Obviously this man wants nothing to do with me, Amy thought to herself.
Even with his chilly attitude, I’m glad to be here. If he hadn’t come out of the cabin, come looking for me, I would still be trapped under that tree, squirming, trying to get out but hooked by the loop on the back of my coat and pinned under the heavy branch.
Right now, I’m still the coldest I’ve ever been, and I’ve been warming up in his cabin for more than twenty minutes.
It’s quiet. Not just outside, with the snow, but it’shim.He’squiet, with a sort of inward retrospection I’m not used to in Denver. In the city, everything is loud, every moment a chance to consume something. Even Kirstin—queen ofbeing presentandliving in the moment—can’t resist twenty minutes of brainless Instagram reels watching.
Even on the drive here, I listened to a podcast. When I run in the mornings, I listen to music or audiobooks. I always havesomething playing in the background, on my TV, whether it’s from YouTube or Netflix.
But right now, he just sits in his recliner, holding his own mug of tea, sitting in the silence as the light from the fire plays over his face.
He obviously doesn’t want to talk to me. He shot down all of my other questions or simply responded with a grunt or a nod. Something about this situation doesn’t seem right to me.
“You own all this land, right?” I ask, thinking about the careful way his drive, stairs, and porch were salted. The neat stack of firewood outside, the tidiness inside this home now. “Even over where I was… stuck under the tree?”
His eyes swing to mine, and they darken. Something flickers inside me at the feeling of his gaze on me, and I push it down. I’m here for work.
“I’m not talking to you about my land,” he says, his voice gruff.
I nod, looking away, my cheeks heating. There’s something about him that seems to cut through pretense. I’d like to see him talk to one of the tech bros always hanging around the firm, the guys I have to work with.
“Okay, well, thank you very much for the drink,” I say, getting to my feet, the blanket slipping off my shoulder and taking my blouse partially with it. I catch it, but not before his eyes dart to the bare skin there and away so quickly I could have imagined it. “But I’d better get going.”
“Absolutely not.”
I blink, taken aback by the point-blank delivery.
“The roads are only going to get worse,” he explains, maybe seeing how his bedside manner could use some work. “And if you try to leave now, I’m just going to have to tow you out later.”
“But it’s not like I can stayhere.”
“You can,” he says, glancing to the right. “I have a guestroom.”
“But—I don’tknowyou.”
He stares at me for a second, and I hope the cold, followed by the fire, is enough to explain the red in my cheeks. This whole thing already feels like the elaborate setup for an adult film, minus the fact that he has the chilliest personality I’ve ever encountered.
“Fair,” he finally says, shrugging. “You’re welcome to try and brave the mountain, but I know these roads like the back of my hand, andIstill wouldn’t try it. They’re just not safe.”
The moment holds again as I look at him. “I can fight,” I say, as a warning. “And I’m armed.”
His eyes widen; that last part is a lie.
“Okay,” I amend, “I don’t have a gun, but I do have pepper spray, and I knowhow to use it.”
To my surprise, he chuckles, shaking his head and looking away from me, like I’ve amused him. My heart picks up a bit in my chest.
“I don’t doubt it,” he says, his deep voice practically rolling through the room. “It’s up to you. God knows it’s not like I washopingfor company tonight.”
That makes me feel bad, and I almost insist on going on the principle of the thing, but when I look out the window and see my little car practically buried in snow, I know there’s no chanceI’m getting down the mountain in one piece. It’s not going to do me any good if I get halfway back to the city and break down or if I go careening off the side of the mountain.
“My sister knows where I am,” I say, “and I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
“Fine,” he says, and then we’re standing, and he’s showing me to the guestroom, getting me a towel and even offering me one of his T-shirts. “While your clothes dry,” he says, and I swear it’shischeeks that are pink now.
He moves through the room, shoving logs into the fireplace, checking the faucets in the connected bathroom, closing the curtains, finding another pillow in the closet, sliding it into a case, and setting it on the bed.
“Anything you need?” he asks gruffly, and I shake my head, not sure why I feel quite so… vulnerable.
