3. Stella
STELLA
The glass doesn't even make it halfway across the room before his hand snaps out and catches it. No fumbling, no startled flinch. Just this smooth, economical movement that makes it look like I lobbed it underhand instead of with every ounce of panicked strength I could muster.
The dog, apparently oblivious to the attempted assault happening two feet from his nose, tries to shove his massive head under my hand.
"Stop throwing things," the mountain man says.
It's not a request. It's a statement of fact, delivered in that same gravelly rumble that seems to vibrate through the floorboards.
He sets the glass on the dresser with deliberate care, then crosses his arms over his chest. The movement makes him look even bigger.
Wider. Like he takes up all the available oxygen in the room.
I move the quilts higher, suddenly hyper-aware that I'm wearing only his shirt and my underwear. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
"Who are you?" My voice comes out thin and reedy. "Where's my phone? Where are my clothes? What?—"
"Your phone's dead. Your clothes were soaked. And you already asked who I am."
"You didn't answer."
"Kirk."
That's it. Just "Kirk." One syllable, no explanation, no last name or pleasantries or anything to indicate he's a normal human being who understands how absolutely terrifying this situation is.
I try a different approach. "Kirk. Okay. Hi, Kirk. I'm Stella, and I really appreciate you, um, rescuing me, but I need to call someone. My boss is expecting me in Denver, and my phone—you said it's dead? Can I borrow yours? Or is there a landline? I can reverse the charges, I promise I won't?—"
"No service."
"Right, but if there's Wi-Fi, I could?—"
"No Wi-Fi."
"A landline?"
"Nope."
The single syllable lands like a stone in still water. I blink at him, waiting for the punchline. There has to be a punchline. This is the twenty-first century. Everyone has cell service. Or Wi-Fi. Or something.
His expression doesn't change.
"You're serious," I say slowly. "There's no way to contact anyone."
"Storm took out the cell towers two days ago."
"The storm." I glance toward the window, which shows nothing but a solid wall of white pressing against the glass. The wind shrieks like something alive and furious. "How long is it supposed to last?"
Kirk shrugs. "Week. Maybe more."
The bottom drops out of my stomach. "A week?"
"Historic whiteout. Road's impassable. Even if you could walk, which you can't—" his gaze drops briefly to my leg, which I suddenly realize is throbbing like I've been kicked by a horse "—you wouldn't make it a hundred yards before the cold got you."
I want to argue. Point out that I have a working car and winter gear and the constitution of someone who grew up in Boston, thank you very much.
Except my car is very much not working, my winter gear apparently failed spectacularly, and I have no idea where Boston-level cold ranks compared to whatever frozen hellscape I've landed in.
"So I'm stuck here," I say.
"Yep."
"With you."
"Yep."
"For a week."
"At least."
The dog chooses this moment to achieve his goal of getting under my hand. His fur is warm and soft, and he makes a pleased sound when I automatically scratch behind his ears. It's such a normal, grounding sensation that I cling to it like a lifeline.
"What's his name?" I ask, because apparently my brain has decided that learning the dog's name is more important than processing the fact that I'm trapped in a remote cabin with a man who looks like he could snap me in half without breaking a sweat.
"Barnaby."
"Barnaby," I repeat. The dog's tail thumps against the quilt. "That's a good name. Very... literary."
Kirk grunts. I have no idea what that means.
The silence stretches. He makes no move to leave, just stands there with his arms crossed, watching me like he's waiting for something.
His eyes are this startling ice blue that should be cold but instead seems to look right through every defense I've ever built.
I try not to think about the fact that he was the one who undressed me.
Put me in this bed. Saw me at my most vulnerable.
My cheeks burn despite the lingering chill in my bones.
"Thank you," I manage. "For pulling me out of the car. For not letting me freeze to death. I know that probably wasn't how you planned to spend your evening."
Another grunt. This one might be acknowledgment. Or dismissal. It's impossible to tell.
I forge ahead because silence has never been my friend and it's definitely not my friend now, not when the alternative is dwelling on everything that's gone wrong in the last few hours.
"I was on my way to Denver. For work. My boss, Jack, he's throwing this huge gala for his foundation, and I'm the event coordinator, which means I handle all the logistics.
Catering, venue setup, guest list, the whole nine yards.
It's kind of a nightmare, honestly, but also the biggest event I've ever managed, so it's a huge opportunity. Career-defining, you know?"
