Chapter 1 #2
After her brother Jayce and I broke up six months ago—his choice, his timing, his “I need to focus on my DEA training in Virginia”—most of our friends went radio silent.
Not Sadie, though. She texted me the next day:
You're still my friend. He's my brother, but you're my person. Nothing changes.
It had made me cry into my burrito bowl at lunch.
The truth is, I'd been relieved when Jayce ended things. Not really heartbroken, or devastated, just...relieved.
Which probably says everything that needs saying about our relationship. We'd been together for a little over two years, and I'd spent most of it feeling like I was trying to fit into a role that didn't quite match who I was.
A sharp crack from the fire makes me jump, and I realize I've been sitting here for almost an hour, slowly going numb despite the warmth.
I should probably find something to eat, and figure out what the plan is going forward.
But maybe you need to get stranded in a cabin to realize you've been drifting for a while in order to figure out how to get back on track.
I’m about to get up when suddenly, I hear heavy footsteps on the porch.
I freeze, the quilt slipping from my shoulders. For one wild second, I think I imagined it. But no—there it is again.
Boots. Big boots.
Maybe it’s the owner of this cabin. I scramble up.
Then the door crashes open.
Wind and snow swirl in like something from a nightmare, and in the center of it all, silhouetted against the white, is a man.
A big man to go with those big boots.
He’s covered in snow with shoulders so wide they need to shift sideways to fit in the doorway. He steps inside and shoves the door closed with one powerful motion.
Snow slides off his coat as he straightens, and even before I see his face, some traitorous part of me already knows.
No.
He turns.
Harlon Giles.
Jayce’s older brother.
Six-foot-four of angry, snow-dusted park ranger, his dark hair white with frost, his jaw locked in that sour expression I know too well.
Those eyes—winter-gray and intense—find mine across the cabin, and I watch recognition hit him like a punch to face.
That muscle in his cheek ticks. "Piper."
He says my name like it's a curse, like finding me here is the worst possible outcome of what is clearly already a terrible day.
My stomach drops. Not just because I'm stuck in a storm. But because I'm stuck with him.
The guy who's treated me like a communicable disease for two solid years.
The man who left family dinners when I arrived, who gave me one-word answers in a tone that suggested I was wasting his valuable time, and who made it abundantly clear that my presence in his family was an inconvenience at best.
"What are you doing here?" His voice is rough, accusatory, like I chose to get lost in a blizzard just to piss him off.
I yank the quilt back up, suddenly aware that I'm dressed like a frumpy mess, my hair a tangled rat’s nest, makeup probably smudged to hell. "I could ask you the same thing. You're supposed to be in Wyoming!"
"Change of plans." He doesn't elaborate, just starts shrugging out of his coat, movements sharp with frustration. "Left early this morning. Storm came out of nowhere.”
"Tell me about it," I mutter. "I left Denver at dawn. Weather app said light snow."
He strips off his gloves, fingers red with cold. Something that might almost be sympathy flickers across his face. "Always worse in the mountains than they predict."
We stare at each other for a moment. Two people who had no intention of being here, both caught by the same storm, both…
“Hold up. You’re not heading to Deepwood Mountain, are you?” I ask. Sadie swore Harlon wasn’t coming for Christmas!
“You too?” he asks, with defeat.
I nod, flopping back down on the couch. She lied to me. Great. Just great.
What are the odds he’d get stranded here in Hope Peak, in the same cabin, too?
"How long have you been here?" he asks, moving to the fireplace, crouching down to add more wood with an ease that speaks of experience.
"Maybe an hour?"
He glances at the wet clothes hanging on a line. "Good thing you found this place when you did."
There's something in his tone. Not quite concern, but…something. As if he knows exactly how close I came to being in real trouble.
"I got lucky," I say quietly.
“Me, too.” His broad back and shoulders stretch the fabric of his thermal shirt as he works.
Despite everything—the years of inexplicable coldness and how obvious it is he doesn't want me around—I can't help noticing the way he moves, all casual and confident, the flex of his arms as he positions the logs. Those hands, large and capable and—
He glances back, catches me staring, and something flashes in his eyes.
I look away fast, heat creeping up my neck.
"Storm's supposed to last through the night, at least," he says, voice low and rough.
My heart pounds hard inside my chest.
His gaze holds mine, intense and unreadable, and something low in my belly twists with heat.
This has disaster written all over it.