Chapter 2
SCARLETT
I stepped back into the living room wearing one of Kingston’s old gray sweatshirts and my leggings.
I hadn’t meant to take him up on his offer of something dry to wear, but as soon as I peeled off my damp sweater, something in me caved.
I needed warmth and comfort. And like always, his sweatshirt smelled like both.
The fabric hung loose, slipping down one shoulder. When Kingston’s eyes dragged over me, slow and stunned, heat shot straight to my cheeks.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I told him, resuming the position of crossing my arms across my chest. “I’m still pissed at you.”
“I’m very aware,” he said, his voice rough enough to make something low in my stomach clench.
I moved past him, trying to pretend I didn’t feel his gaze follow me as I walked by. The scent of his laundry detergent surrounded me. I hadn’t smelled it in years, but my body remembered. He tensed as I passed, but I ignored it. Nothing good would come from letting down my guard.
I claimed the far end of the couch, pulling my knees up and clutching the letter like it was the only thing that mattered. He stood at the edge of the room, watching me with those dark blue eyes and waiting for me to say something.
The storm outside pounded against the windows. The fire cracked and the silence between us grew until it was impossible to ignore.
“You could’ve told me,” I finally said, my voice coming out much softer than I wanted.
“I know.”
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“And instead you let me think you were gone.” My throat tightened, the truth scraping raw on the way out. “Dead to me.”
He flinched like I’d slapped him, and for a split second, I hated how much it hurt him. Then I hated myself for still caring.
“I thought it was the only way to protect you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
I lifted my eyes to his. The storm outside had nothing on the one raging inside him. His eyes were full of shame, fear, regret, and a love he was still too stubborn to kill.
“You don’t get to decide what I needed,” I said. “Not then. Not now. Not ever again.”
Something inside of him seemed to break. His shoulders slumped and he lowered his head. “You’re right.”
His unexpected agreement rattled me. The softness and honesty in his tone didn’t sound anything like the boy I’d loved back in high school. He sounded like a man who was living in hell and trying to protect me from the fires.
Wind howled against the cabin, rattling the windows hard enough that I jumped.
“You must be tired. Take the bedroom,” he said. “I’ll sleep out here.”
“I don’t need—”
“Scarlett.” He nodded toward the window, where the snow was stacking higher by the minute. “It’s going to get bad. The power might cut. The bedroom has an extra heater. Take it.”
I hated that he was right. I also hated that he was thinking about my comfort when I’d come in swinging. I hated how easy it was for my pride to crumble under simple, quiet care.
“Fine,” I said, trying not to sound grateful.
I stood slowly, still holding the letter tight against my chest. It felt like a shield and a weapon at the same time. Before I walked away, I paused in the hall and turned to face him. The dark smudges under his eyes made him look haunted and tired and beautiful in a way that hurt to look at.
“You don’t get to disappear in the morning,” I whispered.
His eyes lifted to meet mine. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Good,” I said, my breath snagging in my chest. “Because we’re not done.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “No,” he mumbled, his voice raw. “We’re not.”
I slipped into the bedroom and closed the door behind me, leaning against it until my heartbeat slowed. The storm groaned outside. The heater hummed in the corner. I crawled into the bed… Kingston’s bed… and pulled the blankets to my chin.
In the quiet, I heard the faint rustle of him settling on the couch.
Knowing he was lying awake on the other side of that door, tormented and tender and a mess of contradictions, made it impossible to sleep.
And for a split second, I didn’t know if I wanted the storm to pass or hoped it would trap us here forever so I could finally get the answers I’d been waiting on for fourteen years.
The first thing I felt was the sheets.
Thick, soft flannel, warmer than anything I owned, brushed against my legs and arms. Definitely not my thin cotton set. And the pillow under my cheek smelled like cedar and clean laundry, nothing like the lavender-scented fabric spray I used at home.
My eyes blinked open to a dim, quiet room. Heavy curtains blocked most of the light, leaving everything in a muted gray glow. It was quiet except for the low hum of a space heater in the corner and the soft groan of the cabin settling into the cold.
Then it hit me. I was in Kingston’s bedroom. Last night really happened. The man I’d written off as dead to me was very much alive.
