No one else for this man, I guess. Which is impossible because?—
“Um, I rented this chalet,” I tell him. “From today until a week from now.”
He glances past me into the chalet, eyes flicking briefly to the lit tree, the fire in the grate, and the orange haze coloring the living room. Then he smiles again, a charming, apologetic grin, before offering me the sheet in his hand.
“I was just double-checking my confirmation when you opened the door. I’m so sorry, but if you’ll take a look at this…Irented this particular chalet through the twenty-seventh.”
I take the snow-covered sheet. It’s damp, curled around the edges, big flakes all over the page. Behind him, the snow is blowing furiously, the wind whipping it around the front yard. I see a basic black car parked directly behind mine, the steps leading from the cars to the porch already filling up with the white stuff.
It’s nasty out here alright, and while all I want to do is return to my seat before the fire, I glance down at the confirmation sheet. And, yup, that’s exactly what this is. It looks identical to the one that the resort sent to me after I booked my stay, down to the chalet number, the address to plug into the GPS, and the information about how to work the fireplace.
The only difference? The name at the top, plus the number of days scheduled for the stay. Because this isn’tmyconfirmation. This is his—and we have a big, big problem.
Handing the sheet back to him, I lift up my phone, using facial recognition to open it easily. A moment later, I do a double-take when I see that the top bar is basically empty. My battery indicator is there, so is the time, but any signal—data or Wi-Fi—is eerily missing.
What the…
Holding my finger up, the universal sign for ‘give me a second’, I find the number for the management office and press it. The lodge is open twenty-four/seven, so I’m sure there’s someone at the desk who can straighten this mess out. I don’t know why this man has a confirmation for the same chalet as I do, but we can get this taken care of?—
Huh.
I pull the phone away from my ear, glancing at the screen again.
“Is there something wrong?”
“It’s so weird,” I tell him. “I was going to call the lodge, see what they can do and maybe explain this, but I can’t dial out. It’s like there’s no service up here or something.”
“It’s the mountains,” the stranger says helpfully, pulling his own phone out of his coat pocket. “This is my first time up here, but maybe that’s normal.”
It’s not. “I actually rented this same chalet last Christmas. I didn’t have any problem then.” I scowl at my phone. “And I talked to my mom barely an hour ago to let her know I made it up here safely.”
Not only did the call dial out from up here, but I was able to FaceTime her in the middle of the freaking ocean.
“That is weird. I mean, looks like you’re right.” He flashes his phone in my direction, letting me see his screen for a few seconds before he disappears it back into his pocket. “No service for me, either.”
It takes me a second to respond to that. Mainly because I actually recognized the picture he had made his wallpaper. It’s one of the tallest buildings in Springfield, the one that hosts the city’s decked-out Christmas tree every year. He snapped a photo of the lit-up tree with enough of the building behind it that I can’t deny that’s what it is.
The mountains are two hours out of Springfield. What are the odds that the man who also booked the same chalet as me has a connection to my hometown? Sure, it’s a pretty large city, but that’s also a little weird… isn’t it?
I shake my head, shoving any suspicions out of it with the motion. “Since we can’t call the lodge, maybe we should take the drive over, clear this up in person. I’m sure there’s gotta be another empty chalet to rent since they double-booked us.”
He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Have you seen how bad it is out there? Radio said they’re calling for a good foot up here before this storm is done.Unless you have snow tires on your car… I almost wrecked twice on my way up to the cabin.”
Just like Evan…
A lump lodges in my throat as I think of the junior manager who ended up wrapped around a tree. I don’t want that to happen to me, and it’s not fair for my bad luck to affect this handsome stranger just because someone else screwed up.
What can I do? Tell him to spend the night in his car and hope he doesn’t freeze? Or admit that the chalet technically hastwobedrooms, so maybe it’s okay if he stays until the snow stops and we get some sort of cell signal back?
Damn it. Maybe it’s the glass of champagne I drank after I ended my FaceTime call with Mom and unpacked both of my bags in the main bedroom, but just like I gave in and opened the door, I know what I’m going to do.
I hesitate, though, just in case I’m making a big mistake. Then, in a light tone that I’m fifty-fifty on if I manage to pull off, I say, “You’re not a murderer, are you?”
His lips quirk upward, revealing a slight dimple in his left cheek. Ducking his head, shaking off some of the snow, he unzips his coat. He reaches inside it, and when he takes his hand back out, he’s holding a black wallet. He flips it open.
It’s a police badge.
“Patrick North,” he says, closing it up and slipping it back inside his inner pocket.
