Chapter 5
Lauren
The power flickers again, longer this time, and then cuts off entirely.
It’s not unexpected, but I still jump. “I can’t see anything.”
“Just sit still for a second, your eyes will adjust.”
I pride myself on my independence but yet again I can’t help but be grateful I’m not alone right now. Dylan sounds very calm. His phone lights up with his flashlight.
"The gas fireplace will work without electricity, right?" I realize I don’t know anything about how anything works. I just trust in the magic of modern conveniences. I glance back to see the small fireplace still merrily flickering away. It helps cut through the darkness but that thing is there just to be cute and atmospheric. It can’t possibly heat more than a couple of feet surrounding it.
“Looks like it. But good thing we brought in all that wood. We’re going to need a decent sized blaze."
Dylan stands up and heads toward the big stone fireplace. Using his flashlight, he starts building a sophisticated pyre of logs.
“You look like you know what you’re doing.”
“Went camping a lot as a kid.”
Dylan uses a long lighter from the basket next to the fireplace and the paper catches. Within a minute, a fire is blazing, casting shadows across the great room. The whole cabin takes on a cozy, intimate glow and it instantly calms any nerves I had about our survival alone in the woods.
A glance at my phone shows I have plenty of battery and the WiFi is still working. We’re not completely cut off from civilization. I can relax and just enjoy the evening.
Dylan feeds a few more logs onto it and stand ups. "Storm's really picking up," he observes, glancing toward the windows where snow is now coming down in thick, heavy flakes.
I shiver, even though I’m not actually cold. “It’s really beautiful, isn’t it? It looks so quiet out there.” I’m a little in awe of how serene the landscape looks out the window. I actually feel grateful. Like nature has decided I need to just take a big deep breath and exhale.
I should be annoyed. This weekend was supposed to be about focus, about writing the songs that will finally prove I belong in Nashville's competitive music scene. Instead, I'm trapped in a cabin with a bourbon snob who probably irons his T-shirts and has strong opinions about, well, everything.
And yet, I'm...excited.
Maybe it's the adrenaline from the storm, or the way the firelight makes everything feel magical and separate from the real world. Maybe it's the bourbon. Or maybe it's the way Dylan keeps looking at me when he thinks I'm not paying attention, like he's trying to figure me out.
Whatever it is, I have the sense that maybe in order to write something incredible, I need to stop stressing about it and just be in the moment.
Enjoy myself.
And enjoy this weird, sparkly tension between me and a man who thinks marshmallows are ridiculous and coffee belongs in a separate category from breakfast foods.
I’m starting to think that I’m trying to find reasons not to like Dylan because he’s actually pretty damn charming.
And hot. I can’t see him right now in the dark but the man is seriously gorgeous.
"We should probably make sure we have everything we need," I say, trying to sound practical instead of breathless. “In case the power is out all night.”
Dylan immediately goes to a closet in the kitchen and opens it. "Flashlights, candles, extra batteries," he lists, pulling items down from a shelf. “Told you I’ve stayed here before.”
There is obviously no disputing that. "Show-off."
"Says the woman who brought enough snacks to survive the apocalypse."
"Priorities," I defend. "You can't write good songs on an empty stomach."
“And yet, you barely touched your steak or your salad.”
“Lettuce isn’t actually food. It’s just fiber.” I never met a salad I didn’t want to pour eight pounds of ranch dressing onto.
We're back to glaring at each other, but it feels like an inside joke now. There’s something charged and playful and dangerous about it.
Dylan’s voice is rough and amused. "That's one way to put it."
Outside, the wind howls, and I can hear tree branches scraping against the cabin's roof.
Dylan flicks a flashlight on under his chin, illuminating his face in a bright white glow. “Want to tell ghost stories?”
“No. I really don’t.”
“Scared?”
“Of ghosts? Not in the slightest. Of your storytelling abilities? Yes, I’m mildly terrified.”
“You can’t be mildly terrified. The word means that it is, by definition, not mild.”
He’s right, which makes me want to tease him. “I literally can’t even.”
He opens his mouth.
I laugh. “No! Don’t even say it.” I turn on my heel. “I’m going to find some blankets.”
There is a chest in the family room that when I lift the lid reveals half a dozen neatly folded blankets. “The mother lode.”
Dylan checks on the fire, poking at it proficiently. He adds another log. His face is illuminated by the warm orange light dancing across his features. He looks like something out of a Hallmark holiday movie.
And now I’m wrapped in a plaid flannel blanket over my snowflake sweater thinking warm thoughts about a man I’ve just met. I wish the Christmas tree was still lit because this might actually be romantic.
Obviously unaware of my wandering thoughts, Dylan stands and moves to the window, his silhouette outlined against the white blur outside. "Can't even see the road anymore. It's completely covered."
I join him at the window again, and our shoulders brush as we peer out into the storm. The snow is falling so heavily now that I can barely make out the trees just twenty feet away. Everything beyond that is just a wall of white.
"We should take a walk outside," Dylan says. "Before it gets too bad."
"In this weather? Are you insane?"
"Just a quick one. Why not?"
Why not, indeed. “I’m always up for an adventure.” I glance down at my outfit. Red sweater with sequined snowflakes, dark jeans, fuzzy socks. "Though I'm not exactly dressed for arctic exploration."
"Come on, city girl. It'll be fun."
"I'm not a city girl! I grew up in North Carolina. We get snow there."
