1
ELSA
The second I saw him walk through the door, my heart stopped.
Not in a good way. Not in that romantic, butterflies-in-your-stomach way the romance novels talk about. No, this was pure, ice-cold dread pooling in my gut as Preston Chapman stepped into the Wildwood Valley Roadhouse like he had every right to be there.
He didn’t. This was my place now. My town. My life.
I’d been wiping down the same glass for the past thirty seconds, frozen in place behind the bar. The roads had cleared after the big snow, and I’d been so relieved. People could come and go again. The town was opening back up.
It never occurred to me that he would come.
My ex-boyfriend stood just inside the entrance, scanning the room with that familiar, methodical way of his. He was handsome in a clean-cut, country-club kind of way—sandy hair neatly combed, khaki pants pressed, a pale blue button-down that probably cost more than my weekly tips. Back in Charlotte, my mother called him “a catch.” My father nodded approvingly over Sunday brunch.
And I’d tried. God, I’d really tried to feel something for him.
His eyes found me, and something flickered across his face. Relief, maybe. Determination. He started walking toward the bar, and I felt my throat close up.
I couldn’t do this. Not again. Not the quiet conversations where he’d explain, so patiently, why we made sense together. Not the logical arguments about compatibility and shared backgrounds and how feelings would grow if I just gave it time. I’d given it eight months. Eight months of trying to convince myself that comfortable was close enough to happy.
It wasn’t.
My gaze darted around the roadhouse, desperate for an escape. The place was half-full—a few regulars at the bar, some couples in the booths, and at the big table in the back corner, most of the fire crew sat loud and rowdy and impossible to ignore.
One of them sat apart from the others tonight. The grumpy one. Briggs, I thought his name was. He was nursing a beer at a smaller table near the wall, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else. Big. Broad-shouldered. A beard that said he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him.
The opposite of Preston in every possible way.
Preston was getting closer. Ten feet away now. I could see him rehearsing whatever speech he’d prepared on the drive up here.
I didn’t think. I just moved.
I set the glass down, slipped out from behind the bar, and walked straight toward Briggs like I had somewhere important to be. He looked up as I approached, confusion flickering in his dark eyes.
“Hey,” I said, my voice coming out breathy and strange.
Before he could respond, I slid onto his lap.
His whole body went rigid beneath me. I felt the hard muscle of his thighs, the warmth of him through my jeans. He smelled like smoke and something clean, like pine.
“What the—” he started, but I leaned in close, my lips nearly brushing his ear.
“Please,” I whispered. “Just go with this. Please.”
I felt him tense even more, felt his hand hover near my hip like he wasn’t sure whether to push me away or pull me closer. Then I heard Preston’s voice behind me.
“Elsa?”
I turned my head just enough to see him standing a few feet away. His face had gone pale, his mouth slightly open. He looked from me to Briggs and back again, processing what he was seeing.
“Preston.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “What are you doing here?”
“I…” He blinked several times, rapid-fire. “I came to talk to you. We never properly finished our conversation. But I can see that you’re…” His gaze dropped to where Briggs’s hand had settled on my hip—a warm, heavy weight that sent an unexpected shiver through me. “Occupied.”
Briggs’s fingers flexed, and when he spoke, his voice was a low rumble that I felt as much as heard. “She’s more than occupied, buddy. She’s mine.”
The word shot through me like electricity.Mine.
