Chapter 3
Madison
The truck climbs higher into the storm, and I'm starting to wonder if Jake Morgan is secretly a supervillain with a lair on top of a mountain.
"You okay?" he asks, glancing at me.
"Fine. Just mentally preparing for the part where you reveal your evil plan."
His mouth twitches. "What gave me away?"
"Remote mountain location. Convenient storm trap. Suspiciously helpful behavior. Classic villain setup."
"If I were a villain, I'd have better timing. This storm wasn't in my schedule."
"That's exactly what a villain would say."
He laughs — low and warm — and I look out the window before I do something reckless like stare.
The road narrows as we climb, trees pressing close. I can barely see ahead, but Jake drives like this is nothing.
"How much farther?" I ask.
"Five minutes."
"You said that five minutes ago."
"Did I?"
"You're enjoying this."
"Maybe."
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, squinting at the screen. Mom. I silence it. I don’t need to read it to know the theme.
"Everything okay?" Jake asks.
"Just my mom waiting for me to grow up and get a real job."
"Isn’t yours real?"
"Not to her. She thinks I’m having a very long quarter-life crisis."
"Are you?"
I glance at him. "No."
He nods once, like that settles it.
Something warm sparks in my chest, but I smother it.
The truck turns onto a private drive, and my thoughts evaporate.
Because that’s not a cabin. That’s a mountain lodge.
Dark timber. Stone. Massive windows glowing through the snow.
"This is yours?" I ask.
"Yeah."
"You live here? Alone?"
"Yeah."
Of course he does.
Men like him always have places like this. And men like him always want women who fit into their lives, not women who have lives of their own.
He parks near the porch. Silence drops heavy when the engine dies.
"I don’t bring people here," he says quietly.
"Ever?"
"No. Only very close friends."
I want to ask why. Want to ask what makes me different, or if I'm different at all, or if this is just what he tells every girl.
But the wind slams against the truck, rocking it sideways, and the moment breaks.
"Let's get inside," he says. "I'll come back for your cooler."
We make a run for it. Jake's hand finds the small of my back, guiding me up the porch steps, and I tell myself the shiver that runs through me is from the temperature.
The door swings open, and warmth rushes out to meet us. I stumble inside, shaking snow from my hair, and stop dead.
Vaulted ceilings. Stone fireplace. Leather couches. A kitchen that makes me want to cry with joy.
But it’s not staged. It’s lived in.
A book open on the table. A mug by the sink. A blanket tossed over the couch.
This is a home.
"You can take the guest room upstairs," Jake says. "I’ll get a fire going."
"I can help—"
"You’re shivering."
I am. I hadn't noticed.
He crosses to a closet and pulls out a blanket, tossing it to me. It's soft and heavy and smells like cedar.
"Warm up," he says. "I'll be right back."
He's out the door before I can argue, heading back into the storm for my cooler. I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and explore.
Bookshelves line one wall. A guitar leans in one corner, dusty but not forgotten.
Photos on the mantle of Jake with an older couple, his parents maybe.
Jake with Dean, both of them younger, grinning at the camera like they don't have a care in the world.
Jake as a kid, maybe ten or eleven, with his arm slung around a younger little girl with the same mischievous grin. Sister, probably.
No photos of other women. I notice this, then hate myself for noticing.
The kitchen pulls me in like a magnet. I run my fingers over the quartz counters, the professional-grade range, the copper pots hanging from a rack overhead.
The door opens behind me, and Jake appears with my cooler in his arms. Snow clings to his hair, his shoulders, his eyelashes. He looks like a winter god, and I need to stop thinking things like that immediately.
"Where do you want this?" he asks.
"Counter's fine."
He sets it down, and I busy myself checking the contents.
"Hungry?" I ask, because cooking is easier than talking.
"I could eat."
"Then prepare to have your life changed." I pull out a container of pre-rolled buns, ready for baking. "These need about twenty minutes in the oven. You have a working oven, right? Please tell me that beauty isn’t just for show."
"I have a working oven."
"Thank God." I locate a baking sheet and start arranging the dough. "I was worried you were going to be one of those men who only owns a microwave and a coffee maker."
"I know how to cook."
"Prove it."
He raises an eyebrow but moves to the fridge, pulling out ingredients I didn't expect—fresh herbs, actual vegetables, what looks like homemade pasta sauce. Within minutes, he's got water boiling and garlic sizzling in a pan, moving through his kitchen with an ease that makes my mouth go dry.
We work in parallel. The silence between us is charged, but not uncomfortable. I definitely don’t notice the way his hands move, confident and sure. The concentration on his face. The way his shirt pulls across his shoulders when he reaches for a spice.
I need to stop.
"So," I say, sliding my buns into the oven. "Real estate, right?"
"What about it?"
"That's what you do, right? Buy and sell properties?"
"Yes, but development, mostly. I buy old buildings, renovate them, find the right tenants." He stirs the sauce, not looking at me. "This town has a lot of history. I like preserving it."
"Noble."
"Profitable," he corrects. "But yeah. I care about this place."
"Born and raised?"
"Third generation. My grandfather built the first sawmill. My father ran it until he retired. Now Dean runs it, and I handle the property side."
