Chapter 4
Mia
W hitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through the car speakers, and it brings back memories of road trips with my mom. Where we’d sing along, off key, and laughing, especially during the high notes which we could never quite hit. My mom was good at some things like writing, and swimming, but cooking and singing, not so much.
My mind drifts back to one of those road trips with Mom.
“ Come on, sing with me! ” Mom shouted over the music, her eyes sparkling with joy as she drove.
I laughed, shaking my head. “ You know we can’t hit those notes, right? ”
“ Doesn’t matter! It’s about the feeling! ” she said, her pitch rising to match Whitney’s.
“ Okay, okay! ”I joined in. The car filled with our laughter as we tried to outdo each other, hitting the highest notes with exaggerated drama.
Mom glanced over at me, her face glowing with happiness. “ Life is a song worth singing, no matter the pitch. ” S he winked at me.
My phone ringtone interrupts the song, breaking through my memory. I glance at the display and see Rylee’s name pop up. The bittersweet memory fades as I tap the screen to answer.
“Hey girl,” I muster some cheer into my voice.
Her laughter comes through the speakers. “Hey, how’s the drive? Having fun?”
“It’s just me and the road. How’s it going with the internship?”
“It’s good so far, even if right now I’m just bringing coffee to very handsome men. But I can’t wait to learn more.”
Even as I listen to Rylee stories, the pain lingers, a dull throb in my chest. I missed singing with Mom even if we were terrible at it.
Be a waterfall.
Our conversation stretches on for nearly an hour, with me on the receiving end, soaking in her stories and plans.
“Send me pics when you get there? Will you?” I can almost picture the pout on her face.
“I’ll spam you, promise,” I assure her, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “And hey, thanks for calling. I needed the company.” We say our goodbyes and I am left with the silence in the car.
Less than an hour later, I turn onto a dirt road leading to a driveway, with gravel crunching under the tires. Trees line each side, and a mountain rises behind the cabin. My breath catches at the sight before me. It’s bigger than it appeared in the pictures online. I shift the car into park and turn off the engine.
“Holy shit,” I blurt out. The cabin, no, the glass adobe, is nothing short of stunning. Its sharp, precise structure is a stark contrast to the wild, untamed nature that surrounds it. The lower walls, painted an earthy dark brown, blend seamlessly into the forest, becoming a natural extension of the trees. Above, the upper floor is black, surrounded by glass windows.
I stand there for a moment, taking it all in. The tranquility of the place, the way the house seems part of the forest and a world apart, is exactly what I have been craving. This place feels like home , as if I’ve been here before.
Approaching the door, I press the code into the keypad. Stepping inside leaves me speechless again. The layout flows seamlessly from living area to kitchen, to dining, all unified by the warmth of wood, as if the forest itself has extended indoors. The vast glass windows erase any boundary between us and the greenery outside.
I climb up the stairs to the second floor. There are two bedrooms. I step inside the first bedroom and freeze;floor to ceiling windows bring the forest so close, it’s almost as if I could reach out and touch the trees.
A queen size bed sits against the wall, facing toward the windows. There’s also a balcony which provides a view of the mountain. Stepping out onto it, I lean against the railing, inhaling in the fresh, pine scented air. Closing my eyes to take it all in.
The sound of gravel crunching under tires snaps me out of my tranquility, and my heart leaps to my throat. I race downstairs, the sight through the glass freezes me—a black Jeep, unmistakable from the one at the gas station. Did someone follow me?
My first instinct is to call 911. Shit, my phone is upstairs. Why do we always make stupid decisions in those situations? I run into the kitchen and grab a knife. My hands tremble, and all those scary movies I’ve watched are flashing through my mind. I should have listened to my friends. But I will not die in the woods, at least not without a fight.
Making my way back towards the living room, I freeze, the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears as the door handle turns with a soft click. Eyes wide, watching the door slowly push open. Whoever it is, knows the code. Or did I forget to lock it?
“Stay where you are!” I shout, the words clumsy and weak in my mouth.
He stops, his intense green eyes shifting from the knife in my hand, then back to my face. They are wide and unblinking. His lips part as if caught mid-breath, followed by a heavy silence.
“What are you doing here?” I grip the knife tighter, not sure what I’m going to do with it, but needing something to hold onto. I wait for him to explain himself.
Instead, he bursts out laughing. It’s a rich, warm sound that, despite my annoyance, sends an involuntary tingle down my spine. His eyes linger not just on the knife, but they scan my face, a trace of an unreadable smile still playing on his lips. That same smile from before.
“What are you going to do with the knife?”
I don’t know yet.
He’s tall, his presence commanding. Muscles outline his shirt. And here I am, barely five feet three, staring at him with what I hope is a menacing glare, hoping to wipe the grin off his face.
“Did you follow me here?” I force some kind of intimidation into my tone. That’s the only explanation I can come up with. He must have followed me from the gas station.
