Chapter 4
Warmth.
That’s the first thing I register. A heavy, cocooning kind of warmth, not like the heater in the Prius or the fireplace downstairs, but something deeper. Softer.
My skin prickles as if waking up from frostbite. Everything aches—my fingers, my toes, my joints—but the cold that had sunk into my bones is retreating, replaced by a sluggish, golden heat that pulses through me in slow, steady waves.
I breathe in. Cedar. Soap. A hint of wood smoke. And something else. Something clean and masculine that makes my stomach flutter, even though I don’t know why yet.
My eyes open slowly.
The room is dim, lit only by the glow of a lamp on a nearby dresser and a slow burning fire in an actual stone fireplace. Shadows stretch along the log walls, and a thick knit blanket is tucked up to my chin. The mattress beneath me is plush, the sheets smooth against my skin.
I’m not in the truck.
I’m in a bedroom .
The memories return in pieces. Water rushing over the bridge, the road disappearing, the Prius stalling, the cold creeping in. And Sam. Pulling me out. Holding me steady. His voice. Darlin ’. The press of his palm against my cheek.
I shift beneath the blanket and realize I’m wearing something different. Dry clothes that don’t belong to me. A soft flannel shirt. Sweatpants cinched at the waist. Someone’s old clothes. Sam’s?
My pulse kicks up slightly.
I try to sit up, but my limbs protest, weak. My head feels thick, like I’ve been drugged, though I know it’s just the cold. Exposure. Maybe shock.
My mouth is dry. My lips are cracked. But I whisper anyway, voice rasping into the stillness.
“Hello?”
The door creaks. And then footsteps.
“Oh, good. You’re awake.” The voice is gentle, almost chipper, and oddly grounding. “That’ll make Sam happy,” Phern says, stepping closer to the bed.
She comes into view slowly. Dark hair loose now, a thick cardigan wrapped around her short frame, a mug cradled in her hands. She smells like coffee and cinnamon.
“He’s been pretty worried about you.”
My throat is dry as dust. I try to sit up again, managing a slight shift this time.
“Wh—what time is it?” I croak.
“Nine in the morning,” she replies, glancing at a delicate watch on her wrist.
I blink. Morning? That doesn’t feel real. I glance toward the window. The shutters are closed, but through a small gap I can see the sky, dark and shifting, clouds thick as wool.
Phern follows my gaze. “Snow storm’s still raging, but the radio says it should break sometime this afternoon.” She shakes her head, making a face. “These damn spring storms are the worst. Come out of nowhere, dump six feet of snow, and then vanish like they weren’t just trying to kill you.”
I huff a faint laugh. It hurts a little.
She sits lightly on the edge of the bed, setting the mug down on the nearby table.
“I brought you some peppermint tea. It’s probably still too hot, but when you’re ready…” She trails off, studying me with kind, curious eyes. “You scared the hell out of him, you know.”
A beat passes. The words settle heavily in my chest.
Sam Stone. Worried. About me. I swallow hard, unsure how to feel about that.
“Wh—where is he?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“In the stable,” Phern says, not missing a beat. “Taking care of the horses.”
She watches me carefully as I shift, finally managing to sit upright. The room tilts before steadying around me. My head throbs, but at least I’m upright.
“He said he found you stranded in our driveway,” she adds, her voice gentle but pointed.
I nod slowly. “Yeah.”
She hums, almost thoughtfully. “Kind of far away from town to get accidentally stranded.”
I reach for the mug of tea with shaky hands, using it as a shield. “Got lost,” I mutter.
Silence stretches between us. Heavy. Unblinking.
Then, Phern leans forward, elbows resting lightly on her knees. “I’m going to be real with you, Charlotte.”
There’s no edge in her tone. No sharpness. Just calm honesty.
“I looked you up. ”
My stomach tightens.
“I know you’re a reporter,” she says, her hazel eyes locking on mine. “For that trashy entertainment news show.”
A chill creeps down my spine despite the warmth of the blanket still wrapped around me.
“Is that why you’re here?”
My pulse hammers in my chest.
This is the moment I could tell the truth. I could come clean, explain that I wasn’t here to ambush anyone. That I had questions, sure, but my instincts brought me here long before the network ever could.
But I lie.
“No,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Vacation.”
Phern doesn’t react right away. Just sits there, still watching me.
Then she gives a slow, almost imperceptible nod before she stands and smooths her sweater. “Get some rest. You’re gonna need it.”
And with that, she walks out leaving behind a steaming mug and a silence that feels like it knows too much.
