Oliver eats in silence, eyes darting to the window every few minutes. The wind picks up outside. It sounds like a freight train screaming through the trees. The cabin groans under the assault, but it holds.
"The storm is getting worse," I say, pushing a piece of pepper around my plate.
"Blizzard," he corrects. "Going to dump two feet by morning. Maybe three."
"Three feet?" My eyes widen. "My car..."
"Is buried," he finishes. "You aren't going anywhere, Avery. Not tonight. Probably not tomorrow."
Panic flares in my chest. "I have to... I have work on Monday. The diner..."
"Dolly can wait. Roads will be closed anyway. No one is getting in or out of the Peak District."
Trapped.
We are trapped here. Just me and this mountain of a man in a cabin miles from civilization.
"Where will I sleep?" I ask, glancing around the one-room setup. There’s a door to the left—bedroom, presumably—and the bathroom.
"You take the bed," he says. "I’ll take the couch."
"I can't take your bed. This is your house."
"You’re injured. And you’re a guest." He stands up, collecting the empty plates. "I don't sleep much anyway."
"Why not?"
He pauses. His back goes rigid. "Ghosts," he mutters, so low I barely hear it.
He takes the plates to the sink. I watch the tension held in his shoulders. He served in the military. I saw the way he scanned the room, the way he reacted to the noise. The 'Vanguard' title makes sense now. He’s a sentry. Always on guard.
I struggle to stand, testing my weight on the bad ankle. It throbs, but it holds. I limp over to the large bookshelf near the fire, needing to move, needing to see something other than his broad back.
The books are eclectic. Structural Engineering. Metallurgy. Classic Philosophy.
"You read a lot," I say, running a finger down the spine of a worn copy ofThe Odyssey.
"Keeps the mind sharp," he says from the kitchen.
"You have a lot of books on... fortification," I notice. "Survival. Traps."
"Like I said. I like my privacy."
"Are you expecting an invasion?"
He shuts off the water. Silence returns, heavier this time. He dries his hands on a towel and crosses the room until he’s standing just a few feet away.
"The world is a messy place, Avery. It pushes. I push back."
"And what about me?" I ask, craning my neck to meet his gaze. "I pushed into your world."
"You fell into it," he corrects. He steps closer. He’s so big he blocks the firelight, casting me in his shadow. "And now you’re here."
He reaches out. I hold my breath. His hand hovers near my face, then his knuckles graze my cheek. His skin is rough, creating friction against my softness.
"You have soot on your face," he says quietly. "From your stove."
He rubs his thumb over my cheekbone, erasing the smudge. The contact is mesmerizing. I lean into his hand involuntarily, seeking the warmth.
