Save for the porch light, the house is dark when I pull up shortly after eight o’clock, and I use the side of my boot to brush snow off each step on my way to the front door. The heavy flapping of an owl’s wings briefly fills the night, and it’s cold—fuck me, is it cold. So cold my frozen fingertips fumble to open the unlocked door handle.
After slipping my boots off next to the wood stove, I turn on a single lamp and make my way to the kitchen for dinner.
“Shit, I need to grab groceries before everything shuts down for Christmas,” I mutter to myself, reaching for a box of KD macaroni and cheese on the pantry shelf. When I’m not so exhausted all the time, I do my best to cook healthy meals from scratch. Nothing beats a grain-finished cut of beef on the barbecue, served alongside garden-fresh, roasted vegetables. In fact, my favourite way to decompress is sitting out on the porch with dinner and an ice-cold beer, revelling in the quiet of my ranch.
But lately, it’s takeout, Kraft Dinner, or cereal eaten in the wood stove’s golden glow while I fight to keep my eyelids propped up long enough to finish.
As I’m lazily standing with my hip propped against the counter, stirring the simmering macaroni, a light in the cabin out back catches my eye. I shift on my feet, angling for a better view. Sure enough, a small black car’s parked outside the well-lit cabin.
Fucking Holly.
When she said she had somebody lined up to stay here, she didn’t tell me they were comingtoday. She knew all too well I wouldn’t be able to say no.
Frankly, having somebody in my empty cabin for two hundred bucks per night will definitely put a dent in the financial crisis I’m in. After a handful of rented nights, I’ll be able to buy enough hay for the animals to get through until spring, without the needfor a hefty bank loan from Holly’s fiancé. If my sister’s right, I won’t have to see whatever city-slickers stay here, and in theory, the person staying there for the next few days might just be the resolution to all my problems.
I’m only alittleannoyed that all the lights are on—mental note: change bulbs out for the power-saving kind.And after I vetoed paying for an electric baseboard heater, Holly said she’d leave instructions for the wood stove, so I wouldn’t need to babysit their heat source. But whoever’s in the cabin better not burn through firewood like it’s free.
With a huff, I scoop overcooked, neon-orange noodles into a bowl and shut the kitchen blinds for the first time since moving in. I peruse the local paper to keep me awake as I eat, and then my legs struggle to stumble upstairs to shower. The hot water massages my weary muscles and warms my frigid bones. And the last thing I notice before my still-wet head hits the pillow is the bathroom light on in the cabin across the way.
Chapter four
Eira
December 20
White knuckling the steering wheel, I creep along a snow-covered road surrounded by nothing but trees. In a way, it’s akin to the city, where high-rises tower on either side. Both equally claustrophobic and intimidating. I might have to call Holly and let her know I’m holed up here until spring, because the idea of facing this road again makes my palms sweat.
Braking outside a sturdy metal gate, I blindly feel around on the passenger seat for my phone to confirm the address is correct. If I’m going to die out here, I’d rather it not be from my own stupidity, like being shot while accidentally trespassing.
Stepping outside, I take my first breath of frosty mountain air. Ice particles fill my lungs until they hurt in a way that’s reminiscent of over-inflating them with helium at elementary school soccer wrap-up parties. My chest aches, and I cough a little as I approach the metal gate.
With a bone-chilling squeal, the gate swings open, and I’m officially on the property.
Lucas McKinney’s property, specifically.
But that doesn’t matter. He’s not what I’m here for. I have a car loaded with groceries, art supplies, and comfy clothes. A cozy log cabin with a bathtub I can stay forever in. And five days of flitting about a quaint cabin, pretending to be Cameron Diaz inThe Holiday—sans Jude Law, because I’m desperately in need of a break from the dating scene.
I squint down at the instructions from Holly for the fortieth time, shaking my head. When she told me about the woodstove, a tiny, independent-woman roar sounded in my chest.
I can handle putting a few logs on the fire.
No problem.
By the time I finished lugging my stuff inside—trekking through snow that spilled overtop the cute new Ugg boots I bought for this trip—I was sweating. Cooking a frozen pizza for dinner heated the tiny cabin even more. But shortly after sunset, a deep freeze set in, and my fingers became too frigid to continue my commissioned book cover illustration. And that’s when I realized my mistake.
Big problem.
“Fucking Holly,” I mutter under my breath, flicking the barbecue lighter and holding the orange flame to a piece of crumpled newspaper until it catches.
Just like every other fucking time, the newspaper burns up in a flash, and there’s no sign of fire except a tease of charring on thechunks of wood I stuffed inside the cast iron chamber. I exhale, sinking back on my heels, and shut my eyes to think.
There isn’t a single bone in my born-and-bred city girl body that can handle this shit. I fully accept that I won’t last a single day in an apocalypse. There was never a moment while reading theDear Canadaseries as a child when I thought, “Huh, I’d love to live in a different century.” I’m built for electricity, candy cane flat whites, the internet, and good skincare products.
And since the world hates me, there’s no cell service here. I’m left to fend for myself like an 1800s Protestant spinster, braving the cold in this house alone because no man will find me worthy of marriage now. Twenty-eight, not a virgin.Shame.
Okay, maybe that’s a touch dramatic.
Anyway…
