Warmth in the Whiteout

Book 2 of the Fireside Fates: Angel Spring Bachelors series

He’s the silent wolf who speaks in actions. She’s the baker hiding from her past.

Brittany Park knows what happens when you’re seen by the wrong people. Her former boss stole her signature recipes, built his empire on her talent, and won’t stop until she’s ruined. Angel Spring was supposed to be a fresh start, a reality show that promised a new life, a pop-up bakery stall, a chance to rebuild.

Then she met Maddox Hale.

Her: She came to this Montana mountain town to start over, not to fall for the quiet wolf watching her from across the firehouse. But the fated mate bond doesn’t care about her plans to stay small. And the way Maddox looks at her makes invisibility feel like the loneliest thing in the world.

Him: Six-foot-four of watchful intensity with gentle hands and gold-flecked eyes that see everything she’s hiding. The firehouse Beta has spent his life proving actions matter more than words. But claiming Brittany, really claiming her, with his bite and his voice and his whole stubborn heart, means speaking the things he’s always swallowed. For her, he’ll learn to roar.

Warmth in the Whiteout is a steamy small-town paranormal romance featuring fated mates, a grumpy gentle-giant firefighter, a sunshine baker finding her voice, and a guaranteed HEA.

Excerpt

BRITTANY

The phone in my apron pocket felt heavier than a bag of flour.

I knew what was waiting on that screen. Another email from Francois, his words dressed up in legal jargon but carrying the same message underneath: I see you. I can reach you. You can’t hide.

I shoved the thought aside and focused on arranging the display. The cinnamon rolls I’d baked at four this morning gleamed under the early light, their sticky glaze catching the cold. The maple pecan pies sat in neat rows, caramelized tops dark as amber. I’d carried everything from Lilac House in insulated boxes, my breath fogging in the pre-dawn darkness as I loaded and unloaded, and now my fingers were stiff despite the wool gloves I’d abandoned ten minutes ago.

The pop-up stall wasn’t much. A folding table, a gingham tablecloth, a portable display case, a coffee urn plugged into the extension cord the fire station let me run from their outlet. No kitchen. No prep space. No warmth except what I could steal from the occasional hot cup I poured for myself between customers.

But it was mine. For now.

“Morning, Brittany!” Kyle’s voice carried across Main Street as he adjusted his camera near the hardware store. He gave me a cheerful wave, and I managed one back. The Rescue My Heart crew had become such a fixture of my mornings that I barely noticed them anymore. Almost.

Today it was Kyle and a boom mic operator whose name I kept forgetting, positioned for what Dahlia called “atmospheric shots.” The red recording light blinked steadily. Somewhere, an editor would stitch this footage into a narrative about my “journey to find love in a small town.”

The air was sharp enough to make my breath visible in little clouds. Frost glittered on the wooden planks beneath my feet, and the coffee urn was still warming. I stamped my boots against the cold, willing feeling back into my toes.

The crunch of boots on frost-hardened ground made me look up.

Maddox.

He looked tired this morning, shadows under his eyes that hadn’t been there yesterday. The pack had been out most of the night, according to the scanner chatter I’d overheard at Lilac House. Stranded motorist on the pass, hypothermia setting in by the time they found her. They’d brought her back alive, but it had been close.

Two months ago, I’d never heard of Angel Spring. I’d been a baker in San Francisco, invisible and safe, until a casting call for a reality dating show called Rescue My Heart had promised a fresh start in a mountain town full of wolf-shifter firefighters. I’d applied on a whim, expecting nothing.

I hadn’t expected him.

He rounded the corner of the fire station carrying two wooden crates stacked in arms thick as tree trunks. His dark hair was still damp from a shower, curling at his temples, and even from ten feet away, I caught his scent on the morning breeze. Leather from his turnout gear, dark earth, sage from the mountain wilderness, and something underneath that was just him. Wild. Forest. Wolf. He moved like a predator, all coiled power and economy of motion, and when his brown eyes found mine, the gold flecks in them caught the early light like sparks from a banked fire.

My hands stilled on the display case.

Kyle swung his camera toward us. I saw Maddox clock the movement, saw his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded once at me, those eyes holding mine for a beat too long. Then he was moving past me to set the crates beside my table, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he lowered them with more care than the contents probably required.

His flannel stretched across shoulders wide enough to block out the rising sun, and when he straightened, he positioned himself between me and the camera. Deliberate. Protective.

“You didn’t have to—” I started.