Kirk's expression suggests he does not, in fact, know. Or care.
"Anyway, I left later than I should have because there was this issue with the ice sculptures, don't ask, and then the storm came out of nowhere.
Well, not nowhere. The weather reports said it was coming, but I thought I could beat it because I'm an optimist and also occasionally an idiot, and clearly I was very, very wrong about that. "
Still nothing. He just stands there like a massive, bearded statue.
"The road just disappeared," I continue, the words spilling out faster now. "One second I could see, and the next it was all white. And then the car was sliding, and I couldn't stop it, and there was this horrible moment where I realized I was going over the edge, and I thought, I really thought?—"
I stop because my throat has closed up and my eyes are burning and I absolutely refuse to cry in front of this stranger. Barnaby whines and presses closer. I bury my fingers in his fur and focus on breathing.
"You're alive," Kirk says.
It's such a blunt, obvious statement that I almost laugh. "Yeah. Thanks to you."
"Had to strip you down," he adds, and my gaze snaps back to his face. "You were hypothermic. Wet clothes kill faster than cold air. Wasn't trying to—" He stops, jaw tightening. "Wasn't anything but medical."
The fact that he felt the need to clarify does something strange to my chest. "I believe you."
And I do. There's something utterly straightforward about him, like he's incapable of deception or social niceties or anything that isn't brutally honest. It should be off-putting. Maybe it is off-putting. But it's also weirdly reassuring in a way I can't quite articulate.
He nods once, sharp and final. "You need food. And water. I'll bring it."
Before I can respond, he turns and walks out. The door stays open, letting in a wash of warmth from the main room where I can see the glow of a fire. Barnaby stays with me, his head now resting on my thigh like he's been assigned guard duty.
I take the opportunity to actually look around.
The bedroom is small and sparse. Log walls, a simple dresser, a nightstand with the now-empty mug holder.
No decorations, no personal touches, nothing that suggests this is anything more than a functional space.
The bed is solid and sturdy beneath me, the quilts heavy and warm.
Everything smells like woodsmoke and pine and something else, something distinctly masculine that I'm trying very hard not to think about.
Through the doorway, I catch glimpses of the main room. More log walls. A massive stone fireplace with a crackling fire. Simple furniture that looks handmade. It's rustic in a way that should feel charming but instead feels isolating. Like the rest of the world doesn't exist.
Which, for the next week, it doesn't.
Kirk returns with a bowl of something that smells incredible and a glass of water.
He hands both to me without comment, then steps back like he's giving a wild animal space.
I want to be offended, but given that I've thrown two objects at his head in the last five minutes, I can't exactly blame him.
The stew is thick and rich, full of tender meat and vegetables. I take a bite and nearly moan. "This is amazing."
"It's food."
"It's delicious food. Did you make this?"
"Yep."
"From scratch?"
He gives me a look that suggests this is a stupid question. Which, fair. I'm guessing the nearest grocery store is not within walking distance.
I eat in silence for a minute, acutely aware of him watching me. It's not creepy, exactly. More like he's assessing. Cataloging. Making sure I'm not going to keel over or start throwing things again.
"So you live here," I say between bites. "Alone?"
"Yep."
"By choice?"
"Yep."
"That must be..." I search for a word that isn't "lonely" or "weird" or "vaguely unsettling." "Peaceful."
Kirk's mouth twitches. It's not quite a smile, but it's I feel like I've won something.
"How long have you been out here?" I ask.
"Years."
"Years? Without, I mean, do you ever go into town?"
"Sometimes."
Getting information out of this man is like pulling teeth. Beautiful, stoic, monosyllabic teeth. "What did you do before this?"
"Military."
That explains the scars. And the build. And the way he moves like every action has been calculated for maximum efficiency. "What branch?"
"Army."
"How long?"
"Twelve years."
I wait for him to elaborate. He doesn't. Of course he doesn't.
"So you did your time, got out, and decided to become a mountain man," I say, going for light and teasing. "That's very Jeremiah Johnson of you."
"Don't know who that is."
"He's—never mind." I take another bite of stew, then venture, "Do you get lonely?"
Kirk's gaze sharpens. "No."
It's a lie. I don't know how I know, but I do.
Maybe it's the way his shoulders tense, or the slight tightening around his eyes, or the fact that no one chooses complete isolation unless they're running from something.
But I don't push. We're strangers, and I'm already invading his space.
