With a jolt of fear, I realize it’s true. The snow has gotten worse in the past few minutes, and I was too set on my mission to find the Glass Ghost to notice.
He follows my gaze, jaw tightening. He doesn't want me here… but he also doesn't want a dead reporter on his hands.
"Damn it," he mutters, running a hand through his damp hair. "Unless you want to freeze to death, looks like we’re stuck with each other for a while."
The wind howls, icy and sharp, stealing the warmth from my lungs.
And the Glass Ghost—the reclusive mountain man who's supposed to be nothing more than a mystery—steps aside, holding the door open for me.
Heat spills out, warm enough to melt bones.
I swallow hard and step inside.
Into his world.
Into his fire.
And, if the way he's looking at me means anything… I’m in way over my head.
Chapter 2
Pike
Thestormhitsharderthan I expected. Wind shakes the cabin walls and the sky outside has gone gray and heavy, the kind of weather that can bury the mountain in a few hours. I'm already irritated that she showed up on my doorstep, and the blizzard makes the situation worse.
Emory stands just inside the door, brushing the snow out of her hair. Flakes cling to her eyelashes, melting slowly. Her cheeks are pink from the cold.She’s beautiful.
I latch the door and take a step back. "We're officially snowed in. You’re not going anywhere for a while.”
My words sound menacing, but if she’s frightened, she doesn’t show it. She takes in the space slowly, eyes trailing over the small room, the stone fireplace crackling with fresh logs, the shelves of half-finished ornaments, and the faint glow spilling in from my workshop. The place isn't fancy, but it's warm and solid, and it will provide all the shelter we need from the storm.
Her coat is soaked through. Her boots aren't much better.
I clear my throat and nod toward her. "Take your coat off. Hang it by the fire before you get sick."
She hesitates for half a second, then slips it off and drapes it over the wooden rack. Water drips onto the stone hearth with quiet hisses. Underneath she's wearing a soft white sweater that clings to her curves in a way I try not to stare at. She accepts a wool blanket from me, and when her fingers brush mine, the brief contact sizzles hotter than a furnace blast.
She settles on the edge of the couch, still wrapped in the blanket, looking around the cabin with bright, curious eyes. I can feel her trying to piece me together like she's already working on her article about me.
I don't appreciate it.
"What exactly were you thinking," I ask, "hiking up here with a storm rolling in?"
"I didn't plan on the storm hitting so fast. I was trying to find your workshop, and once I saw the light through the trees, I followed it." She offers a small, sheepish smile. "It felt like the right direction."
"Didn’t anyone ever teach you that you shouldn't go looking for strangers in the woods?"
She lifts an eyebrow. "Are you dangerous?" Without waiting for an answer, her gaze drifts toward the workshop again. "Your ornaments are beautiful. The way the colors swirl and merge… it’s amazing.”
Compliments always make me uneasy. Attention makes it worse. I try to shrug this off too. "They're just ornaments."
"They're art," she says, her voice warming. "Why keep your identity hidden? Why not claim your work?"
Because the attention nearly drowned me the last time I tried. Because people started demanding more than I could give. Because solitude has always been easier than being crowded by expectations.
I have no desire to help her write her story, so I say, "People don't have to know my name to enjoy what I make."
Her expression softens, and for some reason that annoys me more than anything else.