I exhale slowly, but it shudders out of me, uneven and shaky.
My eyes sting. At first I try to ignore it, but the burn turns into tears, hot and sudden, welling before I can stop them. I blink fast. Sniffle. Wipe them away with the sleeve of Sam’s flannel shirt like that’ll somehow erase the truth.
I should’ve just told her. Should’ve looked Phern in the eye and owned it. But I didn’t. Because I feared what she’d say, what she’d think. And maybe even scared of what it would mean if I admitted why I was really here.
That trashy entertainment news show.
That’s how people see me. That’s what they think I do. They don’t see the hours I pour into a story. The instinct. The care. The questions I ask that no one else wants to.
They don’t see the art in it.
They don’t see the journalism.
They just see gossip.
I draw in a shaky breath and wipe my face again.
And truthfully? Phern had every right to ask why I was here. I’ve seen what Sam’s been through. The headlines, the rumors, the twisted stories designed to sell more clicks. He’s been dragged through hell by people like me.
But I wasn’t going to do that. That wasn’t the point of this trip. I just wanted to know why he left. Why he disappeared. Why the music stopped. I wanted to understand. That’s it.
But maybe that’s just semantics. Maybe that’s the lie.
Because what I did. The research, the travel, the arrival. All of it was an invasion of privacy.
And now I’m not just metaphorically too close to the story. I’m literally stuck in his house. Wrapped in his clothes. Sleeping in his bed.
Jesus.
I bury my face in my hands, heart pounding, as the walls of the room seem to draw in tighter.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
I’m still sitting on the bed with my palms over my face, when I feel it. That unmistakable shift in the air.
The soft creak of floorboards.
A change in weight in the room.
I look up, startled, wiping at my eyes quickly, like I can erase the evidence.
Sam’s standing in the doorway.
Silent. Still.
The flannel he wore last night is unbuttoned over a thermal shirt, damp at the collar from the snow. His hat’s missing, and without it, I can see the mess of dark hair raked back from his forehead. There’s something tired in his eyes. Something heavy.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches me like he’s piecing something together and I hate that I must look as raw and miserable as I feel.
“I knocked,” he says quietly. “But I guess you didn’t hear me.”
I shake my head, too embarrassed to speak. My voice would crack anyway.
Sam steps into the room, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal.
“Phern said you were up.” He pauses, glancing down at his boots before lifting his eyes back to me. “She also said she might’ve pushed a little too hard.”
“She didn’t,” I whisper, my voice thick.
He watches me for a long beat, and then asks, “You okay?”
The question hangs in the air between us. A simple phrase, too small for everything it means.
No.
Yes.
I don’t know.
“Yeah,” I say finally.
“I figured you might be hungry,” he says, voice low. “Thought I’d make some eggs. Toast, maybe. You up for that?”
He’s offering peace. Gentleness. A way out of this moment without pressing any harder. And that makes the tears threaten again.
“I’d like that,” I say quietly. “Thank you.”
He gives a small, crooked smile. “Come out when you’re ready. Take a right and walk all the way down the hallway. Can’t miss the kitchen.”
And just like that, he disappears again leaving the door slightly ajar and my heart in a hundred new pieces.
Slowly, I push myself out of bed. My body protests, muscles stiff and limbs trembling like I’ve been emptied out and not quite refilled.
Like whatever strength I had got swept away with the Prius.
Each step feels like a negotiation with gravity as I pad barefoot across the wooden floor, blanket still clutched around me like armor.
I try the first door.
Closet. Full of men’s clothes. Sam’s…
I move to the next one, bracing myself on the frame as I twist the knob.
Bingo.
Bathroom.
And what a bathroom it is.
Warm light spills over honeyed wood and slate-gray tile.
There’s a deep, clawfoot tub in the corner, a walk-in shower with glass walls, and a vanity that looks handcrafted that’s worn smooth by time and careful hands.
Everything smells like eucalyptus and something faintly sweet, like vanilla and cedar had a baby.
A plush towel hangs neatly from a hook, and a fuzzy bathmat waits like a soft landing for tired feet. It’s the kind of space that invites you to breathe. To exist.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Of my flushed cheeks, tear-streaked skin, hair an absolute mess. I look like someone who’s been shipwrecked. Maybe I have. Maybe this is the island. Or maybe I’m still treading water waiting for the sharks.
I reach out, turn on the faucet, and let the sound of running water fill the quiet.
There’s a small collection of soaps on the counter, all handmade-looking and wrapped in twine. I choose one that smells like lavender and bergamot, break off a piece, and press it into a washcloth.