Chapter 2
Silas
The cottage looked smaller than I remembered.
Which, of course, was impossible — I’d never actually been here before. But something about it still felt familiar in that bone-deep, unwelcome way that reminded me of every other “quiet place to work” I’d ever rented. Same weathered wood. Same promise of peace. Same inevitable disappointment.
The words didn’t come to me like they had a decade ago. Nothing I wrote stuck. Editors and agents wanted nothing to do with the messy jumble of nothing that I turned in.
I stood at the edge of the porch, hands shoved into my coat pockets, trying to decide if the snow falling in fat, lazy flakes was beautiful or just another obstacle.
Probably both.
The car ride from the city had been long enough for me to catalog every failure that had brought me here. Three years since my last book — a failure. Two since my last agent — gently let go. It was all downhill when the polite emails had stopped and the pitying ones began.
I could still hear my editor’s voice — gentle, careful, like talking to a wounded animal. “You just need some space to breathe, Silas. Somewhere quiet. Something simple.”
Simple. Right. Because simplicity had always solved the kind of rot that started inside.
I’d booked the cabin because it promised solitude. A single room, a desk, a fireplace, and no one to bother me while I figured out whether the words still existed.
If I were being honest, I didn’t even know if I wanted to write anymore. But what else was I supposed to do? Sit in my apartment and count regrets?
The snow crunched under my boots as I stepped up to the door. There was light spilling from the windows — warm, golden. Not what I’d expected. Maybe the caretaker had left it on for me. Thoughtful, though unnecessary.
I cracked open the door.
And stopped.
Music hit me first — something bright and insistent, sleigh bells and sugar-sweet vocals that didn’t belong anywhere near the silence I’d come here for. Then the smell — cinnamon, cocoa, the faint tang of something burning.
And then her.
Bare legs, oversized sweatshirt, tangled hair, halfway up a chair, stringing lights across the window. There was a giant fucking bow in her hair. A bow.
“That’s not necessary,” I managed, voice thick from lack of use. “I’m sorry I’m early, but the decorations aren’t needed.”
Before I could say anything further, she screamed.
The mug in her hand went flying — cocoa splattering against the rug like a crime scene. The chair she’d been standing on wobbled, clattered to the floor, and she went down with it in a blur of limbs, garland, and very creative swearing.
“Jesus—” I started, moving forward on instinct.
“Don’t move!” she gasped, clutching a tinsel garland like a weapon. “Who the hell are you?”
I froze. “I — what?”
“You can’t just break in! People get murdered like this!”
Blinked. “You’re decorating.”
“I live here!” she said — a lie, clearly, but she committed to it, eyes wide and wild, hair sticking up in every direction.
“This is a rental.”
She stared, chest heaving, garland drooping from one hand. “Well, it’s my rental. I reserved it.”
I frowned, glancing around. “So did I.”
For a moment, we both just stood there — the storm outside, the chaos inside, and a string of lights still blinking weakly between us.
I lingered by the door, realizing I was still holding my duffle like a weapon. The woman straightened her sweatshirt and crossed her arms, defensive again. “Show me your reservation.”
“What?” I mimicked her gesture, crossing my arms.
“Pull up your reservation and show it to me before I call the cops.”
The pink-haired woman was already flying through her phone, thumbs moving a hundred miles as hour as the scowl stayed plastered to her face. “Here,” she jammed her phone in my face, with a Cabin Confirmed email for this address.
I sighed as I unlocked my device, thumbing through my emails until I found my confirmation email calmly, holding my phone at arms length to appease this wild creature.
“Shit. I think,” she said, “we should probably start over. Before I hit you with a wreath.”
“Reasonable,” I managed.
She hesitated, then stuck out a hand. “Colette. Colette Baxter. Everyone calls me Cole.”
Her hand was small, warm, and trembling just enough that I pretended not to notice.
“Silas,” I said. “Silas Reed.”
Her brows lifted slightly. “Like the—”
I saw the exact moment it clicked. The recognition. The flicker of oh no. “The author,” she finished carefully.
I nodded once. “Used to be.”
That seemed to stump her for a moment, and the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable so much as… aware. Like we were both trying to make sense of how this day had gone so wrong.
I frowned, reaching for the landline. “I’ll call the owner. They must have double-booked.” Picked it up. Dead silence. I tried again. Nothing.
“Of course,” she muttered. “Why would it work? Why would anything in my life ever work again?”
Ignoring the question, I kicked off my snow-covered boots, setting my duffle and my large suitcase beside me.
“How were the roads?” She asked, arms tight around her waist.
“Precarious at best. And my taxi has since departed, Colette.” I fiddled with the buttons on my flannel, unsure of where to put my hands or what to do next.
“Cole,” she corrected with a furrowed brow, “and you’re insane if you think I’m driving in this. I made sure to come up before the snow started.”
She glanced toward the window — the snow was coming down in heavy, relentless sheets now. “Well, Mr. Author, I don’t think either of us is going anywhere.”