“Wanted to.”

Two words. That was Maddox. He said more with a look than most people did with paragraphs.

He reached for another crate from my car’s trunk, and when he handed it to me, our fingers brushed.

I forgot how to breathe.

Just skin against skin for half a second. But heat shot up my arm and settled somewhere deep, and I watched his pupils blow wide, watched the gold flecks in his eyes brighten like embers catching flame. His nostrils flared, scenting me, and a low rumble vibrated in his chest, so quiet I might have imagined it.

Neither of us pulled away.

The show’s producer, Dahlia, had explained it during orientation. Scent recognition. When a wolf shifter found his fated mate, the bond was immediate and undeniable. Something chemical, something supernatural, something that bypassed logic and went straight to the bone. Maddox had caught my scent during the first group date, and everything had changed. We’d been circling each other ever since, dating but not yet claimed. That part came later, apparently. When both of us were ready.

“Brittany.” My name in his voice was gravel and honey. It did things to me. Dangerous things.

“I’ve got it.” I took the crate, breaking the contact before I did something stupid like step into him and bury my face against his chest. “Thank you.”

He didn’t argue. Just positioned himself at the edge of my stall, leaning against the fire station’s brick wall with his arms crossed, watching the street like he expected threats to materialize from the morning mist. His body was angled toward me even as his gaze swept the road. Protective without crowding. Present without pushing.

I noticed how his position also blocked Kyle’s best angle. Whether that was intentional or instinct, I couldn’t tell.

Maddox was Beta of the firehouse pack, second only to Caleb, responsible for protection and tracking. The six wolf-shifter firefighters who ran Angel Spring’s fire department weren’t just colleagues; they were brothers, a pack that had welcomed me into their orbit the moment Maddox’s wolf had decided I was his. He’d been there when the FedEx courier delivered the cease-and-desist letter weeks ago. He knew Francois existed, even if he didn’t know about the emails that had followed.

The ones I hadn’t told him about.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it.

“Cold front coming.” Maddox’s voice was low, still watching the street. “Rae says to stock up.”

“I heard.” I blew on my fingers, then tucked them under my arms for warmth. The display case didn’t generate heat, and the morning chill was seeping through my jacket. “Might be good for business. Hot coffee and warm pie when the temperature drops.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Good for something.”

I wanted to ask what he meant. I wanted to close the distance between us and demand he use more than five words at a time.

But Mrs. Hannigan was watching from the doorway of her flower shop across the street, morning coffee steaming in her hands. Mr. Bodie was sweeping his pharmacy steps while definitely not looking at us. And Kyle had circled around, trying to get a new angle on our conversation.

The weight of the whole town’s attention pressed down on my shoulders. The camera’s weight pressed harder.

Everyone sees us.

The thought should have been comforting. A relationship witnessed was a relationship validated. But all I could think was: If they can see us, so can he.

By mid-morning, the line at my stall stretched past the fire station.

I lost myself in the rhythm. Slice, plate, smile, make change. The repetition was soothing. Coffee poured from the urn in a steady stream, the rich aroma mingling with cinnamon and butter. Cinnamon rolls disappeared faster than I could restock them, sticky glaze catching the light as customers tore into them right there at the counter. The maple pecan was almost gone, and it wasn’t even eleven.

The cameras drifted closer during the rush. Dahlia called this “competence footage.” Apparently viewers loved watching people who were good at their jobs. Something about it being aspirational. I wasn’t sure how aspirational I looked with flour on my nose and frozen fingers fumbling for change, but I kept selling anyway.

My fingers had gone numb an hour ago. I’d stopped noticing.

“Best pie in the county,” a man in a Carhartt jacket told me as I handed over his slice. His calloused hands cradled the plate like it was precious. “My wife’s already asked for a whole one for Thanksgiving.”

“I can do that.” I pulled out my battered notebook, flour-dusted, pages warped from kitchen humidity, and wrote down his order. “Name?”

“Henderson. You just tell Maddox there and he’ll make sure I pay in advance.”

I looked up. Maddox was still at his post, twenty feet away but close enough that Mr. Henderson had clocked him immediately. Close enough that everyone in line had registered his presence. The broad-shouldered firefighter who’d staked out territory beside the baker’s stall like a wolf guarding his den.

His den.

The thought made something warm and dangerous curl through me.

