1
HUNTER
The wind howled like something feral around my cabin, but it was the knocking that made me pause mid-swing, axe hovering over the firewood. I stood on my back porch, door open, and listened again.Knock, knock, knock.It wasn’t the wind, and it wasn’t wildlife.
It sounded like trouble.
I glanced up at the sky, thick with gray snow clouds. No one should be this far up the mountain—especially with the storm coming.
I set the axe down and walked back into my cabin, grabbing the shotgun hanging by the door, more out of habit than necessity, and walked to the front. I opened the door just enough to see who’d be dumb enough to knock during a blizzard warning.
She stood on my porch like a dream. Plush curves packed into a white puffy coat, cheeks red from the cold, wild blonde curls spilling from a fuzzy hat, and red lips curled in irritation. She was carrying a bright pink duffel bag, and in her hand, a phone she was furiously poking at.
“Finally!” she huffs, brushing past me like I’m not a six-foot-three wall with a scowl. “You’re seriously not going to help me with my bags? Real welcoming, Mr. Mountain Murderer.”
I blink. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She turns, halfway through unzipping her coat, and freezes. Her gaze flicks from my full beard to the flannel shirt stretched across my chest, to the shotgun still loosely held in my hand.
Sorry, not sorry.
“You’re not... Dave,” she says slowly.
“Nope,” I reply. “I’m the guy who lives here. And you just barged into my damn house.”
Her eyes narrow. “Wait. Isn’t this 417 Ridge Trail? Private rental cabin? Booked throughSnowedIn.com?”
I grunt. “This is 417. But I don’t rent this place out, and I’ve never heard of SnowedIn, except for that storm brewing out there.”
She sighs, “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
I cross my arms and watch her pace like a petulant child. Her boots squeak on my hardwood floor. They’re neon pink and glittery—the kind of thing that should look ridiculous in my home. Somehow, they don’t.
“Let me guess,” I drawl. “You’re lost?”
“No! My cousin gave me a Christmas retreat Airbnb as a gift. She booked it for me, said it was a perfect creative detox. There’d be no Wi-Fi, no tourists, just snow and serenity. I could sit in front of a Christmas tree with copious amounts of wine and no commentary from assholes.” Her words turn sharp. “Which was clearly a lie, because there’s no tree, and serenity does not growl or carry a shotgun.”
I lean the gun against the wall with a sigh. “Look, whatever this is, I’m sorry it didn’t work out, but you’re not staying here.”
“Look, whatever this is,” she repeats with sarcasm, “you’re not being helpful.”
I shoot her a glare.Did she just mimic me?
“I’m not in the business of babysitting city girls who can’t read an address.”
“City girl?” She blinks, then lets out a short laugh. “You don’t know me.”
“Don’t need to. You showed up uninvited, wearing boots that belong in a snowy porn video, and called me a murderer.”
She stomps her foot. “That was a joke!”
I pointedly look at her foot, then raise a brow. “I didn’t laugh.”
The tension between us grows, just like the snow piling up outside. She wraps her arms tighter around herself and glances toward the window. The wind is picking up, gusts flinging snowflakes sideways, turning the trees into white ghosts.
“How far’s the nearest town?” she asks, quieter now.
“Fifteen miles. Roads are just about iced over. If you leave now, you’ll make it about half a mile before your car’s buried or you’ve gone off a cliff.”
