“It’s already whiteout conditions on the ridge,” he says, not looking at me. “That road has three switchbacks and a fifteen-hundred-foot drop on one side. You won’t make it a quarter mile.”
“But my date—Boyd—he’s waiting for me at the actual cabin, and I can’t just?—”
“Your date can wait out the storm like everyone else.”
He turns then, and I get a better look at him in the warm light of his kitchen. Tall—at least six-three—with broad shoulders and dark hair that’s longer than I’d expect for someone with his military bearing. Gray eyes that seem to see right through me. A short beard, neatly trimmed. Hands that look strong and capable and slightly terrifying.
He’s beautiful. In a rough, dangerous,completely inappropriate to notice right nowkind of way.
“What’s your name?” I ask, because I need to call him something other thanintimidating mountain strangerin my head.
Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe, that I asked. “Finn. McGrath.”
“Finn.” I test the name, find it fits him. Short. Strong. No-nonsense. “I’m really sorry about all this. The breaking in, the cooking, the—” I gesture vaguely at everything. “I swear I’m not usually this chaotic.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “You always cook elaborate dinners for blind dates?”
“Only when I’m trying to impress someone.” Heat creeps up my neck. “Which, clearly, was a waste of short ribs.”
“The ribs smell good.”
Four words. The way he says it—gruff, almost reluctant, like the admission costs him something—makes my face light up before I can stop it.
“They’re my signature dish. Braised for three hours with a red wine reduction. The secret is letting the fond—you know, theflavorful brown bits left in the pan—develop before you deglaze, and using a really good cabernet, not cooking wine, because you can always taste the difference?—”
I stop abruptly, pressing my lips together. “Sorry. I ramble when I’m nervous. My ex used to say I talk too much.”
The words are out before I can catch them, and I want to sink through the floor. Why did I say that? Why am I talking about Stephen to this stranger whose house I invaded?
But Finn doesn’t look annoyed. If anything, his jaw tightens, something hard flickering through those gray eyes.
“You don’t,” he says.
“Don’t what?”
“Talk too much.”
I stare at him, trying to process what he just said. Three years of Stephen sighing every time I got excited about something, rolling his eyes when I shared too many details about my day, telling me I exhausted people with my enthusiasm. And this man, this stranger, just dismantled all of it in three words.
The wind howls, breaking the moment. Finn moves to the window, his body tense with a different kind of alertness now—not wariness of me, but something more primal. Weather awareness. Survival instinct.
“How bad is it?” I ask, moving to stand beside him.
Instead of answering, he grabs a pair of binoculars from a shelf near the window. He scans the valley below for a long moment, jaw tight, then lowers them with a grunt.
“There’s a break in the clouds moving through. Won’t last long.” He glances at me, his eyes narrowing. “You said you were looking for Cabin 7? At Cascade Pines?”
“Yes. That’s where Boyd—my date—said to meet him.”
Finn points toward a cluster of buildings barely visible through the swirling snow. “That’s Cascade Pines. The rental cabins. Cabin 7 is the one on the end, with the green roof.”
I squint, but I can barely make out shapes, let alone colors. “How can you even tell from here?”
“I know these mountains.” He hands me the binoculars. “Take a look. The storm’s giving us a window.”
I raise the binoculars, squinting until the shapes sharpen through the swirling snow. Finn was right—there’s a brief clearing, and I spot the cabin with the green roof at the end of the row.
A man stands on the porch, tall and dark-haired, posture crisp even in the blowing wind. Finance bro, every inch of him: designer boots, an overpriced parka, that polished look you only get from someone who’s never chopped a log in his life. My pulse jumps. It’s got to be Boyd.
