Chapter 6
Lila
The first half of the drive goes fine. The rental car’s tires grip the packed snow, the dark pines marking out the edges of the winding road.
But by the halfway point, the snow is coming down in sheets. I tighten my grip on the wheel and ease off the gas.
“Almost home,” I mutter.
The mountain doesn’t care. It just sits there—vast, silent, indifferent.
The snow thickens and thickens until the road blurs into white on white. My headlights catch only the next few yards; everything beyond that looks erased. I flick the wipers up a notch, but they can’t keep up.
It’s fine. I’ve driven this kind of road before. It’s fine.
Except—when the next bend comes, the tires skim a patch of ice I don’t see, and the car fishtails.
My stomach drops. I correct too fast—feel the backend slide.
“Come on, come on—”
The world tilts.
Snow and trees flash past.
Oh, god.
Oh, god,
Oh, god.
Bump!
The car jerks to a stop with a crunch that knocks the breath out of me.
For a while, I just sit there, gripping the wheel, staring blankly at the falling snow. My heart’s thundering.
Guess I’m still alive?
I unpeel my fingers from the wheel and test my body—neck, shoulders, legs. There’s a metallic taste in my mouth—think I bit my tongue. Everything hurts, but nothing seems broken.
Outside, the storm muffles the world to nothing.
I kill the engine, restart it. The tires spin uselessly. I try again, gentler, rocking forward and back. No good. I’m wedged in deep.
“Come on,” I whisper. “Don’t do this to me.”
The dashboard clock blinks 4:27 p.m. The light’s already fading.
I grab my phone—one bar, then none.
Perfect.
I toss it onto the seat and force myself to breathe.
For a few minutes I just sit there, gripping the wheel, trying to think.
The snow piles higher against the windows, muting everything, turning the world into a dim blue blur.
The car feels smaller with every passing minute.
I crack the door open, just enough to look out.
Wind slams into me, hurling snow into the gap.
I can barely make out the drop where the car slid off—maybe two feet, maybe three—but the angle is steep enough that I’m not getting back up onto the road without help.
A wave of panic rolls through me.
I shut the door quickly, sealing myself back into the too-warm cabin.
My breath fogs the glass.
The headlights shine at a crooked angle into the storm, lighting the flakes in frantic bursts.
I wrap my scarf tighter, more for comfort than warmth.
The heater hums on, but it doesn’t calm me.
It just feels like an engine ticking down a clock I can’t see.
I stare out at the white void, listening to the wind sweep across the trees.
No cars.
No people.
Nothing but the storm.
Ten minutes pass. Maybe more. Time feels stretched thin.
I try to think of what you’re supposed to do in situations like this, but everything I know feels flimsy and far away.
Panic keeps climbing my throat.
I grip the blanket from the back seat and pull it around me—not because I’m cold, but because I need something to hold onto.
For the first time since skidding off the road, the truth lands:
I’m alone out here.
And if no one drives by, I’m not getting out.
Outside, the wind’s howling across the trees, sweeping the snow into waves. My headlights catch the flakes in rapid bursts, like the world’s flickering in and out of existence.
I check my phone again—no signal, of course. The battery icon blinks red. I turn it facedown and stare out at the white void.
Time passes. The sun sets. The sky turns to the purplish gray of dusk.
My teeth chatter, even though I’m not remotely cold—just scared and strung out.
Then—a sound.
At first I think I imagined it—the wind’s been playing tricks for an hour—but it comes again: a low growl, steady and close.
My heart leaps.
Headlights bloom in the distance, cutting a narrow tunnel through the storm.
I sit up straighter, breath fogging the glass. “Please don’t be a snowplow,” I whisper. “Or a murderer. Or Santa. Actually, Santa’s fine.”
The lights draw closer, bright enough now to throw long shadows across the trees. A vehicle shape emerges—a truck, big, old, solid.
Relief rushes through me.
I shove the door open and step out, snow biting through my jeans, wind tearing at my hair. I wave one arm over my head. “Hey! Over here!”
The truck slows, crunching over the snow until it’s idling a few feet away. The headlights flare full on me.
For a moment I can’t see anything but glare. Then the driver’s door swings open.
A man drops down from the cab in one fluid motion, boots crunching against the ice.
Holt.
He’s out of the cab and down the slope before I can find words. Snow swirls around him. He looks like something the storm itself threw out—massive, solid, fearless.
He opens my door and leans in, his eyes alive with relief. “Lila.”
Hearing my name in his voice—low, certain, full of something I can’t read—does strange things to my heart.
“Are you hurt?”
I shake my head, throat too tight to speak.
“Thank goodness.” He exhales, shoulders easing just a fraction. “Let’s get you out of here.”
He reaches for me, big hands gentle, supporting me as I climb out. When my boots hit the ground, the snow gives way, and I stumble. He catches me instantly, one arm strong around my waist, pulling me against him.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “You’re all right now.”
His breath warms the side of my face. I can feel the big, slow beat of his heart where our bodies meet.
For a moment neither of us moves. The storm howls, the truck lights blaze, and all I can think is, he came for me.
He helps me up the incline, his hand never leaving my waist. The wind claws at us, sharp enough to steal my breath, but he shields me without even seeming to notice. When we reach the truck, he opens the door and guides me in, carefully, like I might break.
The heater blasts warm air. My fingers tingle painfully as the feeling returns.
Holt circles the hood.
