CHAPTER 4
Maverick
The cabin was unreal.
I'd stayed in plenty of places over the last four years, from sketchy hostels where I'd slept with my backpack as a pillow to that one surprisingly nice place in Portland where the host had left fresh flowers on the nightstand. But this? This felt different.
Maybe it was the handmade furniture, all solid wood and careful craftsmanship.
Maybe it was the way everything fit together just right, like someone had built this space with actual care instead of just throwing together whatever was cheapest. Maybe it was the shelf of books—actual physical books, well-loved and organized by genre—or the thick rug under my feet that made the whole place feel cozy instead of just functional.
Or maybe it was the fact that Clark had built this. With his own hands. And was letting me stay here.
And had given me his gloves.
I looked down at them where I'd set them on the small table by the fireplace. Thick wool, dark gray, barely used. They were too big for my hands, but they were warm and they smelled faintly like woodsmoke and pine and Clark.
I should not be this affected by a pair of gloves.
But the way he'd grabbed my wrist—not rough, but firm, like he had every right to check if I was okay—and the way his voice had gone all commanding when he'd said "You can and you will"...
Yeah. I was in trouble.
I shook my head and started unpacking my backpack, trying to distract myself from the fact that my heart was still doing weird fluttery things.
T-shirts, jeans, the laptop I used for freelance work, chargers, toiletries.
My entire life fit into one bag, and usually that felt freeing.
Right now, spread out in this cozy cabin that someone had clearly put love into building, it just looked kind of. .. sad.
The fire crackled in the hearth. I'd gotten it going after Clark left—and fine, I'd watched him walk away longer than strictly necessary, but the man had an unfair advantage in those jeans—and now the cabin was starting to warm up.
My fingers were tingling as feeling came back into them, that pins-and-needles sensation that meant I'd been colder than I'd wanted to admit.
Clark had known. Had seen right through my "I'm fine" act and called me on it without actually calling me on it. Just... took charge. Fixed the problem. Made sure I was taken care of.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and let myself process the last hour.
My car had died. I'd walked two miles through increasingly bad weather.
I'd shown up at a stranger's property looking like a half-drowned disaster.
And that stranger—that incredibly attractive, silver-fox, grumpy-mountain-man stranger—had taken one look at me and decided I was his responsibility for the duration of the storm.
I should probably be more worried about the car. About the fact that I was stranded in the middle of nowhere with no real plan and barely any money in my bank account. About the freelance project I was supposed to start next week that required me to actually be, you know, mobile.
But all I could think about was the way Clark had assessed me. The weight of his attention. The way my whole body had gone still when he'd touched my wrist, like some part of me had been waiting for exactly that—for someone to notice, to care, to do something about it.
My pulse was still racing from the memory. Not panic—anticipation. The feeling that I wanted more of his attention, his touch, his commands.
My phone buzzed. I pulled it out of my pocket, surprised to see I had two bars of service now that I was inside.
My mom was calling.
I stared at the screen, finger hovering over the decline button. I should answer. Should let her know I was okay, that my car had broken down but I'd found help. Should maybe actually tell her where I was for once instead of just sending vague "I'm good!" texts every few weeks.
But what would I even say? "Hi Mom, I'm stranded at a Christmas tree farm in Colorado with a man I just met who makes me feel things I definitely shouldn't be feeling after knowing him for all of an hour"?
Yeah, that'd go over great.
I let it go to voicemail. Guilt settled in my stomach, but I pushed it aside. I'd call her back. I would. Later. When I felt like I could handle hearing her judgment on everything.
A few minutes later, my phone buzzed with a text. Different number this time.
Hey man! How's the wandering? Still in Colorado?
Jake. My best friend from college who'd somehow managed to keep track of me despite my nomadic lifestyle. I typed back:
Car broke down. Stuck at a Christmas tree farm until it's fixed.
A Christmas tree farm? Dude, you've officially gone full Hallmark movie. Next you'll be telling me you've fallen for some rugged mountain man.
I stared at the message, my face heating despite myself.
Shut up.