“Brittany!” Rae appeared at the front of the line, dark hair escaping from under a knit cap, tablet tucked under her arm. She’d been a contestant too, back when Rescue My Heart first started filming. A meteorologist running from a scandal that wasn’t her fault. She’d found her fated mate in Caleb Winters, the Alpha and Angel Spring’s fire chief. They’d claimed each other before the cameras stopped rolling. Her bite mark was visible at the collar of her sweater, a pale crescent she wore like jewelry. “One maple pecan for Caleb. He’s been insufferable since the last one ran out.”

I laughed, and the sound surprised me. “I’ll save him the last slice.”

“Lifesaver.” Rae leaned closer, lowering her voice. Her expression shifted, serious beneath the teasing. “Cold front’s looking worse than I thought. Might be a real blizzard by end of week. Stock up, okay? And if you need anything, anything, the firehouse is open.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I know.” Her eyes flicked to Maddox, then back. Something knowing sparkled in them. “You’ve got good backup.”

She paid and left. The line kept moving. I kept serving. For a few minutes, I forgot about the phone burning a hole in my pocket. Forgot about the cameras too.

Marshall Boone showed up around ten-thirty, red beard neatly trimmed and a concerned furrow between his brows. He moved like a man who’d spent his whole life working with animals. Careful, deliberate. He ordered a cinnamon roll and a coffee, but I could tell that wasn’t why he’d come.

“Miss Park.” He accepted his change but didn’t leave. “Heard from that chef again?”

My stomach dropped. “What makes you ask?”

I was suddenly aware of the boom mic, hovering somewhere behind me. The red light on Kyle’s camera.

“Nothing specific.” But Marshall’s weathered face told a different story. Jaw tight, eyes sharp with the protectiveness that came from decades of watching over livestock and family alike. “Just want you to know, you got people here who’ll vouch for you. Whatever he claims, we know the truth.” He leaned in, voice dropping below what the mic could catch. “Ranch folks talk. Town folks listen. And what we’re saying is that your pie is yours, your recipes are yours, and anyone who says different can answer to the lot of us.”

I didn’t trust my voice, so I just nodded.

Marshall clapped a hand on the table. A rancher’s hug. “You let us know if there’s trouble. I mean it, now.”

He left with his cinnamon roll. I made change for the next customer with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

My phone buzzed again.

I didn’t check it. But I felt Maddox’s gaze on me from across the street, felt his attention sharpen like a predator scenting distress. His body had gone still in that particular way of his. Not relaxed, never truly relaxed, but focused. Ready.

Jerry, the other producer, had drifted closer during my exchange with Marshall. Unlike Kyle’s friendly presence, Jerry made my skin crawl. He always seemed to be angling for tears, for conflict, for the kind of drama Dahlia insisted the show didn’t want. His camera was aimed at my face now, waiting for a reaction.

Maddox moved before I could.

He didn’t say anything. Just stepped into Jerry’s line of sight, arms crossed, blocking the shot entirely. The look he gave the field producer wasn’t threatening exactly. More like a wolf considering whether something was worth the effort of chasing.

Jerry lowered his camera. “Just doing my job, man.”

Maddox didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Just stood there, a wall of flannel and muscle between me and the lens.

After a long moment, Jerry wandered off toward the hardware store.

“Next, please,” I said, and smiled so wide my cheeks ached.

Noon came like a mercy.

The crowd thinned. The display cases emptied. I had two slices of apple pie left, a handful of cinnamon rolls going stale at the edges, and a coffee urn running on fumes. The kind of afternoon that meant I could close early and call it a success.

Except the phone was still in my pocket. And the emails were still unread.

Kyle had packed up his equipment and headed back to the production van parked near the lodge. Even Jerry had disappeared, probably to upload footage. For the first time all day, no cameras were pointed at me.

I wiped down the folding table with slow, deliberate strokes, the damp cloth leaving tracks in the flour dust I’d somehow accumulated despite having no prep space. Maddox was helping someone load firewood into their truck across the street, his back to me as he hefted split logs like they weighed nothing. But I could feel him tracking me even then. Some part of me, the mate bond, probably, that impossible connection that had snapped into place the first time we touched, always knew where he was. The warmth of him, the steady pulse of his presence, like a second heartbeat in my chest.

I pulled out my phone.

Three new emails. All from the same address.

F. Maxime, Esq.

He’d added the esquire. Like he was a lawyer now, not a chef who’d stolen my recipes and built his reputation on my work.

I opened the first one.