"How much snow?"
"Enough," I say defensively, though honestly, the most snow I've ever seen at one time was maybe three inches. This looks like it could be three feet by morning.
Dylan disappears into the dark hallway and returns a minute later with two heavy winter coats from the closet by the front door. "Here. Jolene keeps these for guests."
The coat is enormous on me, but it's warm and smells like cedar and something faintly floral. I find a pair of hiking boots in the same closet and drag them on. Dylan puts his own boots back on.
He pats Buck on the head. “You stay here.”
That makes me laugh.
Dylan's wrapping a thick plaid scarf around his neck, and without thinking, I reach out and touch the soft wool.
"That's nice," I say.
"My grandma knitted it for me last Christmas." He unwraps it and steps closer, looping it around my neck instead. "You need it more than I do."
He wears a scarf his grandmother made for him?
I might as well get naked right now because that’s not even fair. I can barely resist sexy assholes on a good day. How can I resist a gorgeous nice guy? Even if he likes to verbally spar with me. Hell, that’s half the appeal.
His fingers brush against my throat as he adjusts the scarf. The wool is soft and warm and smells like Dylan—something clean and masculine with a hint of bourbon.
"Thanks," I manage. I actually have my own scarf laying on the bed in my room but I weirdly like the idea of wearing his.
"Can’t have you freezing."
That is clearly wishful thinking because the second we step out onto the deck, the cold hits me like a physical force. The wind has died down, but the snow is still falling steadily, fat flakes that stick to my eyelashes and melt on my cheeks.
"Holy cow," I say, watching my words form white puffs in the frigid air. “It hurts to breathe. But it’s incredible out here.”
The world has been transformed. Every tree branch, every piece of outdoor furniture is covered in a thick blanket of snow. It's beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight—like someone has wrapped the entire mountain in Christmas morning.
I’m already hearing a melody in my head. A song about stillness and anticipation.
"It's beautiful," I whisper.
Dylan's making his way down the steps, and after a moment's hesitation, I follow.
The snow crunches under our feet, and my boots immediately fill with the stuff, but I don't care.
There's something invigorating about being the first people to walk through fresh snow, leaving footprints like we're explorers discovering a new world.
"The driveway's completely buried," Dylan calls back to me. "They don’t really plow these roads either so we’re definitely here until Sunday."
“As long as we’re not trapped indefinitely. I’ll run out of chocolate.” I take another step across the deck, shuffling a little so I don’t trip over any buried flower pots or fall down the deck steps.
I should be worried about my deadline, about not having any heat, about being trapped in this cabin until spring.
But I’m not. I’m having more fun than I’ve had in months. The crisp cold air is refreshing. Being out of Nashville is relaxing.
And being with Dylan is exciting.
He’s way ahead of me now, so I pick my way down the deck steps.
Dylan is following what used to be the driveway down toward where we parked our cars.
I can barely make out the shape of my Honda under the snow.
I flick on the flashlight Dylan handed me in the house and sweep it back and forth, marveling at how surrounded by trees we are.
“There are no Big Foot types in these mountains, are there? They’re just in Canada, right?”
“You think Sasquatch cares about a passport?” Dylan asks in amusement. He bends down and forms a snowball. “He can be here if he wants to be here.”
“You’d better not throw that at me.”
“I would never.” He’s tossing it up in the air over and over.
"How deep do you think this snow is?" I ask, finally catching up to him. I bend down and pack together my own snowball.
"At least eight inches already, and it's not supposed to stop until tomorrow afternoon."
I toss the snowball at Dylan. It doesn’t even come close to hitting him but he ducks dramatically anyway.
“Hey! I said I wouldn’t throw the snowball at you!”
I grin at him. “I never said I wouldn’t throw one at you.”
He chuckles. “You are a naughty girl. With very bad aim.”
For the second time since Dylan arrived at the cabin, I can’t come up with a sharp response.
Instead, I tilt my face skyward and let the snow drift down onto my face, coat my eyelashes.
The woods around us are silent, the kind of quiet that feels sacred, like we're the only two people left in the world.
In Nashville, there's always noise. There’s traffic, music spilling out of honky-tonks, people laughing and shouting and living their lives at full volume.
Yet somehow standing in the woods with the tip of my nose numb from the cold, I feel completely and totally alive.
"This is pretty cool, isn’t it?" Dylan's voice is soft as he turns back toward me.
"It's so peaceful," I say. "I forgot how quiet snow can be."
He walks back to where I'm standing, and in the pale light reflecting off the snow, I can see his face more clearly. There's something in his expression that makes my pulse quicken.
"I'm glad we're here," he says quietly.
We're standing close enough that I can see the snowflakes caught in his dark hair, close enough that when I wobble a little in the wet snow, he grips the front of my coat to steady me. The scarf he gave me smells like him, and suddenly I'm very aware of how alone we are out here.
In a good, but very bad way.
"Lauren," he says, and his voice has gone lower, rougher.
I look up at him, and there's something in his green eyes that makes my stomach flutter. He reaches up and brushes a snowflake from my cheek, his thumb lingering against my skin.
"Yeah?" He’s going to kiss me. And I’m going to kiss him back.
"I think—"
THUMP.
A massive clump of snow falls from the branch directly above us, landing squarely on Dylan's head and shoulders and sending a cascade of powder down the back of my borrowed coat.