I pushed up slowly, wincing as the memories flooded back…
me showing up like some enraged ghost of Christmas Past, the look on Kingston’s face when he saw me, our fight, the letter, the storm swallowing the road, my SUV spinning into a snowbank and trapping me here.
I let out a low groan as I scrubbed a hand over my face.
The sweatshirt I was wearing… oh yeah, his shirt… slipped down my shoulder as I sat up, the soft cotton brushing my skin and releasing more of that cedar-and-him scent. It made something deep in my chest twist hard.
What was I doing here? In his bed, wrapped in his sheets, wearing his shirt? And why didn’t it feel wrong?
My nose picked up on the faint scent of coffee. Oh god, was he making coffee for me? My body reacted before my brain could stop it. Something twisted low in my stomach and memories pushed through the cracks I tried so hard to keep sealed.
I sat up straighter, squared my shoulders, and reminded myself I wasn’t that girl anymore.
I wasn’t the seventeen-year-old who would’ve followed Kingston Raines anywhere he went.
I wasn’t the nineteen-year-old who wrote him letters he never answered.
I wasn’t the twenty-one-year-old who cried herself to sleep when his silence finally broke her.
I was an adult. A grown woman. Someone who demanded answers. And he was going to give them to me whether he wanted to or not.
I stood, shivering as the cabin’s floorboards chilled my feet even through my thick socks. My fingers brushed the sealed envelope sitting on the bedside table. I hadn’t had the nerve to open it last night. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Tucking the envelope under my arm, I headed toward the kitchen.
Kingston stood by the stove, coffee mug in hand, watching the snow batter the windows.
He looked completely worn out and rough around the edges.
Like the weight of yesterday hadn’t let him sleep, either.
He turned when he heard me. His eyes… those impossibly deep blue eyes I used to lose myself in… hit me like a fist to the gut.
“Morning,” he said, his voice low and coarse like he’d swallowed gravel. “There’s coffee.”
I crossed my arms over my chest again, suddenly hyperaware of his sweatshirt hanging off my shoulder. “I didn’t come here for coffee.”
“I know.”
“And I didn’t come for conversation.”
His jaw flexed. “I know that too.”
“Good,” I snapped.
He nodded once, slow and controlled, then turned back to the stove like the sight of me didn’t crack him open. Like I wasn’t standing here holding the letter he’d written me while he was in prison.
I hated how calm he was. Hated that he always looked like he was holding himself together with nothing but grit and stubbornness.
I moved to the front window and pulled the curtain back. A wall of white stared back at me. My SUV was almost invisible under the snow. Drifts piled halfway up the porch railing. The sky was a thick gray smudge, the kind that meant the storm had no plans to stop anytime soon.
I swallowed hard. “Great, just great.”
Kingston moved closer and stared out the same window. “It got worse overnight.”
“Obviously.”
“You’re not driving anywhere today.”
He wasn’t wrong, and I hated it. I spun on him. “We need to talk.”
He nodded once, slow and resigned, like he was walking into a fight he’d lose on purpose. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Talk.”
Anger flared hot in my chest. He didn’t get to be calm. He didn’t get to be patient. He didn’t get to stand there like some melancholy mountain statue while I unraveled.
I held up the envelope. “This,” I said, my voice shaking despite everything I did to steady it, “is too many years too late.”
He swallowed, his eyes never leaving mine. “I know.”
“It’s addressed to my old house. The one my parents sold years ago.”
“Yeah.”
“You never sent it.”
His fingers tightened around his mug. “No. I didn’t.”
“Why?”
He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping. “Because I didn’t want to drag you into something you couldn’t come back from.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “You already dragged me into it. You broke me. From a distance.”
His eyes flicked shut like I’d reached out and slapped him across the face. Good. He deserved it.
“You could’ve told me the truth,” I said. “You could’ve explained. You could’ve given me a choice.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“There you go again,” I snapped. “Kingston Raines, making decisions for me like I’m some fragile doll who can’t handle reality.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He looked away first. He always had. Back then it was because he was terrified of the future. Now it was because he was terrified of himself.
