I press the doorbell again, and I start to wonder if it’s even working.
I pound at the door with my fist.
“Hello!” I shout, my voice cracking embarrassingly. “Is anyone home?”
Silence. Just the wind and my own chattering teeth.
I have a sudden realization.
Oh crap.
What if nobody’s home?
This might just be some rich person’s vacant investment property that they visit twice a year...
“Hello!” I pound on the door again, harder this time. The sound echoes dully. “Please be home. Please pleaseplease.”
Still nothing.
My brain helpfully supplies a montage of headlines: “Graduate Student Found Frozen to Death on Chalet Doorstep” and “PhD Candidate’s Final Words: ‘But I Knocked Really Loud??!’”
Crappity crap crap.
“HELL--” I start yelling again, really putting some desperation into it now because breaking one of the windows is looking less like vandalism and more like a legitimate survival strategy.
The door swings open mid-shout.
Oh.
Oh no.
The man standing there is tall. Like, towering-over-me tall. At least six-two, with broad shoulders under an expensive-looking cashmere sweater. Salt-and-pepper hair that’s slightly disheveled, like he’s been running his hands through it. Sharp blue eyes that are currently staring at me with obvious annoyance. A jawline that could cut glass. Five o’clock shadow that somehow manages to look deliberate rather than sloppy.
My hypothermic brain helpfully supplies:Hot butler alert. Rich people really do hire the most attractive staff.
How unfair.
“I need help,” I manage through numb lips. “My equipment failed. I’m a researcher and I... please?” That last word comes out as a whimper.
He stares at me for exactly two seconds. Then he reaches out, grabs my arm, and pulls me inside.
The door shuts behind me with a solid thunk. Then I hear it. The unmistakable sound of a deadbolt sliding home.
Okay.
So.
Locked in a remote mansion with a stranger.
A gorgeous stranger who might be a serial killer.
This is how every true crime YouTube channel starts, isn’t it?
But then the warmth hits me. Like, super cozy, wrap-around-and-hug-you-all-over warm. I immediately start drippingmelted snow and mud all over the pristine hardwood floors. Floors that definitely cost more per square foot than I make in a year. Then I’veevermade, if I’m being honest with myself.
So honestly, while freezing to death versus potential serial killer feels like a coin toss, at least there’s central heating. Probably. Assuming the hot maybe-butler maybe-murderer doesn’t keep his victims in a walk-in freezer, which would just be ironic given my current situation.
“Get those wet clothes off before you freeze to death.” His voice is gruff, commanding. Not unkind, but definitely not warm either.
