Chapter 4
Jake
I wake up with a face full of hair that isn't mine and a body pressed against me in ways that make my morning significantly more complicated.
Her head is on my chest. Her arm is thrown across my stomach. Her leg is hooked over my thigh in a way that puts her knee dangerously close to territory that is very much awake and very much aware of her presence.
I start to extract myself, and she makes a sound. A soft, sleepy little moan that vibrates through my chest. Then she burrows closer, her fingers curling into my shirt.
"Mmm. Warm."
Okay. New plan. Lie here and wait for her to wake up naturally.
I stare at the ceiling and listen to the storm still raging outside. The fire has burned down to embers. It's early, maybe six, judging by the gray light. We're not getting out of here today. Probably not tomorrow either, from the sound of that wind.
Which means at least two more days with Madison Tate wrapped around me like I'm her personal heating system.
There are worse fates.
She shifts again, and her knee slides higher. I set my jaw and think about tax codes. Property assessments. The water damage in the Hendersons' basement that I need to get an estimate on.
Her eyes flutter open.
For a moment, she doesn't realize where she is. She looks soft and unfocused, her dark hair a mess across my chest. Almost vulnerable.
Then awareness hits.
I watch it happen. The confusion, the recognition, the horror as she realizes she's wrapped around me like a vine.
"Oh my God."
She scrambles backward so fast she nearly falls off the bed. I grab her arm to steady her, and we freeze.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi." Her cheeks are turning pink. "I'm so sorry. I didn't—."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. I basically assaulted you with snuggling."
I almost smile at that. "I'll survive."
"Still." She pushes back, putting distance between us, and I let her go. "That was... not how I intended to wake up."
"How did you intend to wake up?"
"On my own side of the bed. Like a normal person with boundaries."
"Boundaries are overrated."
She shoots me a look. Half embarrassed, half something else. Then she laughs, and the tension breaks.
"This is ridiculous," she says. "We're ridiculous."
"Speak for yourself. I'm perfectly reasonable."
"Nothing about this is reasonable." She sits up, pushing hair out of her face. "Bathroom. I need to assess the damage."
"What damage?"
"To my dignity." She swings her legs off the bed. "Please tell me I don't have drool on my face."
"You don't have drool on your face."
"Are you lying?"
"Little bit."
She gasps and throws a pillow at me. I catch it, and she disappears into the bathroom with a muttered "rude" that doesn't quite hide her smile.
I sit up and run a hand through my hair.
This is fine. So what if she's too fucking attractive and easy to talk to and we're stuck here together. Physical proximity breeds familiarity. That's just biology. Doesn't mean anything has to happen.
Doesn't mean anything should happen.
I get up and start rebuilding the fire.
*****
By the time Madison emerges, I've got the flames going strong and my head on straight. She's pulled her hair into a messy bun and washed her face, and she looks... good. Fresh. Like someone who doesn't need makeup to be pretty.
Not that I'm noticing.
"Status report," she says, all business. "What's the storm doing? When can we escape?"
"Still raging, not anytime soon."
She nods in acceptance.
We head to the kitchen, and I pull out breakfast supplies. The power's still out, but the gas works. Small mercies.
Madison doesn't wait for instructions. She starts rummaging through my fridge, pulling out eggs and bread and ingredients with the efficiency of someone who's spent years in kitchens.
"Your bread is stale," she informs me.
"It's three days old."
"Like I said. Stale." She's already cracking eggs. "I'm making French toast. You can handle the bacon."
"I can handle the bacon," I repeat.
"Don't sound so wounded. I'm sure you're very competent at bacon."
"I'm competent at most things."
"Humble, too."
We work side by side, and I notice that she moves well in a kitchen. Dances on her toes a little when she’s happy with what she’s done.
Breakfast comes together quickly. Her French toast is better than mine would have been, not that I'd admit it, and we eat standing at the counter because the kitchen is warmer than the dining room.
"So," she says around a bite of bacon, "what does one do during a blizzard in the middle of nowhere?"
"Read. Sleep. Contemplate existence."
"Thrilling."
"I have board games."
Her eyes light up in a way that's almost concerning. "What kind?"
"Scrabble. Chess."
She sets down her plate. "Scrabble. You and me. Right now."
"You play?"
"I destroy."
I've played Scrabble with enough people to know that most of them overestimate their abilities. Words seem easy until you're staring at a rack full of vowels and trying to remember if QI is actually acceptable.
