His gaze drops—quickly, politely—taking in my face, my posture, my shaky hands. Assessing.
Then he says, in the same steady tone from the phone, “You Mila?”
I nod. “Yes.”
He’s quiet for a beat. And in that beat, something shifts—like he’s noticing me now, not just the situation. Like he’s registering that I’m a real person and not a rescue report.
His jaw flexes once.
“Alright,” he says. “Let’s get you out of here.”
I try to smile. “Thank you. I’m really sorry. I didn’t?—”
“You’re not the first to think this road is friendly.” His mouth twitches—almost a smile, like he’s not used to doing it. “It’s not.”
I laugh nervously. “Yeah. I’ve gathered.”
He reaches up and taps the edge of my hood lightly. Snow falls onto my windshield.
“Do you have chains?”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “In the trunk.”
“Have you ever put them on before?”
I pause. “In theory.”
His eyes narrow—amused now, I think. “In theory,” he repeats, like it’s a flavor he’s never tried.
“Look,” I say, defensive, “I watched a YouTube video.”
“That right?”
“It was very informative.”
He makes a sound that might be a chuckle if he weren’t so…controlled.
Then he glances at the dashboard, at the little air freshener shaped like a cupcake swinging from my mirror, and something in his expression softens just slightly.
He straightens, snow dusting his shoulders. “Pop the trunk.”
I do, fumbling with the button.
He steps back, and for a second, the headlights catch his profile—strong nose, trimmed beard, a small scar cutting through his eyebrow like punctuation. The kind of face romance novels try to describe and fail.
I blurt, “So… you work for Haven 7?”
He looks at me again, and there’s something in his eyes—something like a warning and a promise wrapped together. “Yeah,” he says. “Name’s Beau.”
Beau.
Of course it is.
Because my life is apparently a romantic comedy now, and the mountains just handed me the leading man in rescue gear.
He tilts his head. “You’re headed to Bluebird cabin?”
“Yes.”
