Chapter 6
Six
Holley
The gravel crunches under my tires as I ease into the far corner of the state park’s gravel lot—the same spot I always tuck into, hidden behind the cluster of picnic tables and the fat pine tree that blocks me from the road.
The sun is gone now, sinking behind the ridge, and the shadows stretch long and blue across the empty lot.
The temperature has already dropped. The air has a bite to it I wasn’t expecting this early.
I cut the engine and sit for a moment, letting the silence settle around me.
This is usually when I breathe. When the rush of prepping the cabin, the scramble to get everything ready, the stress of seeing numbers I can’t afford on bills I can’t avoid—it all hits once I’m alone and slowing down.
When the next task isn’t on the forefront of my brain is when the fears, worry, and stress creep in threatening to overcome my mind.
But tonight, I can’t quite settle. The cold presses through the windows, already hinting at how miserable sleeping here is going to be if the temperature drops lower than forecasted.
I rub my hands together and pull my coat tighter, then reach back and unzip my duffel. I tug the thin fleece blanket out and shake it out across the backseat.
It’s fine. I try to convince myself that it isn’t so bad.
“Please let the weather app not be lying,” I mutter to myself.
I sit back and check my phone again. The cabin rental app shows the reservation as “upcoming,” still with that neat little countdown.
Guest arrival: 1 hour, 11 minutes
Plenty of time. No notifications from him. The cabin lights are on their timers. Everything inside is clean enough to pass a white-glove test. And my duffel is half-organized.
And yet…
Something nags.
A shiver works up my spine that has nothing to do with the cold.
“Okay,” I mumble, rubbing my arms. “Okay, don’t be dramatic. It’s gonna be fine.”
But when I lean back in the driver’s seat and pull the blanket up over my knees, I know instantly—it’s not enough. Not tonight. The cold is creeping in too fast. If the temperature dips even a few degrees lower, I’m going to freeze.
I grab my phone again and check the weather app.
Frost Advisory in Effect. Temperatures may fall into low 30s in higher elevations.
I close my eyes.
“Great.”
The heavier sleeping bag—my winter-grade cocoon of warmth—is back at the cabin. Rolled up in the hall closet. The one I didn’t pack because the stupid app said mild temps.
And the thought of spending the night here with this flimsy blanket haunts me. Hypothermia is not the way I want to leave this world.
I blow out a long breath.
I need it.
And I can get it. I should get it. My guest isn’t arriving until eight at the earliest. There’s no car in the driveway. No activity on the doorbell camera.
The doorbell camera.
I yank the app open quickly. The live view loads in a heartbeat.
Front porch: empty. Driveway: empty. Pathway lights flickering on their timer. The trees swaying gently.
No car. No truck. No guest.
Which means…
“I can run up,” I whisper giving myself permission to go. “Grab the sleeping bag. Be out before he even gets there.”
My heart kicks hard at the thought of being at the cabin when a stranger arrives, but I squash that down. I don’t have to see him. I’ll be in and out. Four minutes max including driving back down the driveway. Grab the sleeping bag, maybe toss an extra pair of socks in my duffel, and go.
I put the car in drive before I can talk myself out of it.
The mountain road is darker now, the pine trees towering like tall shadows on either side. My headlights cut through the gloom in a narrow cone. The deeper I go, the colder the air feels, as if winter is waiting at the top just for me.
As I turn down the road toward my cabin, that familiar ache hits low in my chest. The porch lights glow warm and welcoming in the distance, and for half a second it looks like a real home. My home.
And then I remember I don’t get to sleep there tonight.
I swallow hard.
I pull into the driveway, headlights sweeping over the steps, the wreath on the door, the little porch railing I painted last spring.
The driveway is empty—just like the camera showed.
Good.
I park as close to the door as I can, jump out, and hurry up the steps, cold air slicing at my face. My breath fogs as I fumble my keys out of my pocket and let myself inside.
The warmth hits immediately, even with the thermostat set low. The wood smells familiar. Safe. Like belonging.
I shove the feeling away before it can get a foothold.
