rumble of a truck engine in the driveway. By noon, the silence of the cottage had shifted from peaceful to deafening.
He didn’t come.
Elara paced the length of the living room, her thumb tracing the smooth, fixed handle of her suitcase. It was ridiculous. She had known Rowan Hale for less than a week, yet the absence of him felt like a missing limb. She was a woman who prided herself on being self-sufficient, a woman who lived in transit, yet here she was, missing a man who was technically still a stranger.
The day stretched out, gray and boring. To stave off the restlessness, she bundled up and decided to walk to a small festive stall she had seen near the edge of the woods.
“Hot chocolate, please. Extra marshmallows,” she told the vendor, a teenager who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
As she tapped her card against the reader, a sharp beep echoed in the cold air.
DECLINED.
Elara’s heart did a panicked stutter. She tried again. Beep. She pulled up her banking app, her breath hitching. The "Low Balance" alert glared back at her. Between the inflated holiday rate at the B&B, the airport meals, and the gifts for her nieces, she had burned through her liquid cash. For a second, the old December dread threatened to swallow her whole.
Then, she remembered. Tucked into the lining of her scuffed suitcase was an envelope of emergency savings—cash she had set aside for the "absolute worst case scenario."
“Sorry, one second,” she murmured, digging into her coat pocket. She found a crumpled twenty and handed it over.
She walked back toward the cottage, sipping the lukewarm cocoa. The thought she had been suppressing all morning finally surfaced: What if I just stayed? What if she didn't get on that flight on the twenty-first? What if she stayed in this town, near this hearth, near those blue eyes?
“Still around, I see.”
Elara jumped, nearly spilling her cocoa. The Santa from the plaza was standing near a stone bridge, his red suit vivid against the white snow. He wasn't ringing his bell now; he was just leaning against the railing, looking at her with those crinkled, knowing eyes.
“I’m beginning to think you’re following me, Santa,” Elara joked, though her voice was soft.
“I told you, dear,” he chuckled, the sound deep and comforting. “The weather puts you where you’re needed. Some people fight the wind, and some people let it carry them. You look like you’re finally stopping the fight.”
“I’m trying,” Elara admitted. She reached into her wallet and pulled out her last few coins, dropping them into his bucket. “For the good word. I think I’m going to need it.”
“You’re doing just fine, Elara Winters,” he said, tipping his hat.
She turned to continue her trek back, her mind a whirlwind of possibilities. She was twenty yards from the cottage door when a sudden, sharp yapping broke the silence. A small, hyperactive terrier burst from a neighboring yard, its leash trailing behind it.
The dog wasn't dangerous, but it was fast, and it seemed to view Elara’s moving boots as a personal challenge.
“Hey! Stop!” she laughed, skipping backward as the dog nipped playfully at her laces. She pivoted, trying to outrun the little creature, but the snow was slick. She lost her footing, stumbling blindly backward, her arms reaching out for anything to steady her.
She didn't hit the ground.
Strong, solid arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against a chest that felt like a fortress. The scent of cold air and cedar hit her instantly.
“I’m starting to think this is just our official meeting routine,” Rowan’s voice rumbled right against her ear.
Elara leaned back into him, her heart racing for a completely different reason now. She looked up to see him smiling down at her, his jawline sharp against the gray sky.
“The dog,” she panted, gesturing to the terrier who was now sitting calmly at Rowan’s boots, looking smug. “He’s a menace.”
“He’s a local,” Rowan corrected, his grip on her waist lingering just a second too long. “He knows a newcomer when he sees one. And he knows exactly how to get my attention.”
- Writer