“Scarlett,” he murmured, “you were seventeen.”
“I was in love.”
His jaw clenched.
“And I thought you were too,” I added, softer than I meant to.
He stared at the floor for a long beat, the muscles in his neck tight, his hands flexing like he wanted to punch something or hold something or touch me but didn’t dare.
“I was,” he finally said. “I still am.”
My breath caught. Pain, hot and electric, shot through me. I tightened my arms around my middle so I wouldn’t shake.
“Then why didn’t you let me fight for you?” I demanded. “Why did you decide I wasn’t worth telling the truth?”
“That’s not—” He raked a hand through his hair, a flash of the boy he used to be breaking through the hardened edges of the man he’d become. “That’s not how it was.”
“Then tell me how it was.” My voice cracked. “I deserve to know, Kingston.”
The fire crackled in the other room, and the wind howled outside. My heart pounded so loud it drowned everything else out.
“I can’t,” he whispered.
I froze. He couldn’t? Or he wouldn’t? Before I could ask, the lights overhead flickered once…
twice… and died. The cabin plunged into darkness.
A rush of panic surged up my spine. Storms never scared me, not really, but being snowed in with the only man from my past that had the power to break me and had already done it once? That scared the hell out of me.
Kingston covered the distance between us in a few long strides. “Scarlett, hey…” His voice was close, too close, but somehow grounding. “It’s okay. I’ve got a generator and plenty of firewood. There’s also a backup heater in the bedroom. You’re safe.”
The words hit a soft place inside me I didn’t want touched. I took a shaky breath, annoyed at myself. “I’m fine,” I muttered.
“You’re shaking.”
“It’s cold.”
“It’s fear.” The truth in his voice pierced through the thin armor I’d been trying to shield myself with. I hated that he cared. And I hated, no that wasn’t strong enough. I despised how much I still wanted to lean into him.
“No,” I insisted, stepping back. “No. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to—”
The sound of a tree branch cracked outside, and I gasped. His hand lifted, like instinct demanded he touch me, or comfort me, or protect me. Or maybe do all of that at the same time. But his hand stopped inches away from my face, his fingers curled in the air.
My chest tightened. Every memory we’d ever shared crashed over me: the way he used to pull me into his jacket when I got cold, the way he’d rub slow circles on my back when I was scared, the way he’d whisper I’ve got you like he meant it with his entire soul.
And I hated myself for wanting to step straight into his arms.
“Don’t,” I whispered.
He dropped his arm immediately, his jaw tight. “Sorry.”
The space between us burned. I turned away, blinking hard. “I should go.”
“Scarlett—”
“I should’ve gone last night.”
“You can’t leave.”
“Watch me.”
I stomped toward the door, grabbed the handle, and yanked it open. Snow poured in. The wind howled like it was a living, breathing thing, ready to gobble me up alive. I stared at the whiteout, the letter shaking in my hand.
He stepped into the doorway next to me. Our breath misted in the freezing air and tangled together. “I won’t let you go out in that.”
Swallowing, I forced the panic past the painful lump in my throat. He was right… again.
“Scarlett—”
“I’m not leaving,” I snapped, hating the tremor in my voice. “Not because of you. Because of the storm.”
He nodded. “Good.”
I slammed the door and blew out a shaky breath. A charged silence settled between us. “I’ll be in the bedroom,” I said, my voice rough. “Don’t come after me.”
He nodded again. “I won’t.”
I turned away, my heart pounding, my fingers still clutching the damn envelope.
Inside the bedroom, I shut the door with shaking hands, leaned against it, and finally let myself breathe.
The storm raged outside while the one inside me gathered momentum.
I should have at least grabbed a mug of coffee before I locked myself back in the bedroom.
With nothing to drag my attention away from the damn envelope, I sat down on the edge of the bed and sucked in a deep, steadying breath. Then I tore it open. My eyes scanned the first line. Everything inside me broke.
“Oh my god…” I whispered. Tears blurred the ink. I pressed my hand to my mouth, my heart cracking wide open. And in that small, dim room, while the mountain storm swallowed the world outside, I realized the truth I’d been avoiding for way too long. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.