Wrapped in thick wool blankets, my body humming from the steam, the heat, the weight of last night. My skin still tingles where his hands were, lips remembering every stolen kiss.
The fireplace crackles softly across the room, the fire down to embers, still glowing. Everything smells like pine, cedar, smoke, andhim.
I stretch, a lazy smile tugging at my lips, bones aching in that delicious, slow way that only happens when you fall asleep wrapped in more than just flannel and fleece.
And then I notice.
He’s gone.
I sit up. The couch is empty. His boots are missing by the door. No coat on the hook.
No note on the counter.
No grumpy mutter from the kitchen. No scent of coffee or burned bacon.
Just silence.
Cold, creeping silence.
“Nash?” I call, voice raw.
No answer.
I toss off the blanket and pad to the door, snow still drifting outside, but no fresh footprints on the porch. It must’ve happened hours ago.
My stomach knots.
Maybe it was just sex.
Maybe he changed his mind.
Maybe I pushed too hard.
My pulse starts racing. My mind launches into overdrive, grabbing at every stupid thing I said last night, every dumb joke, every inch I leaned too far in the hot tub.
God, what if he regrets it?
What if I misread everything?
I whirl back inside, grab my phone from the mantel, and scroll for a signal. Still nothing. The tower must be snowed in. No messages. No missed calls. Noanything.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until I catch my reflection in the mirror near the fireplace. Puffy eyes. Red cheeks. Mascara smudged.
“Get it together,” I mutter, dragging in a breath.
I start packing.
Shove my scarves and boots back into my suitcase. Pull the Santa mugs off the windowsill and toss the decorations into a bin. The photo I put by the fire—the one with Mom and Dad—gets wrapped in a blanket of tissue and tucked away like it never happened.
Likethisnever happened.
This whole thing was supposed to be fun. A stunt. A viral moment for my interior design brand. A fake bride gimmick for a holiday show.
Not… this.
Not whatever the hell last night was.
A knock of panic taps at the back of my throat. I grab my phone again and climb up onto a chair near the kitchen window,hold it high toward the ceiling like I’m conducting some kind of tragic, single-woman-in-the-woods ritual.
