Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Emma
Spoiler alert: Tomorrow does not greet me with productivity and inspiration, but with blinding light and a freezing room.
I blink, momentarily disoriented, reaching for my cluttered bedside table, expecting my half-toppled stack of laundry to be glaring back at me. It takes me a minute to remember I’m in a cabin. A tiny cabin meant for two, except the only thing I brought is myself, a looming deadline, and heartbreak.
Every day for the past month, I’ve hit the snooze button, crawled back in bed, and tried to sleep away my worries. But today, something has to change. I’m in a new place and told no one where I was going for a damn reason.
My head is full of fog, my limbs heavy. I shuffle to the desk in my socks, with my laptop under my arm. Outside, the sky isn’t blue but a pure, flat white.
Snow incoming? Probably. Do I care? Not really. I’m in the middle of nowhere. The only thing that matters is writing this damn book.
Coffee first. That was the plan. Coffee before all else.
I head to the counter and discover the coffee machine—sleek, one-pot, idiot-proof-looking. I pop it open, slot in a pod, and just as my finger hovers over the button… the lights die.
Wait. What?
The entire cabin is dark. I flick the light switch as if it might magically fix it.
Nothing.
No lights. No hum of electricity. No coffee.
A cold pit forms in my stomach as I tally up the rest of what I’m lacking, again.
No car. No signal. No power. Middle of nowhere. And me, caffeine-dependent, staring down a deadline.
For a second, I wonder if I’ve made a catastrophic error. But then, adrenaline hits.
Okay, alright, maybe this is good. No electricity, no car, no distractions. No excuses.
I ransack the cabinets and there it is, way in the back—a French press. My heart actually lifts. French press coffee is romance in a mug. Back when Jake and I first got married, it was all we drank, until he decided it was “too bitter” and “took too long.” Whatever, asshole.
I pull out the press and, miracle of miracles, there’s an unopened bag of coffee grounds. The good kind—coarse, deep brown, smelling like heaven. Thankfully, the stove is gas and lights immediately.
As the kettle heats, I lean in and breathe deep—rich, earthy, alive. The smell alone makes me feel more human.
Minutes later, I’m sitting with a mug of dark, steaming French press coffee and a delectable lemon-filled pastry from the fridge. I try not to calculate how many meals I can stretch out without resupply.
With a blanket wrapped tight around me, coffee in hand, and laptop open, I look like a stock photo of a “writer at work.”
Type. Delete.
Type. Delete.
Type. Delete.
Sob.
An hour passes, my chin in my hand, as I mentally tally the mistakes that landed me here.
Number one: marrying that loser.
Number two: trusting him.
Number three: believing a cabin in the woods could fix my shattered heart instead of turning into a slow-motion spiral of my own personal prison.
My phone pings—miracle! A message from Grace:
Grace
How’s the book going?
Why do people ask writers that? No writer in the history of ever has wanted to answer that question truthfully. I type back, absolutely killing it, a pure, undiluted lie, and watch as the message fails. Signal gone.
I toss the phone onto the couch like it betrayed me. Coffee refill time.
Outside, the sky shifts from quaint winter postcard to ominous snow globe. Fat flakes swirl sideways, and the wind moans around the cabin.
Maybe what I need is a different kind of change. Maybe I should be writing thrillers. Murder in a Cabin in the Woods—I could crank that out right now, easy. I’d name the victim Jake.
I turn away from the window, then glance back, my pulse spiking.
Are those tracks in the snow… or is my imagination just going feral?
I peer into the woods and realize, first of all, there’s not nearly enough snow for there to be any actual tracks. And second… if there were tracks, where would they even be coming from? The sky? Unless we’ve had an alien invasion overnight, I think I’m good.
Maybe it’s just a squirrel looking for his lost nut. I snicker into my coffee. Lost nut? God, I’m twelve. Jake would just fix me with that withering stare, the one that could curdle milk, and mutter that I needed to grow up.
Well fuck him and his stupid pink-pantied mistress.
“Maybe you need to grow the fuck up,” I mutter under my breath to absolutely no one because, of course, I’m alone in this fucking cabin. Alone because only cowards cheat on their wives.
God, even saying that out loud sounds pathetic.
I shake my head, pour my second cup of coffee, and lean back against the counter, wrapping my hands around the mug like it’s something alive and warm that might comfort me back into being human.
It feels like a hug in a mug. I’m halfway into a smile when something flickers in my peripheral vision.
I turn my head toward the little entryway. I guess you could call it a porch, though “porch” feels too generous for the scrap of wood planks only big enough to hold one chair. In the summer, I’d probably drag a blanket out there and curl up on that rocking chair with a book. It’s adorable.
But right now?
Right now, I’m staring at a stack of firewood that I swear wasn’t there last night. Piled all the way to the roof. Was I just not paying attention?
