This is the one thing I’m actuallynotmodest about. How I designed this does feel like a cave. Just for me.
The house sits like it was carved straight from the mountain, not built—raw and quietly commanding. All glass, steel, and stone, it’s organic in its presence, unapologetic in its design. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch in every direction, clean lines intersect with the wilderness around it, and ivy clings to the stone like the mountain’s claiming it back.
Out back, an elegant pool steams in the cold, clearly heated to survive the winter. Beyond it, a waterfall cuts through the landscape like something preserved on purpose, more historic landmark than backyard feature. Snow-capped mountains rise in the distance, stark and immovable.
It’s stunning.
It’s mine.
But even though my home makes me swell with pride, I can’t give her the usual grand tour. I need to put distance between us as fast as possible. I let very specific women into my home for very specific reasons, and letting someone like Max get close—letting her actually know me—isn't a risk I can afford.
Despite the rushing desire to talk to her, to strip back the layers and tell her everything in a way I rarely do with anyone, I know better. She’s an enigma, the kind of woman who could make me lose my footing if I’m not careful.
I resolve right then that distance is my only defense. I show her around quickly, pointing out the basics while keeping the tour neutral. Safe. Detached.
When we reach the guest wing—opposite end of the house from mine, intentionally—she glances around with wide, appreciative eyes.
The goal is to keep her far enough away to make sure I don’t do anything stupid.
“This is really…peaceful,” she says, dropping her bag by the edge of the bed.
“Thank you.”
“Can I ask you for something kind of weird?” she asks.
I arch a brow. “That depends, because I already told you my one true thing.”
She smiles then shakes her head. “Nothing like that. Do you have, like…a big flannel shirt I can sleep in? You just seem like a guy who has a collection of them.”
I blink. “You packed a whole suitcase.”
“Yes, but none of my clothes feel like oversized forest-man comfort. And I’m pretty sure you hoard cozy shirts like trophies.”
She’s ridiculous. But she’s not wrong.
Without another word, I turn and head across the house toward my room, whispering curses under my breath.
Ishouldsay no. I should absolutely not be picturing her in one of my shirts. But here I am, rifling through drawers like a man on a mission, pulling out the softest damn flannel I own. Deep red and black. Big enough for me, but damn if I’m not already imagining how it’ll look onher.
I’m a little more than excited to see it draped over that smart mouth and daring, petite little body.
As I’m closing the drawer, my phone rings.
I glance at the screen and sigh.Of course.
“Drake. What?” I answer flatly.
“Nothing, bro. Just checking in,” he says, too casually.
I pause. “Since when do youcheck in? Ever?”
“Since you’re out here playing Canadian Rescue Ranger with the cute girl you picked up off the side of the road,” he replies, amusement thick in his voice.
I suck my teeth. “You’re trippin’.”
“‘You’re trippin’,’” he mimics, like a child. “So, remember a couple weeks ago at the Peppermint Elephant when you were mid-rant about how your favorite American whiskey got yanked off the shelves?”
“Yes,” I snap.