His eyebrows shoot up,and he seems taken aback by my question. “Follow you? I had no idea anyone would be here.” The sincerity in his eyes catches me off guard.
My grip on the knife loosens, but I’m still confused. “Why are you here, then?”
“I should be asking you that.” He tilts his head at me. “Maybe you like white chocolate after all.”
Seriously. I roll my eyes at him.
“Well, I couldn’t possibly have followed you here. I was here first.”
I don’t know when he moved, but he’s closer now.
“Maybe you stalked me on Instagram. I did post about coming here. It wouldn’t be the first time a girl has stalked me. But usually, it’s after we’ve had sex.” He crosses his arms, and it annoys me that my eyes are staring at his flexing muscles. The confident smirk on his face only adds to my irritation.
“Wait, what? Stalking you? I don’t even know who you are. I’m here because my boyfriend and I rented the place. He should be here any minute.” My eyes inadvertently seek him for a fraction too long.
Shaking his head again, he steps closer. “That can’t be. It wasn’t supposed to be rented out. I’m staying here for the summer.”
“Huh?”
“This is my family’s place, and no one was supposed to be here, but me.” He looks at the knife, then back to my face. “Can you put the knife down so we can figure this out?”
There’s no reason for me to trust him. For all I know he could be lying, but I believed him.
I place the knife down on the kitchen counter, keeping my distance. “Let me grab my phone.” I turn to walk upstairs to grab the confirmation email and everything.
His footsteps are trailing behind me. Turning to face him, our eyes lock again in a silent conversation, causing a fluttering sensation in my chest. I narrow my eyes, telling him to back off. It’s not that I think he’s still a threat, but it’s been a weird day and I’m not comfortable with him following me upstairs.
He receives the message loud and clear and stops in his tracks. “Okay, I get it. I’ll wait for you down here.” He raises his hands up.
I nod, and continue upstairs, my heart pounding for reasons I can’t fully understand.
Once I’m in the room, I grab my phone off the bed, remind myself next time I’m in the woods, and receive an unexpected guest. Make sure to grab my phone before running downstairs. Better yet, don’t run downstairs, call 911 instead. This could have turned out worse.
I scroll through my emails, finding the booking information. My fingers tapping on the screen are a little too hard. It’s all there: the dates, the cost, the house details. When I go back downstairs, I find him pacing the room. His phone pressed to his ear, his movements restless and jerky. He runs his hand through his hair repeatedly, the strands sticking up in wild directions.
“Yes, Mom, she’s right here, and she said she booked the place…” His volume increases before he catches himself.
He shakes his head as the conversation on the phone seems to deepen his frustration.
“Okay.” He lets out a long-drawn-out sigh and ends the call. He looks momentarily lost, staring off into the distance.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence.
He snaps his attention back to me, locking eyes with me before he speaks. “There was a mix up, and they listed the wrong house.”
Observing him now, he doesn’t seem intimidating anymore. He appears more defeated; his eyes, a vivid forest green before, have dimmed. Again, there’s that odd sense of recognition when I gaze into them. It’s like a song I can’t remember. It’s on the tip of my tongue, yet miles away.
“What now?” I say more to myself than to him.
“I need to stay here.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “I’ll give you a full refund, and even offer you a room at no charge in my family’s boutique hotel nearby.”
“What? No, I booked this place. So, I’m not leaving.”
She wanted me here.
“You don’t understand—”
“No, you don’t understand. I don’t want a refund or another place. I’m staying.” She booked this place for me. She knew I needed this place.
“For what? A romantic getaway with your boyfriend. Don’t worry, you can have the honeymoon suite”
“You don’t know what I need.” My voice is louder now, angrier. “And I’m not leaving.” I cross my arms, standing my ground, yet I’m acutely aware of his presence.
“That makes two of us,” he says with an unnerving calmness, his eyes never leaving mine; a challenge lingers in his eyes that I find both infuriating and intriguing.
“You can’t stay here!” I don’t want him here. I don’t need that kind of distraction.
He steps closer, a smirk playing on his lips. “Don’t worry, I won’t get in the way of your romantic getaway. You can fuck your boyfriend all you want. Just pretend I’m not here.”
He turns to walk away. “Wait! Does that mean you’re not leaving?”
“This is my cabin. I’m not going anywhere. You can stay, or you can leave.”
“If you’re staying here, I want fifty percent of my money back. And I call dibs on the bigger room.”
“Sure, whatever.” He shrugs, looking over his shoulder. And walk upstairs.
“Asshole!” I mutter under my breath, my hands clenching together. This situation is far from what I planned. I hate the way my skin turns into lava and my stomach twists into knots when he looks at me. It's infuriating how a simple glance from him can make me feel so exposed. I don’t even know his name, but Asshole fits him perfectly.