The last thing he needs is me trying to psychoanalyze him.
Instead, I ask, "What do you do all day?"
"Chop wood. Hunt. Fix things."
"That's it?"
"Yep."
"No hobbies? No books or TV or?—"
"Got books."
"What kind?"
"The kind with words."
I bite back a smile. "Fiction or nonfiction?"
He considers this. "Both."
"Favorite?"
"Don't have one."
This is the most words he's strung together at once, and I'm absurdly pleased. "Well, if you had to pick?—"
The lights flicker.
We both freeze. Barnaby lifts his head, ears pricked.
The lights flicker again, longer this time. The warm glow wavers, dims, steadies.
Outside, the wind screams. Something cracks, loud and sharp like a gunshot. The whole cabin shudders.
And then, with a finality that makes my stomach drop, the lights go out.
Darkness swallows everything. Complete, absolute, suffocating darkness that presses in from all sides. The only light comes from the fire in the other room, a faint, flickering glow that barely reaches the bedroom doorway.
The temperature seems to plummet instantly. Or maybe that's just my imagination. Either way,
"Kirk?"
"Here." His voice is steady. Calm. Like the power going out in a historic blizzard is just a minor inconvenience.
"What happened?"
"Tree branch took out the line."
"Is there a backup?"
"Generator. Outside."
"Can you fix it?"
There's a pause. Then, "Not in this storm."
The firelight catches his silhouette. He's just standing there, utterly still, like he's weighing options I can't see. The wind howls, rattling the windows with enough force that I half expect the glass to shatter. Something else crashes outside, further away this time.
"So we're stuck," I say. "In the dark. With no heat except the fire."
"Yep."
I laugh. It's a slightly hysterical sound that I don't quite manage to suppress. "Of course. Of course we are. Because why would anything about this situation be easy?"
Kirk moves. I can't see him clearly, but I hear his footsteps, feel the shift in the air as he crosses to the window. "Storm's getting worse."
"Worse? It can get worse?"
"Always can."
That is not comforting. Not even a little bit.
I set the empty bowl aside and burrow deeper into the quilts. Barnaby, bless him, seems to interpret this as an invitation and climbs fully onto the bed, draping himself across my legs like a hundred-pound heating pad. Normally I'd protest, but right now I'll take all the warmth I can get.
"How cold will it get?" I ask.
Kirk doesn't answer right away. When he does, his voice is measured. Careful. "Cold."
"How cold is cold?"
"Cold enough."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one you're getting."
I don't know if he's trying to spare my feelings or if he genuinely doesn't want to voice how bad this could get.
Either way, my imagination is happy to fill in the blanks.
Freezing to death. Hypothermia. Again. Except this time there's no changing into dry clothes because I don't have any, and no warming up because the power's out and we're stuck in this cabin at the world with nothing but a fire and?—
"Stop."
Kirk's voice cuts through the spiral. I realize I'm breathing too fast, my hands clenched in the quilt.
"Stop what?"
"Panicking."
"I'm not panicking."
"You are."
"How would you even know?"
"Can hear it."
Great. So not only am I trapped in the dark with a taciturn mountain man, but he can apparently read my emotional state through sound alone. That's not alarming at all.
"We'll be fine," he says. It's the closest thing to reassurance I've heard from him.
"How do you know?"
"Because I've survived worse."
The simple confidence in those words settles in me. I want to ask what could possibly be worse than this, but I have a feeling I don't want to know the answer. Instead, I focus on the practical. "What do we do now?"
"Keep the fire going. Stay warm. Wait."
"For how long?"
"Until the storm passes."
I close my eyes, then open them again because the darkness is the same either way. "I'm supposed to be in Denver right now. Setting up for the gala. Jack is going to lose his mind when I don't show up."
"Can't help that."
"I know. I just—" I stop, swallow. "This was my big break. My chance to prove I can handle the high-profile events. And now I'm going to miss it, and Jack's going to find someone else, and I'll be right back where I started."
"Not dead," Kirk points out.
"That's a low bar."
"It's the only one that matters."
He's right. I know he's right. But it doesn't stop the sick feeling in my stomach or the knowledge that everything I've worked for is crumbling while I sit here in the dark, useless and stranded.
The wind howls. The cabin creaks. Somewhere in the distance, another tree branch snaps with a sound like breaking bones.
And in the faint, flickering firelight, Kirk's shadow looms larger than ever.