Chapter one
Nathan
I swing the axe down hard, the blade biting into the pine log with a sharpcrackthat echoes through the trees. Splinters spray across the snow-dusted ground, and the two halves tumble onto the growing stack beside the chopping block. My breath clouds thick in the February air—sharp, biting, the kind that stings your lungs if you breathe too deep. The thermometer on the porch reads 22°F, but with the wind whispering through the evergreens, it feels much colder. Doesn’t matter. The work keeps the blood moving.
This is what I came here for.
Three years ago, I left the city behind. I ditched the gridlock, the fluorescent buzz that never shut off, the constant press of people who wanted something from you every damn minute. I sold the condo, the suits, the life that was slowly suffocating me, and bought this cabin sight unseen. Drove until the highway turned to two-lane blacktop, then gravel, then a dirt track that barely showed on maps. Best decision I ever made. No neighbors. No notifications. Just silence, broken only by theoccasional crack of branches under fresh snow or the low huff of my dog Bear’s breathing.
I wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my glove, even though the temperature’s hovering in the low twenties. The burn in my shoulders is welcome. I stack the splits, inhaling the clean scent of pine resin mixed with woodsmoke from last night’s fire. Bear sprawls on the porch steps, one ear flopped over, watching me like I’m the most boring show on earth.
“Keep staring,” I mutter. “You’re the one who sleeps through blizzards.”
He thumps his tail once against the frozen boards, unimpressed.
I’m reaching for another log when my phone buzzes in the pocket of my Carhartt coat. I ignore it. It buzzes again. Then again. Persistent as a woodpecker.
Only one person has that kind of stamina.
I dig it out, already scowling at the screen. Emily, my sister, also known as Little Terror —she’s the human equivalent of a snowball to the face—bright, unavoidable, and usually followed by chaos.
Little Terror:You’re welcome, big brother.
Little Terror:Surprise! I signed you up for Mountain Matches. You’ve got a match! Her name’s Katherine. Drinks tonight at The Rusty Pine. 7 pm. Don’t flake.
Attached is a screenshot of a profile. Dark curls spilling over shoulders, a smile that lights up the whole damn photo, curves that hit like a gut punch before I force my gaze away.
I type back fast.
Me:Delete the app. I’m not interested.
Little Terror:Too late. She said yes. One drink, Nate. Sixty minutes. You can handle people for an hour. I have faith.
Me:I don’t date. You know why.
Little Terror:You don’t date because you’re turning into a grizzly. One drink. If it sucks, crawl back to your cave. But if it doesn’t…
A string of heart-eyes emojis, then praying hands.
Little Terror:Please? I worry about you up there alone in the snow. It’s February, and cabin fever’s real.
Guilt. Her favorite weapon.
I stare at the screen, jaw clenched. Bear pads over, nudges my knee with his cold nose, like he smells the incoming surrender.
I could power off the phone. Pretend the texts never happened. Let the snow bury the whole thing.
But Emily’s voice is already echoing in my head, the soft, worried tone she used when we were kids, and she’d beg me to stay up late with her during thunderstorms. She’s the only one who still calls. The only family that didn’t let me vanish completely when I moved up here.
One drink.
I can survive one drink. Show up. Be civil. Leave early. Done.
Me:Fine. One. Then you delete the profile and never mention this again.
Little Terror:Deal! Wear something that doesn’t scream “hermit.” And smile. You’ve got a killer smile when you dust it off.
I snort. Killer smile. Sure.
