Chapter one
Claire
The road disappears ahead, swallowed by a sudden wall of white. What had been a gentle dusting when I turned off the highway is now an actual winter storm swallowing the mountain, thick flakes rushing sideways in the wind. I lean forward in the seat as if that might help, squinting at the vague suggestion of the next curve. I grip the wheel hard. The GPS has been dead for ten minutes. I haven’t passed another car in what feels like forever, only trees and a silence so deep it hums in my bones.
My breath clouds the glass, blurring what little I can see. The heater’s blowing full blast, but my fingers are still cold, especially where my gloves got damp repacking my gear back at the gas station. I blink hard and focus. I was supposed to be in Granitehart Ridge by now, checking into my cabin and shooting content of their quirky downtown Christmas festival for my travel blog. That was the whole plan: lights, cookies, and curated winter magic. Instead, I’m on some barely plowed road that’s rapidly icing over. Every hair on my neck is starting to rise.
The curve comes out of nowhere. I take it too fast. The tires slide, just a little at first, then a sharp veer that sends my heart punching into my throat. I pump the brakes, overcorrect, and feel the back end fishtail. My breath snags. Every second stretches thin. I see the drop-off to the right, not a cliff, but a steep enough ditch to make me swear out loud. The car skids sideways and then dips with a sickening lurch.
The crunch of the front bumper hitting the snowbank jerks me forward in my seatbelt. I sit frozen for a second, my pulse hammering in my ears. The engine stutters, then dies. I twist the key. Nothing. The only sound now is the wind lashing against the windows and my own shaky exhale fogging the glass.
I grab my phone. Zero bars. I try again, as if it might change its mind. No signal. No service. No help coming.
Three Christmases ago, I live-streamed a "cozy solo celebration" while my parents video-called from separate states, separate families, checking in out of obligation. Last Christmas, I photographed myself alone in front of a borrowed tree. The post got forty thousand likes. I cried myself to sleep at nine PM.
This year, I want something different. Something real. A mountain town festival, an actual connection instead of content. A place where Christmas means more than performance.
Instead, I'm stuck in a ditch with hypothermia creeping into my fingers. Merry Christmas to me.
The storm is only getting worse, but I can’t just sit here. I tug on my gloves and scarf, shove open the door, and step out into the blinding cold. Snow pricks at my cheeks like needles. I crunch my way around to the front and start to dig with my hands, trying to clear the wheel wells. The snow is wet and heavy, clinging to everything. My gloves soak through instantly. My jeans are no match for the wind. Still, I keep going, heart pounding as I fight back the rising panic.
I’m so focused I don’t hear the footsteps at first. But then there’s a shadow, a shift in the white. A figure moves through the storm confidently, as though he’s not in a hurry. The rest of the world seems to stop. I look up, shielding my eyes, and there he is.
He’s tall. Massive, actually. He wears a thick, dark coat and a fur-lined hat pulled low. He walks through the blizzard as if he's done this a thousand times before. His boots find solid ground where I can barely see my own feet. Each step is deliberate, no hesitation, even when the wind tries to knock him sideways. I've made reels about adventure guides before; they all have that same confidence in hostile environments. But this man moves differently.
Like these mountains answer to him.
Snow coats his shoulders, his beard, but he doesn't brush it away or seem to notice the cold that has me shivering inside my coat. When he stops a few feet away, I catch sight of pale eyes beneath heavy brows. He's studying me, but not the way men usually do. This feels clinical. Professional.
"Hi," I manage, my voice barely carrying. "I'm… a little stuck."
He doesn't answer right away. Just keeps that steady assessment going, like he's cataloging my condition. Checking for signs of hypothermia, maybe, or panic. The attention should feel intrusive. Instead, it makes me stand straighter. Makes me want to prove I'm tougher than I look.
When he moves, it's without warning. Two long strides and suddenly he's close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. The size difference makes my chest tighten. His presence cuts through the storm, making the chaos around us feel manageable.
I take a step back and slip on an icy patch. His hand closes around my arm when I stumble. Steady, sure, no hesitation. His other hand finds my waist, and suddenly I'm anchored againsthim. My chest brushes his coat, and even through all the layers, I feel solid heat. The steady rise and fall of his breathing.
"Road's not safe," he says. His voice carries despite the wind. "You wouldn't have made it another mile. The only thing up here is Granitehart Ridge Retreat, and we’re closed for the season."
He's not trying to scare me. He's stating a fact. The certainty in his tone tells me he knows exactly how fast hypothermia sets in, how quickly weather like this turns deadly. Professional knowledge, not just opinion.
"I work at the retreat guiding people through these mountains," he adds, eyes never leaving mine. "Trust me."
I do. Completely, without question. He’s a stranger who materialized from the storm, but somehow, I trust him with my life.
Then, without a word, he leans down and scoops me into his arms.
His arms are solid beneath me. For a man built like a mountain, he carries me as if I weigh nothing. The wind howls around us as he starts walking toward the tree line. I twist to glance back at my car, its hazard lights blinking weakly in the storm, then back to the stranger who’s carrying me like a doll. My heart thuds so loud I can feel it in my throat. His grip is sure, unyielding, as if the wind can’t touch me here. My cheek brushes the rough wool of his coat, and even through the layers, the shape of him registers. Broad chest, massive shoulders, rock-hard muscles I can feel through my clothes. The steady rise of his breath. My thighs rest against the hard muscle of his arm.
The thought slips in uninvited: what it might feel like without all these winter clothes between us.
“I’m really okay,” I manage. “I can walk. I just slipped.”
He doesn’t answer. He keeps walking, his breath visible in slow bursts, steady and unbothered, as if this sort of thing happens all the time. He smells like cold pine and woodsmoke.Earth. The sharp breath of a coming storm. The cabin comes out of nowhere. The closer we get, the warmer the air feels, radiating from somewhere inside even though snow still swirls around the roofline. Maybe I’m imagining it. He shifts his grip to open the door with one hand and nudges it farther with his boot.
Warmth hits me instantly, carrying the scent of a fireplace and something faintly sweet, cinnamon, maybe. The cabin is dim, lit only by firelight and a single oil lamp on a shelf. Everything is wood: the floor, the walls, the rafters. It looks hand-built and old, but solid, like it was meant to last. My eyes adjust as he carries me deeper inside, the door swinging shut behind us with a soft click.
He lowers me to the edge of a bench near the fire, and his hands linger a beat too long at my waist before he straightens. I stay still, not trusting my balance or my breath. The air between us feels charged, like the space between two live wires. Every inch of me is suddenly too aware of his presence, his warmth, his stillness. The way he looks like he belongs to this cabin, and I… don’t. I don’t dare meet his eyes.