OMG you HAVE. I need details. Is he hot?
I set my phone aside without responding, but I couldn't stop thinking about Jake's words. Stopped running long enough to notice a pretty face.
Except it wasn't just Clark's face—though, let's be honest, the man was gorgeous. It was the way he'd taken charge. The way he'd seen through my defenses in about thirty seconds. The way he'd made me feel safe without even trying.
I grabbed my laptop and opened it, determined to get some work done. I had a logo design due next week for a client in Austin and I should probably at least sketch out some concepts while I had the time.
But even as I opened my design software, my brain kept drifting. To the way Clark had said my name. To the command in his voice when he'd told me to sit. To the way he'd looked at me like he was trying to figure out what to do with me.
I found myself browsing camera websites instead of working.
Looking at equipment I'd never let myself buy because I never stayed anywhere long enough to justify the expense.
Professional cameras, lenses, and editing software.
The kind of gear that would let me do more than just snap pictures with my phone.
If I had a real camera, I could capture this place properly. The way the snow caught in the pine branches. The warm glow of the cabin windows against the storm. The way Clark's eyes seemed to see right through me.
Someday, I thought. Someday when I stopped moving long enough to build something real.
The thought surprised me. When had I started thinking about stopping?
My phone buzzed again. Mom, this time via text:
Sorry I missed you sweetie. Hope you're staying warm wherever you are. Love you.
I stared at the message, then typed back: Love you too. I'm safe. Will call soon.
***
At 5:55, I stood in front of the small bathroom mirror and tried to make myself look less like I'd hiked two miles through a snowstorm.
Spoiler alert: it wasn't working.
My hair was a disaster but there was no time to wash it.
My cheeks were still red from the cold and I had dark circles under my eyes from not sleeping great the last few nights.
The best I could manage was to run my fingers through my hair—which just made it look artfully messy instead of disaster messy, so I'd take the win—and splash some water on my face.
I'd changed into a clean t-shirt and my least-wrinkled flannel, which felt ridiculous because it wasn't like this was a date.
He was bringing me dinner because I was stranded and he was a decent human being, not because he wanted to have some romantic fireside meal with the vagrant who'd shown up on his property.
Still. I wanted to look... not terrible.
At exactly six o'clock, there was a knock on the door.
My stomach did a weird flip-flop thing that I chose to ignore as I crossed the cabin and opened the door.
Clark stood on the porch, holding a large covered pot in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
He'd changed too—or at least, he'd shed the heavy work jacket.
Now he wore a dark green henley that made me forget what I'd been about to say and jeans that were somehow even better than the work pants from earlier.
His beard had little flecks of snow caught in it and his cheeks were ruddy from the cold.
He looked like someone had read my browser history and designed the perfect mountain man, then sent him over with food.
"Hi," I said, and wow, four years of college and that was what my brain produced.
"It's freezing. Let me in." His voice was gruff, but not unkind, and I quickly stepped aside.
He moved past me into the cabin, bringing with him a wave of cold air and the smell of something that made my mouth water. He set the pot on the small kitchen counter and the bag next to it, then turned to look at me.
"You get the fire going okay?"
"Yeah, it's great. Warming up nicely." I gestured vaguely at the fireplace, where the flames were still crackling away. "Thanks again for, uh, everything."
He nodded, studying me with that careful attention I was starting to recognize. His gaze lingered on the gloves I'd left on the table and his expression shifted briefly before he looked away.
"Made stew," he said, moving back to the pot. "Figured you could use something hot."
"That smells amazing." I came closer, watching as he lifted the lid. Steam rose up, carrying the scent of beef and vegetables and herbs. My stomach growled audibly and I felt my face heat. "Sorry, I haven't eaten since breakfast."
His jaw tightened. "Sit down."
It wasn't a request.
I sat.
He moved around the small kitchen like he knew exactly where everything was—which, fair, he'd built the place—pulling out bowls and spoons, ladling generous portions of stew. He set one in front of me along with a thick slice of bread from the bag, then pulled out a chair across from me.
"Eat," he said, and again, it wasn't a request.