"Stakes?" I ask.
"Loser does dishes."
"You're on."
*****
She wasn't exaggerating.
Madison Tate plays Scrabble like she's conducting a military campaign. Every word is calculated. Every tile placement is strategic. She builds off my words with ruthless efficiency and drops seven-letter bonuses like they're nothing.
"Quixotry?" I challenge. "That's not a word."
"It means quixotic behavior. Noun form." She marks down her points. "Triple word score."
"You're making things up."
"I'm winning."
By the end of the game, I'm down by over a hundred points. It's not even close.
"Rematch," I demand.
"You glutton for punishment."
"I want a fair fight."
"That was a fair fight. You're just bad at this."
"I'm not bad. You're freakishly good."
She grins. "Flattery won't save you. But fine—rematch. Best two out of three."
I lose the rematch. And the tiebreaker.
"This is rigged," I tell her, gathering the tiles. "You're a hustler."
"I'm talented. There's a difference."
"You said you came in third in some tournament. Third isn't first."
"Third in the national collegiate championship." She stretches, looking insufferably pleased. "I may have undersold it."
"May have?"
"Strategically."
I set down the tile box and study her. She's curled up on my bed like she belongs there, cheeks flushed with victory, eyes bright with mischief. Most women I know would have let me win. Would have softened the competition to protect my ego.
Madison went for the kill.
I like it.
"I owe you dishes," I say.
"And hot chocolate. That was the bet for round two. Pay up, Morgan."
I make the hot chocolate, and I can feel her gaze like a physical weight.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just observing."
"Observing what?"
"The way you move. It's very... deliberate."
"Should I move less deliberately?"
"I didn't say it was bad." She accepts the mug I hand her, wrapping both hands around it. "This is good. What's in it?"
"Cayenne. Espresso."
"Fancy."
She takes another sip, watching me over the rim. "Harper said you were a player."
The shift in topic throws me. "Harper talks too much."
"Actually she didn’t say it. I guessed. Sounds like I guessed right?"
I settle into the armchair by the fire, putting space between us. "Define player."
"Someone who dates around. Doesn't commit. Breaks hearts."
"I don't break hearts."
"No?"
"I'm honest about what I'm looking for. That's not the same thing."
"What are you looking for?"
It's a direct question. Madison Tate doesn't seem to deal in anything but direct.
"I'll know when I find it," I say.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
She considers this, tilting her head. The firelight catches her face, and I notice things I shouldn't: the line of her jaw, the curve of her mouth, the way she looks at me like she's solving a puzzle.
"What about you?" I ask. "Any broken hearts in your wake?"
"One or two. Nothing I'm proud of."
"Recent?"
"Recent enough." She sets down her mug. "His name was Mason. We were together for two years. He supported my dreams right up until they inconvenienced him. I chose the food truck. He chose to leave."
"Sounds like you made the right call."
"Maybe. Still hurt."
We're quiet for a moment. The fire crackles. The storm howls.
Careful, I tell myself.
This is how it starts. Then expectations creep in. Then disappointment. Then the same conversation I've had a dozen times: I thought you were different. I thought this was going somewhere.
Madison will leave as soon as the storm clears. She has a route, a schedule, a life that doesn't include Wylde Mountain or me. Whatever this is, it has a built-in expiration date.
Which makes it safe. In theory.
"Tell me about the food truck," I say, changing the subject. "What's your specialty?"
She accepts the redirect without comment. "Cinnamon rolls. Fresh, gourmet, twenty-three varieties."
"Twenty-three?"
"I have range."
"That's not range, that's obsession."
"Passionate focus," she corrects.
She talks about her business: the routes she's tested, the markets she's worked, the dream of finding a permanent base that still lets her travel. Her face lights up when she talks about her social media following. She gestures with her hands, nearly spilling her hot chocolate twice.
I ask questions. Not because I'm particularly interested in the cinnamon roll market, but because I like watching her talk. Like the way she leans forward when she's making a point. Like how she laughs at her own jokes before she finishes telling them.
And for the first time in a long time, I don't mind being stuck.
*****
She's easy to talk to. That's the problem. Most people require effort. Performance, maintenance, the careful calibration of what to share and what to hold back. Madison just... talks. Asks questions that actually interest her. Listens like my answers matter.
It's disarming.