Chapter 5
Ruby
Beckett offers his bed like it’s the most obvious solution in the world.
“You take my room,” he says, already moving toward the hall.
I plant my feet. “Absolutely not. I’m not evicting a man from his own bed on night one. That’s like against a universal code.”
His eyebrow lifts. “There’s a couch in my office that pulls out.”
“Sold.”
He nods once, satisfied, and leads me to a side room off the living area.
It’s tidy in that masculine, utilitarian way — half desk, half storage, half ad-hoc studio.
A tripod stands folded beside a shelf of gear including a mic boom clamped to the desk.
The couch looks modest but solid. He grabs the frame and pops it open like he’s done it a hundred times.
“Blankets?” I ask.
“Cedar trunk in my room.” He disappears and reappears with an armful. He has a heavy quilt, a wool throw, and a pillow that smells faintly like him.
“This room’s where I film my videos unless it’s a demonstration outside or in my workshop,” he adds, setting the stack on the mattress. “I’ll need it tomorrow.”
“Your studio,” I say, grinning. “I should probably sign an NDA about witnessing your lighting setup.”
He smirks. “Bathroom’s at the end of the hall. Towels under the sink.”
Ranger pads in, gives the pull-out a sniff, then leans into Beckett’s leg like a shadow.
“Goodnight, Ruby,” Beckett says. He gives Ranger a quick head scratch. “C’mon, buddy.”
They head down the hall together, a man and his best friend in sync.
Note to self: keep an overnight bag in the van. You never know when you’ll crash-land in a survivalist fantasy. I have no toiletries or even a change of underwear. I go back to the living room and grab a box labeled with my boutique’s inventory sticker. Emergency underwear procurement, here we go.
Steam rises in the bathroom, softening the edges of everything. I step under hot water and just breathe. My brain rewinds the day. I see myself trying not to crash. I remember laughing nervously on the snowmobile, clinging to him. He makes good stew.
How does a man that lives like a mountain hermit have nearly two hundred thousand people who tune in to listen to him? Maybe he’s Mr. Personality on camera.
I scrub, shampoo, and try not to overanalyze the way he looked in firelight. He looked especially appealing with his sleeves rolled, those forearms flexing.
Back in the office, I rummage through the box and open a few sealed packages. Satin, lace, mesh. I find a pair of simple black briefs and set those aside. Then my fingers snag on something cheerfully ridiculous: red and white Santa panties trimmed with a tiny plastic peppermint candy bow.
I hold them up, laugh under my breath. “Too festive for a crisis,” I tell the universe, and set them on the back of the couch while I keep hunting.
In the end, I go practical with black panties, thick knit thigh-highs, and the oversized flannel shirt Beckett offered earlier along with a toothbrush. It hangs to mid-thigh on me. Totally appropriate. Mostly.
I slide beneath the blankets, cocooned. The fire crackles in the other room, and somewhere down the hall, Ranger gives a soft, contented huff.
???
The smell of coffee seduces me awake. I sit up, hair doing that post-sleep lion’s mane thing, and try to remember where I put my dignity.
I fold the pull-out closed, drape the blankets neatly at the end, and pad into the living room.
Beckett’s at the stove, sleeves rolled, pan in motion.
Ranger sits in perfect heel position like a hopeful statue.
“Morning,” I say, voice scratchy.
“Coffee’s ready,” Beckett replies, giving me a once-over that lands, briefly, on the flannel. His mouth doesn’t move much, but I swear his eyes warm by two degrees. “Mugs are in the cabinet.”
“Bless you.” I pour a cup and close my eyes at the first sip. “Mmm. You make a mean cup of survival.”
He plates eggs and something that looks like crisped potatoes. “Plows haven’t come through yet,” he says, glancing toward the window’s sheet of white. “We’re not going anywhere until that happens and visibility improves.”
“I figured.” I lift my mug. “Thank you for … all of this. I’d love to pull my weight today. Dishes? Firewood? I can alphabetize screws. I’m multi-talented.”
“Eat first.” He sets a plate in front of me, then drops a tiny scrap into Ranger’s waiting mouth. “If it warms later, I’ll show you the workshop.”
“Field trip.” I grin at the dog. “You in, Ranger?” He happily thumps his tail.
We eat at the kitchen bar area, side by side.
When he reaches for the pepper, our fingers brush, and I feel something sizzle under my skin.
I pretend to stare out the kitchen window.
Moments later, I feel him staring at me.
I purposely don’t look back. Then, he rises from his seat and makes a very faint noise that sounds like an internal growl.
Or, maybe that was Ranger. I don’t know but I think it was Mr. Tinderwolf.
After breakfast he hands me a spare beanie and an extra parka. It swallows me but since I travel so light, I appreciate him helping me gear up. The air outside is a slap of cold and brightness. The snow is deep and it rises high on our boots.
The workshop is a separate building. It’s very tall and practical, lined in corrugated metal with a wide bay door.
Inside, the space smells like an old auto repair shop.
A sled sits half-gutted on a lift. Tools hang in disciplined rows.
On the workbench, he has a second tripod, coils of cable, a battered notebook.
“This is where the magic happens?” I ask.
“Repairs happen,” he says, moving with that smooth competence that calms something in my bones. “Magic is when people haul their machines in before they destroy them.”
I wander around the space, careful not to touch. There’s a calm order to everything, a certainty. He explains a carb issue in a way even I understand. I find myself nodding like an eager student. He doesn’t perform here. He just … is. It’s weirdly attractive.
“You get a lot of clients in storms like this?” I ask.
“After,” he says. “Storms make people brave. Bravery breaks things.”
“Poetic.”
He gives me a sideways look. “I talk to cameras, not crowds.”
“And yet people watch. A lot of them,” I say. “I’m starting to see why.”
We tromp back to the cabin, cheeks stung red, and peel off layers by the door. I’m glad Beckett is sharing with me what he does, but it’s a lot of trouble getting suited up in this weather and then stripping back down.
He grabs a coil of cable and a small LED panel from a shelf.
“I’m filming my weekly video in the office,” he says. “Routine. Fifteen minutes, then I’m done.”
“I’ll stay out here and read.” I hold up the paperback I found on his shelf earlier — something about winter trails and avalanche safety. Fitting.
He nods, then hesitates. “Try not to make any noise.”
“Copy that, Director.”
He disappears into the office. A moment later, I hear the soft clink of the lamp chain and the tiny click of a camera. Ranger debates, then chooses me, circling once before flopping against my legs with a contented sigh.
I sink into the couch with my book and let the snowed-in cabin life take hold of me. In the other room, Beckett’s voice starts … low, steady, unforced. Not for attention. For instruction. The kind of voice you trust when the world turns white.
I run a hand over Ranger’s warm fur and realize I’m smiling for no one.
Beckett isn’t gruff to be mysterious. He’s built a life where silence isn’t absence — it’s comfort.
It fascinates me. It scares me a little, too.
Because the longer I sit in his quiet, the more I want to stay around for a while.