When he opens the door, I remember—
“The groceries!” I exclaim, already opening my own door.
“Stay right there,” he says.
His tone brooks no disagreement, and I obey.
Instead, I watch as he hauls about twenty bags of food and Christmas decorations out of my half-buried car and into the back of his truck.
He jumps into the driver’s seat, and the truck rumbles back to life, lights cutting through the white. For a while, neither of us speaks.
He keeps his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, every muscle in his forearms flexing with control.
“I wasn’t planning to go off-road,” I say lightly.
His jaw tightens. “You could’ve been hurt.”
“I wasn’t.”
He gives a small shake of his head, still watching the snow. “That’s not the point, Lila.”
Something about the way he says it—low, rough, possessive—sends a flutter through me that has nothing to do with fear.
“Next time you decide to go down the mountain with a blizzard approaching, you let me know, okay?”
“I will.” I nod contritely. “But how did you find me?”
“You left around noon. I saw your tracks heading down while I was checking the fence line. Storm moved in faster than it should. You weren’t back by three. That’s a long run to town and back.”
“So, you went looking.”
“I took the truck and swept the ridge,” he says simply. “There are two bad corners after the switchback. I always check those first in snow.”
He glances over. “Yours were the only fresh tracks. I followed them. Saw where you crossed the crown, over-corrected.”
A tight breath leaves me. The what-ifs crowd my mind, cold and sharp.
The truck bumps over a drift and steadies again. The wipers beat in time with my heart.
When the cabin lights finally appear through the trees, I exhale. “Home.”
Holt parks close to the porch and kills the engine. The cab goes quiet except for the ticking heater.
He turns to me. His gaze drifts over my face, soft and searching.
“You’re trembling,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
Before I can argue, he reaches across and tucks the blanket tighter around me. His hand lingers at my shoulder, and something in me loosens.
“Come on,” he says. “Inside.”
He opens my door, snow crunching under his boots, and holds out his hand. “Careful. Step’s slick.”
I hesitate, mostly out of pride, then take it. His grip closes around mine—rough, strong, warm enough to make me forget how cold I am. He braces me as I climb down, his other hand at my waist. For a second, I’m pressed against him, his breath in my hair, his voice low.
“Easy,” he murmurs.
I should pull back, but I don’t. Being in his arms feels like home.
That’s when I see it—
Beside the porch sits a small fir tree, no more than five feet tall. Roots wrapped in burlap, dusted with snow.
“What’s this?”
He shrugs, eyes on the tree. “Didn’t seem right, you spending Christmas without one.”
“You dug it up?”
“Pulled it from the edge of the clearing. It’ll live fine if you replant it after.”
Something soft and unguarded flickers in his eyes. For a man built of silence and muscle, it’s almost tender.
I can’t seem to find words. The gesture hits somewhere deep. Simple. Thoughtful. Completely unexpected.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He nods, glances at the door. “Let’s get you warm.”
We carry the tree inside together, the branches poking our coats, scattering snow across the floorboards. The animals rush us in a joyful, chaotic tidal wave—barking, circling, the parrot yelling “IDIOT!” Holt looks shocked, then huffs a laugh.
We set the tree down by the window. Holt’s close enough that I can see the damp strands of hair clinging to his neck, the tiny flecks of snow melting on his shoulders.
He looks around the cabin. “Better already.”
I laugh quietly. “You’ve got a low bar for improvement.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Just practical.”
His gaze alights on me and for a long moment, I can’t move, caught in the headlights of those amber irises—and then I remember the darn groceries.
“Need to go back to the truck,” I tell him.
He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. “I’ll get your stuff.”
“It’s okay, I can do it.”
“You’ve done enough falling for one day.”
He’s already out the door. I follow because… well, because I can’t let him haul all my bags again.
And because being near him feels impossibly dangerous and impossibly safe.
We carry them in together, both of us breathless, laughing a little. The snow is coming even faster now, and the truck sits half-buried in white.
Inside, the fire crackles, the new tree filling the room with the scent of pine. I set the groceries on the counter, pulling off my gloves.
Holt drops the last bag beside me. He’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, pick up that low, rumbling sound of his breathing, which seems to belong only to him.
“You can trust me, Lila,” he says quietly.
I stop what I’m doing, my heart thudding. “Trust you?” I turn to face him. “Remember what happened last time I trusted you?” The words come out sharper than I intend.
He looks away, jaw tight.
“I remember,” he says finally. His voice is quiet, but there’s no mistaking the weight behind it.
“Then you’ll understand why trusting you isn’t exactly top of my list.” A hard laugh bursts out of me. “You don’t get to vanish and show up years later acting like nothing happened.”
I set the bag down a little too firmly, a tin of cranberry sauce rolling out and clattering to the floor.
He bends to pick it up before I can, straightens, and holds it out to me. His eyes find mine again, regret surfacing like an old wound. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“Well, congratulations,” I say, taking the tin. “You did anyway.”
He exhales, slow and heavy, like he’s been holding that breath for years. “I should go.”
“Probably for the best.”
He hesitates, glances at the window. Snow still falls in slow, thick flakes. He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t.
Instead, he grabs his coat from the peg, pulls it on, and turns back at the door.
“Stay safe,” he says quietly.
“I’ll manage.”
Our eyes meet for one last second — long enough for me to see something raw there— and then he’s gone, the door closing behind him with a muted thud.
I let out a long breath, and try not to listen to the part of me that wanted him to stay.