I nod, flopping back down on the couch. She lied to me. Great. Just great.
What are the odds he’d get stranded here in Hope Peak,in the same cabin, too?
"How long have you been here?" he asks, moving to the fireplace, crouching down to add more wood with an ease that speaks of experience.
"Maybe an hour?"
He glances at the wet clothes hanging on a line. "Good thing you found this place when you did."
There's something in his tone. Not quite concern, but…something. As if he knows exactly how close I came to being in real trouble.
"I got lucky," I say quietly.
“Me, too.” His broad back and shoulders stretch the fabric of his thermal shirt as he works. Despite everything—the years of inexplicable coldness and how obvious it is he doesn't want me around—I can't help noticing the way he moves, all casual and confident, the flex of his arms as he positions the logs. Those hands, large and capable and?—
He glances back, catches me staring, and something flashes in his eyes.
I look away fast, heat creeping up my neck.
"Storm's supposed to last through the night, at least," he says, voice low and rough.
My heart pounds hard inside my chest.
His gaze holds mine, intense and unreadable, and something low in my belly twists with heat.
This has disaster written all over it.
CHAPTER 2
HARLON
Two goddamn years.
Two years of keeping my distance, of carefully maintained coldness…pretending I didn't notice the way she smiled, or how she fit seamlessly into my family, or the sweet fucking curve of her ass in those jeans that tormented me every second I was around her.
Two years of lying to myself.
And now here she is, curled up on that tiny couch in oversized sweats that should look ridiculous, but somehow don't, firelight catching the auburn in her dark hair, those big brown innocent eyes watching me like I'm a bomb about to go off.
Which isn’t wrong.
I could kill Sadie for lying to me, saying Piper wasn’t going to make it for Christmas this year.
She blows out a breath. “So we're stuck here. Together.”
The way she says it—like it's a prison sentence—stings.
I turn back to the fire, needing to look away from her for a second.
Hold it together, Ranger Giles.
I'm soaked through, snow melting off me in puddles on the worn floorboards. My fingers are going numb, that prickly sensation that means frostbite isn't far off.
I should change. But changing means stripping down to nothing while she's right there, five feet away, and I'm not sure I trust myself with that level of nudity around her.
So instead I start checking supplies.
The wood stack is decent, enough for maybe three days if we're careful. In the kitchen cabinets—canned goods, instant coffee, basics. Water jugs under the sink.
