Chapter 1 #3
Inside my cabin.
Standing near my kitchen counter like he belonged there. Not Denise's boyfriend. A stranger.
For half a second, my brain couldn't make sense of the picture. Like I'd walked into the wrong room, the wrong life.
Then my body reacted.
I screamed.
It was not a cute scream. It was not a polite startled noise. It was a full-body, animal panic sound that tore out of me like my lungs had decided we were dying.
The man flinched hard, hands lifting instantly, palms out.
"Sorry, sorry," he blurted, his accent thick and unmistakably Scottish. "I'm—Christ, I'm sorry, miss—"
"Get out!" I shouted, clutching the towel tighter against my body like it was armor. "Get the hell out of my cabin!"
He looked horrified. "Aye, yes, I will. I thought..."
"You thought what?" My voice shook, but it didn't sound weak. It sounded furious, which was better, that meant I could move. It meant I wasn't frozen.
"I thought this was—" He glanced around like the cabin itself had betrayed him. "Guest quarters. I… I'm sorry. The door was… it was unlocked."
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard it hurt.
Unlocked?
It wasn't unlocked.
It couldn't be.
I'd watched it lock.
My brain spun.
"You're lying," I snapped.
"I'm not," he said quickly. "I swear I'm not. I came early and Hank said… someone said..."
"How do you know Hank?" I demanded, stepping forward like I was going to fight him with my towel, which was objectively insane.
His eyes flicked over me and then away so fast it was almost respectful. Like he was trying not to make it worse.
"I don't know Hank," he said. "Not… properly. I met him at the entrance. He told me to wait in the main house down this way. I thought this cabin was… I was trying to find where to wait."
"Who are you?" I demanded, my voice sharp.
He hesitated, like he was trying to choose the safest truth.
"Graham," he said. "My name is Graham. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
I moved toward the front door, keeping my eyes on him.
"Get out," I said again, slower. "Now."
He nodded rapidly. "Yes. Aye. I'm going."
He took a careful step toward the door, like he was afraid a sudden movement would set me off again.
As he passed, I caught a glimpse of him up close. Tall, broad, the kind of build that came from actual labor and not a gym membership. Dark hair falling over eyes that were an unsettling shade of green.
And the rest of his face was just—goddamn it. Strong bone structure, stubble that said he hadn't bothered with a razor in days, and a faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow that my brain had no business noticing.
Don't. Do not.
He paused at the threshold, face twisted with regret.
"I'm truly sorry," he said, voice low, sincere. "I didn't mean to—"
"Out," I snapped.
He stepped onto the porch.
I slammed the door in his face.
Then I locked it.
Then I checked the lock.
Then I leaned my forehead against the door and tried to breathe.
My hands were shaking.
My towel suddenly felt like nothing.
My cabin, my space, the only place on this property that was supposed to be off-limits, and a stranger had been standing in it.
It didn't matter that he'd apologized.
It didn't matter that he looked genuinely horrified.
He had been inside my space.
I was supposed to be safe here.
I grabbed sweatpants and a long-sleeve shirt, yanked them on with angry hands, and pulled my hair into a tighter knot like it could hold me together.
Then I threw the door open and stepped outside.
Graham was still there, standing on the porch with both hands shoved into his jacket pockets, looking like a man waiting to be executed.
Hank was in the yard, walking up fast, his expression already apologetic.
"Rose," Hank started.
I held up a hand. "No."
Hank stopped short.
I locked my eyes on Graham. "You do not step foot in my cabin again. Ever."
Graham nodded, eyes serious. "Understood."
Hank cleared his throat. "He's… he's one of the clients. Arrived early with an Uber. I told him to wait by the main house but he—"
"I thought this was—" Graham began.
"Stop," I cut in, voice flat. "I don't care what you thought."
His jaw tightened like that hit, but he didn't argue.
Hank looked miserable. "Rose, I'm sorry. I swear your door must've—"
"My door was locked," I said, sharp, because that was the thing my brain couldn't let go of. "I watched it lock."
Hank's brows pulled together. "You sure?"
I glared at him. "Yes, I'm sure."
Hank lifted both hands again, backing off. "Okay. Okay."
Graham swallowed. "I didn't force the door," he said quietly. "I turned the handle and it opened. I thought it was guest quarters. I truly did."
The rational part of me knew he was probably telling the truth.
The part of me built out of control and habit didn't care.
“I’m really sorry—”
"Stop apologizing to me," I said, because the sincerity in his face made my chest feel weird, and I didn't like weird.
His brows lifted slightly.
"You heard me," I snapped. "Go wait at the main house."
He hesitated, then nodded again. "Yes."
He stepped off the porch and walked away across the yard with a careful, restrained stride, like he was trying not to look back. Like he knew looking back might make it worse.
He turned left toward the equipment barn.
"Other direction," I called out.
Graham stopped. Turned. His face flushed slightly as he pivoted and headed the correct way without a word.
Hank watched him go, then looked at me.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
No. But I was standing upright, fully clothed, and not screaming anymore, so that counted as okay in my world.
"I'm fine," I said. "I'll handle it."
Hank nodded slowly. "All right. The rest of the group will arrive at three as planned, but he got in early."
"I don't care."
My voice was sharp enough that Hank didn't push. He just nodded and walked away.
I stood on my porch in the cold sunshine, watching the mountains and the green pastures and the horses grazing like nothing had happened.
My skin still felt wrong. My chest still felt tight.
And the lock on my door had apparently failed on the one day it mattered most.