Miss Park,

It has come to my attention that you are now operating a bakery in Montana under false pretenses. The recipes you are using—specifically the maple pecan pie featured in your publicity materials—are MY intellectual property, developed during your time in MY kitchen under MY direction.

You will cease and desist all usage of my proprietary recipes immediately, or I will be forced to pursue legal action. My attorneys are prepared to file suit for copyright infringement, theft of trade secrets, and defamation.

You stole from me, Brittany. The world will know the truth.

Francois Maxime

I read it twice. Three times.

The words blurred and reformed, accusations wrapping around my throat like fingers. The air felt thin. The edges of my vision went gray.

You stole from me.

He’d stolen from me. He’d taken my recipes, the ones I’d developed on my own time, in my own apartment, with ingredients I’d bought with my own money, and he’d put them on his menu and called them his. When I’d tried to speak up, he’d fired me. When I’d threatened to expose him, he’d threatened to destroy me.

And now he was doing exactly that.

The world will know the truth.

His truth. Not mine. Because he had lawyers and connections and a restaurant with a three-month waiting list, and I had a pop-up stall in a small town in Montana and a reality show that had made me visible again.

Visible.

That’s the problem, isn’t it?

I was visible now. My face had been on television. My pie was becoming famous. And Francois couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand that I might succeed, might be seen, might build something he couldn’t take credit for.

So he was trying to crush me before I got the chance.

“Brittany.”

Maddox’s voice, low and close. I hadn’t heard him approach. Too lost in the email, in the spiral of panic tightening my chest.

I shoved the phone in my pocket and forced my face into something that might pass for calm. “Hey. I was about to start packing up.”

“You okay?”

Two words. Same as always. But his eyes were too sharp, too knowing. He’d seen me reading the email. He’d seen my face go pale. And his nostrils were flaring, scenting me, reading my anxiety in whatever chemical cocktail my body was producing.

“Fine.” The lie sat bitter on my tongue. “Just tired. Long morning.”

He didn’t believe me. I could see it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his hands flexed at his sides. But he didn’t push.

“I’ll help pack up.” He reached past me for an empty crate, and his arm brushed my shoulder, and the heat of him cut through the cold air like a blade. His scent wrapped around me: leather and earth and safety. I wanted to drown in it.

I wanted to lean into him. I wanted to hand him my phone and say fix this, say protect me, say I’m scared and I don’t know what to do.

But if I did that, I’d be depending on him. And people who depended on others got hurt when that protection was withdrawn. I’d learned that lesson from my family, from Francois, from every job where I’d trusted the wrong person and ended up disposable.

Being small kept you safe. Being quiet kept you safe. Being invisible—

But I wasn’t invisible anymore.

Maddox loaded crates into my car while I folded up the table and broke down the display case. My movements were practiced now, efficient. I’d done this setup and teardown dozens of times since arriving in Angel Spring. Some days I dreamed of a real kitchen. Warmth. Walls. An oven I didn’t have to share with Lilac House’s other residents. Norah had moved into Rae’s old room after Rae claimed Caleb, and she was gracious about my four a.m. baking sessions despite having an infant niece to care for. Some kind of custody situation I didn’t fully understand, but the baby’s cries through the walls at midnight made me feel less alone in my insomnia.

A real bakery. Someday. Maybe.

When the stall was packed, he turned to me. Waited.

“Thank you,” I said. “For helping. And for…” I gestured vaguely toward where Jerry had been standing.

Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, maybe. Or just the wolf, pleased to have protected what was his.

“Anytime.” He paused. For a second I thought he might push for the truth I wasn’t ready to give.

Instead, he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered at my temple, rough and warm and impossibly gentle for hands that could bend steel.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Same time?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

He held my gaze for one more heartbeat. Brown eyes with gold fire in their depths, searching, seeing. Then he was gone, climbing into his truck and pulling away from Main Street, leaving me standing beside my car with his scent still clinging to my clothes and Francois’s threats still burning in my pocket.

I touched the spot where his fingers had brushed my skin. The warmth lingered like a brand.

I should tell him.

But the thought of saying the words out loud, of admitting that my past was coming for me, that the man who’d stolen my work was now trying to destroy my future, made my throat close up.

Telling Maddox meant being visible. It meant asking for help. It meant trusting someone with the ugly truth and hoping they wouldn’t use it against me.

I wasn’t ready.

Not yet.

So I drove back to Lilac House with the radio turned up loud enough to drown out my thoughts, and I told myself that tomorrow would be better.

Tomorrow, I would be braver.

Tomorrow.