A sharp, digital chime cuts through the air.
I flinch, dropping my hand. The phone in my coat pocket is vibrating, a rapid, insistent buzz that indicates returning service. The tower on the ridge must be back online.
I pull the phone out. The signal strength indicator shows three bars of solid reception. A flood of notifications lights up the screen. Missed calls and text alerts stack up. Voicemailtranscripts from my landlord and collections agency clutter the screen.
I tap the top notification. The automated transcript from the credit agency makes my stomach drop.
Final Notice: Account ending in 4902. Outstanding balance of $30,000 remains unpaid. Continued failure to establish a payment plan will result in legal escalation and garnishment proceedings.
The cold reality of Denver washes over me, heavy and unyielding. The notifications are a ticking clock, a reminder of the financial throat-hold I left behind.
I lock the screen, my heart hammering. Admitting that I’m drowning, that my credit is in ruins, is humiliating. It lays bare the mess I’ve been trying to outrun, and it would prove to him that I’m just a liability bringing trouble to his mountain.
Then, a new email notification banner slides down the screen.
Sender: Brock Sterling (Cascade Development)
Subject: Final Agreement - Angel’s Peak Land Parcel
I tap the screen, the blue light reflecting in the dim room.
Dear Ms. Coleman,
We have revised our final acquisition offer, increasing the payout by ten percent to reflect the urgency of our development timeline. Please find the attached final contract.
This offer is firm and will remain active until tomorrow at 12:00 PM. If we do not receive your electronic signature by noon, the offer is withdrawn, and we will proceed with our alternative parcel options on the north ridge.
Your signature is the final step to closing this matter and securing your wire transfer.
I stare at the glowing text. The contract PDF is attached at the bottom, a tiny icon representing the clean slate, the paid debts, and the return to a life I can control from a safe distance.
I look up, but Wyatt is already standing. He has picked up his coffee mug. He doesn’t look at the screen in my hand, but he knows the sound of the world breaking back in.
His boots click against the floorboards as he walks back into the clinic corridor, the latch of the exam room door clicking shut a second later.
The silence returns, heavier than before.
I look down at the screen. The deadline clock is ticking.
Twenty-four hours. And my signature is all they need.
The night comes down in a heavy, freezing quiet. Without the wind clawing at the pine siding, the silence in Wyatt’s bedroom is almost suffocating, thick with a tension that has been building between us for days.
The storm is fully dead, leaving a clear sky of cold, piercing stars outside the windowpane—a silent, cruel promise that the plowswill clear the switchbacks by morning, cutting my time with him down to mere hours.
I sit on the edge of Wyatt’s bed, my hands locked so tightly in my lap that my knuckles are white. I couldn’t bring myself to go back to Jesse’s old room. The ghost of my cousin is too heavy in there, a painful, hollow echo of everything I’ve already lost. But here, in Wyatt’s space, the air is thick and intoxicating.
It’s filled with the scent of him—sharp cedar, rich woodsmoke, and the clean, primal musk of his skin. It settles into my lungs, making my pulse flutter in my throat.
The door hinges groan softly.
Wyatt stands in the threshold, and the breath leaves me all at once. He’s stripped down to a faded grey t-shirt that clings to the broad, heavy muscle of his chest and shoulders, filling the frame. In the dim, amber wash of the hallway light, his grey eyes are dark, almost black, holding a raw, turbulent focus that makes my chest tighten until it hurts. He doesn’t look away from me.
Not even to breathe.
He walks in, his bare feet silent on the cold floorboards, and sits beside me. The mattress dips deeply under his weight, tilting me toward him. He doesn’t touch me, but the heat radiating from his body is a physical pull, a magnetic current that makes my skin prickle with anticipation.
“The plows will be at the gate by eight,” his voice is a low, gravelly scrape in the quiet room. “You can sign the contract and be done with this place.”