Wouldn’t I have noticed that?
My phone buzzes… again. God, why does Jake decide now’s the time to actually pay attention to me?
I ignore the persistent buzzing and stare back at the woodpile.
And if someone brought it, wouldn’t I have heard them stacking it?
Interesting.
I didn’t put that wood there. Because if it had just been sitting around, it would be damp from all the snow they’ve been getting for weeks… right?
“Cool, cool,” I mutter under my breath. “Not creepy at all.”
Right. Definitely just the wind. The wind that stacked my wood. Or maybe it’s my very particular landlord, the same one who stocked my fridge, deciding I needed fuel for the fireplace.
And yet… my skin prickles under my sweater, this instinctive whisper running along my spine.
The heat in here is garbage. I’m going to have to start a fire before I freeze.
I scoop an armful of logs inside and drop them next to the fireplace. Outside, the snow is already erasing any tracks, if there were any, which is somehow worse.
Woman versus wood and fire.
There’s something about French press coffee and the scent of real burning wood that gets under my skin in the best way.
My family used to camp when I was a kid. I can still remember Owen showing me how to build a fire.
I swallow hard. No. I don’t want to think about Owen. Not here, not now. Not when my heart’s already cracked and bleeding, and I’m supposed to be writing a love story.
But the memory sneaks in anyway.
You’ve gotta start slow, right? His voice in my ear, in that Irish brogue. His strong, capable hands, stacking the kindling. He’d light the match and shield it with his palm before sliding it underneath.
Owen was kind of like my big brother… until he wasn’t.
I shake the memory off and go through every step he taught me until the fire is burning hot, the heat finally crawling back into my fingers.
I settle into the armchair, coffee in hand, and tell myself my goals are simple: survive this storm, heal my wrecked soul, and maybe—maybe—finish the book that’s been dragging me through this nightmare.
Piece of cake.
But the memory of Owen kindles something in me.
The truth is, I want more.
I want to feel chosen. I want to feel loved. I want to feel safe.
On my terms.
And preferably without dying alone in a cabin where firewood magically stacks itself and the fridge mysteriously refills.
But I remember. I stare at the first, and I bring it all back, piece by piece.
Us, by the fire.
Build an inferno, really. Owen’s low, steady voice right at my ear. I can still feel the vibration of it through his chest when he stood close behind me, his hands bracketing mine on the kindling. He smelled like smoke and pine sap, and the warmth of him at my back made my fingers clumsy.
Back then, I didn’t understand why my pulse jumped when his knuckles brushed mine. Why I’d hold my breath so long my lungs ached, just to feel that moment stretch.
Now I do.
I stare as the fire catches, and my skin feels too tight. The heat inside me has nothing to do with the flames.
Well. I’m alone. And I know myself well.
I’m a romance writer, goddammit, and romance writers need inspiration.
Maybe if I get in the mood, I can write again. Maybe I need to do what I do best—create a fictional scenario and let myself just go.
Maybe I need to rely on the only fantasy that’s sustained me for five fucking years.
That handwritten note back in the fridge… why does it remind me of Owen?
I poke the fire, satisfied with its warmth, before I sink back into the armchair, slide the coffee onto a coaster, and stare at the fire like it might swallow me whole.
But every crackle is him. Every shift of the wood is the ghost of his voice in my ear. My blood pulses. Why not give in to the fantasy one more time?
My thighs press together without thinking, seeking friction.
Maybe if I just… take the edge off, I can write. Clear my head. That’s all.
I tug the blanket over me, sliding lower in the chair. My hand drifts under my sweater, over the waistband of my baggy sweats, pausing when I realize my breathing’s already gone shallow. The storm howls outside, a low, hungry sound. I close my eyes.
It’s Owen’s hands in the memory now, not mine. His heat at my back, his voice a quiet command—slow, Emma. That’s a girl. His palm covers mine, guiding me lower, pressing until I gasp.
I bite my lip and let myself follow that imagined pressure.
The tension uncoils, sharp and sweet, until I’m shivering—not from cold, but from the kind of warmth that sinks deep into your bones.
I stroke myself, growing wetter and needier by the minute, my breath coming faster.
And the closer I get to orgasm, the memories come faster and harder.
Owen, hugging me. The almost kiss that never was.
The longing in his eyes he tried to mask but couldn’t.
Him, pinning me down after chasing me in a snowstorm, holding me down.
His rough voice, reminding me to behave—the first man who ever showed me the appeal of strong, dominant alpha.
I imagine him touching me in a way that I knew even then would never be anything like other men. Owen wasn’t gentle. He’d pin me down and take.
His imaginary growl still in my ear, I send myself over the edge, my hips rising, my breath filling the cabin.
When I open my eyes, the fire’s still burning, steady and alive. My body feels loose, languid. But my mind? My mind’s a mess because the only thing I want now… is the real thing.