ONE
KAYLEY
Let me be clear—I’m not a car person. I’m more of a “get in and pray she starts” kind of girl. So when the engine sputters for the third time in two miles, I shoot the dash my best death glare and mutter, “Don’t you dare.”
The car, being the drama queen she is, dares. She sputters. Jerks. And with one final gasp of defiance, the engine dies completely. Right in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by snowbanks taller than I am and trees that look like they came straight out of a murder podcast.
Perfect. This is fine. Everything istotallyfine.
Except it’s not. Not even close.
Because in the backseat, little Aidan—my sister’s baby, my everything now—is crying. His tiny face is flushed, his whimpers weak, and I swear he’s hotter than a marshmallow straight from a campfire. I press the back of my hand to his cheek.
“Still burning up,” I whisper, panic tightening my throat. “Hang in there, buddy.”
My sister, Sophie, would’ve known what to do. But Sophie’s gone, and all I have is a diaper bag, a teething ring shaped like a banana, and a prayer.
And snow. So much freaking snow.
I yank open the door and immediately regret it. A gust of icy wind punches me in the face like it holds a personal grudge. I grab the diaper bag, wrap Aidan in his blanket burrito-style, and climb out. The moment my boots hit the icy road, I’m slipping like Bambi on roller skates.
“Seriously?” I hiss, catching myself on the side mirror. “Cool. So cool. I always wanted to die in the opening scene of a survival movie.”
I scan the tree line, heart thudding. There’s a shape through the snow. Big. Blocky. Maybe a house? A bunker? A place for psychos to store their chainsaws?
“Let’s hope it’s not that last one.”
I stumble through the snow like a woman possessed, my boots disappearing with every step. I’m soaking wet. Shivering. My hair’s sticking to my lips. But there’s a light ahead—flickering from a window just past a tall metal fence and a huge wooden gate that looks like it belongs in Game of Thrones.
It’s a compound. Definitely a compound.
And at this point? I don’t care if it’s run by mountain lions or a bunch of shirtless cult leaders. I’m out of options.
I clutch Aidan tighter, shuffle up to the gate, and pound on it with the side of my fist. “Hello? Is anyone in there? I have a baby! I swear I’m not a threat!”
The wind answers by slapping me in the face with a fresh wave of snow.
“Cool, cool, cool,” I mumble through chattering teeth.
And then—just as I’m debating whether crying will help or just freeze my mascara into icicles—the gate swings open with a loudcreeeeeak.
And holy lumberjack.
The man in the doorway is huge. Like, “makes my brain short-circuit” huge. He’s got dark, tousled hair that looks like it was styled by a snowstorm, a thick beard that practically screamsI chop firewood shirtless, and a body that makes me instantly regret every single choice that led to me not wearing lip gloss today.
He’s wearing a Henley that clings to his chest like it owes him rent, and a flannel jacket hangs open over his shoulders. His eyes—sharp and glacier-blue—land on me, then on the crying bundle in my arms.
“What the hell?” he mutters, already reaching for us.
“My car died. The baby has a fever. Please don’t be a serial killer.”
The mountain man blinks. “Name’s Gavin. I’m not a serial killer.”
“Okay, but like, that’s exactly what a serial killer would say.”
He lifts the gate open wider with one hand like it’s made of paper and ushers me inside. “Get in. Now.”
I don’t argue. I practically fall through the door, clinging to the baby like he’s a life raft. The man kicks the gate shut behind usand leads me through the snow toward a massive log-cabin-style building. Warm golden light pours from the windows. I catch glimpses of men inside—tall shapes, movement, warmth.