"Family business. That's nice."
"It has its moments." He tastes the sauce, adds a pinch of salt. "What about you? Where's home?"
"Right now? Wherever I park."
He glances at me. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got." I check on the buns, not meeting his eyes. "I grew up in Phoenix. Left after college. Haven't really been back."
"Family there?"
"Just my mom." I keep my voice light. "We're not close."
He doesn't push. I'm grateful for that.
The timer dings, and I pull the buns from the oven, golden and perfect, filling the kitchen with the smell of butter and cinnamon and brown sugar.
I turn to find Jake staring at the baking sheet like it holds the secrets of the universe.
I grab a spatula and slide one onto a plate. "Here. Prepare yourself."
He takes a bite, and his eyes close. A sound escapes him. It’s low, almost involuntary, and heat floods my cheeks.
"Well?" I ask.
"I think I understand religion now."
I burst out laughing. "That's a new one."
"I'm serious. This is—" He takes another bite, shaking his head. "This is obscene."
"Wait until you try them with the maple bourbon glaze."
"There's a glaze?"
"There's always a glaze."
We pile plates with pasta and cinnamon buns, a combination that shouldn't work but somehow does, and migrate to the living room. Jake stokes the fire while I curl up on the couch, tucking my feet beneath me.
"This is surreal," I say, watching the flames dance. "This morning I was in a grocery store parking lot in Billings. Now I'm in a mountain lodge eating homemade pasta during a blizzard with a stranger."
"We’re not strangers," he says. "I’m your supervillain."
"Right."
"So what’s your story?"
"Silicon Valley," he says. "I did the whole thing for a few years. Startups. Venture capital. Got lucky with some equity."
"What brought you back?"
He's quiet for a moment, staring into the fire. "My dad got hurt. Car wreck on the road heading down from town. It was bad, but he pulled through. I came home for a week and realized I hadn't been happy in years." He shrugs. "So I stayed."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
I try to imagine it. Walking away from a whole life because home called you back. I can't. Home has never called me anywhere.
He studies the fire. "Your turn. How does someone quit a stable job to sell cinnamon buns out of a truck?"
"I was in marketing. Good job, good salary, good trajectory toward a corner office and a slow death of the soul."
"Dramatic."
"Accurate." I set my plate down, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders. "I was good at it. Really good. But I was building someone else's dream, you know? Selling things I didn't believe in to people who didn't need them."
"So you quit."
"So I quit. Cashed out my 401k, bought a food truck, and taught myself to bake.
" I laugh, remembering those first disastrous batches.
"The early attempts were... not great. But I figured it out. Now I travel wherever I want. I’m due in Heart River for the big rodeo next week.
Then to Bozeman. I have a whole schedule mapped out. "
"And I’m guessing your mom doesn’t approve?"
The question catches me off guard. "My mom's waiting for me to 'come to my senses.'" I put air quotes around the phrase. "It's been two years. She's very patient."
He's quiet for a moment. "What about—"
"There was a guy." I cut him off before he can ask. "He agreed with her. So now there isn't a guy."
"His loss," he says quietly.
The lights flicker.
We both look up.
"That's not good," I say.
"No."
The lights flicker again, then die completely. The living room plunges into darkness, broken only by the glow of the fireplace.
"Generator should kick on," Jake says. But seconds pass, and nothing happens. He swears under his breath. "Ice must have gotten to it. Stay here."
Five minutes later, he's back, shaking snow from his hair.
"Good news and bad news," he says.
"Bad first."
"Generator's frozen. I can fix it, but not tonight. Not in this."
"And the good news?"
"Gas still works. We have hot water, stove, and the fireplaces."
"Fireplaces plural?"
"Two. One here, one in my bedroom. The bedroom is smaller. It's the only space that'll actually stay warm tonight."
I process this slowly. "The bedroom."
"Yeah."
"Your bedroom."
"Yeah."
"With one bed."
"Yeah."
Of course. Of course this is happening.
"I can sleep on the couch in there," he says quickly. "There's a small one—"
"We'll figure it out."
He heads back into the storm for my bag.
The guest room upstairs is already cold. I change quickly, brush my teeth by candlelight, and stare at myself in the mirror.
"You’re sharing a bed with a hot mountain man during a blizzard," I whisper. "This is fine."
I am not convinced.
I make my way back downstairs and knock softly on his bedroom door.
"Come in."
Firelight fills the room. It’s smaller than I expected. Intimate. A massive bed. Quilts piled high.
"I’ll take the couch," he says.
"You’re six three. That couch is five feet."
He hesitates. "You sure?"
No.
"Yes."
He takes the side closest to the door.
Protective.
I slide under the covers. The bed is dangerously comfortable.
A careful foot of space stretches between us.
"Comfortable?" he asks.
"Very."
"Good."
The fire crackles.
"Jake?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. You didn’t have to do this."
"I wanted to," he says quietly. "I know we just met. But I wanted to."
My chest tightens.
"Goodnight, Madison."
"Goodnight, Jake."
I close my eyes.
I can feel the warmth of him in the dark.
Sleep takes a long time.