“Sleeping bag, sleeping bag,” I mutter, hurrying down the hall.
I yank open the closet, reach up, and snag the thick roll of insulated fabric. It’s heavier than I remember. I drag it down, wrestling it into my arms.
My car is still running. Good. Faster getaway.
I hurry back into the living room—
Then I hear it.
A low rumble.
Deep. Mechanical. Distinct.
My blood chills.
A motorcycle.
A Harley-Davidson to be exact. One thing about my dad, he loved a Harley. He always said slow down, Holley, listen to the tick and you will recognize a Harley over any other brand. H
And not just passing by—coming up the gravel drive. Every crunch of stone under tires vibrates through the floorboards.
“No no no no—” I rush for the door, heart pounding. I’ve got seconds at best.
I yank the door open and step out onto the porch just as the headlight cuts through the trees—
And the rider pulls into my driveway.
My guest has arrived.
Early.
Not terribly early, but given they requested a late check in I truly didn’t think he would be here now.
Figures this would be my luck. While I don’t think this is some horrible thing to be here when they arrive, I have never wanted to cross paths with one of my guests before.
This isn’t a bed and breakfast where I’m serving them some kind of service package.
I supply my home and only my home. Not person to person hospitality.
A man climbs off the bike., the engine rumbling to a stop beneath him.
Black leather jacket covering broad shoulders. His presence rolls across the yard in a wave—solid, confident, deeply masculine.
He removes his helmet slowly, revealing a strong, weathered face and piercing blue eyes that lock onto me instantly.
He doesn’t look surprised to see someone standing outside.
I take him in. The silver hair short on his head and almost white with a goatee that only adds more edge to his chiseled jaw line.
While clearly not some twenty-something man child, this man is far from senior citizen, but a man who has lived a full life.
He stretches, his black t-shirt sliding up revealing the edges of his jeans with those clear cut hip bones that create a masterpiece to a fit man’s stomach and groin that can dampen any woman’s panties.
The air between feels thick. A heat washes through me simply drinking in the masterpiece of man in front of me.
He is unfazed by me and my gaze.
But I sure as hell am surprised to see him.
Because I know that face. Not him personally—not up close like this—but I know his type. And something about him sends a bolt of warning down my spine.
Not from fear.
From the sense that this man takes up space just by breathing.
There is power with a man like him. This stealth stature that screams protector.
A vibe that says he commands the world around him and everyone simply falls into submission willingly to the sheer masculine energy that exhales out with every breath he takes.
Needing to say or do something to cover up the way I’m gawking at the man, I force myself to swallow and call out, voice too high-pitched: “H-hi! You must be Mr. Brocato!” God, I’m an idiot.
He nods once, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s trying to make sense of the sight in front of him: me clutching a massive sleeping bag like a toddler dragging a stuffed animal. “Tony,” he clarifies. “Mr. Brocato is a great name for a man in a suit or a mob boss. I’m just Tony.”
“Hope you enjoy your stay.” I manage a stiff, awkward half-wave, then spin and all but sprint for my car. I fling the sleeping bag into the passenger seat so fast it ricochets off the dashboard.
He’s still watching me—of course he is—as I circle around to shut the door.
I turn back toward the cabin just to be polite, to give him some kind of host-like farewell—And that’s when I see headlights crossing my driveway.
My heartbeat stops dead.
I know that car.
That dent in the bumper. That cheap aftermarket grill he installed because he thought it made him look “edgy.” The same license plate I hated from the moment he put it on the damn car.
My ex-husband’s car.
“What the—” I whisper to the universe.
Rage slams through me so strong I nearly sway.
No. No. No.
He cannot be here. Not now. Not today. Not ever—but especially not now, when I have a paying guest in the driveway who absolutely does not need to witness the circus that is my life.
I stand frozen beside my car as the headlights come closer. My pulse quickens and becomes a loud thumping that thunders in my ears.
Behind me, I can feel my guest’s attention shift. I can feel his stare slide from me to the approaching car, some protective instinct sharpening just from the tension vibrating off me. I sense him moving closer even without looking to the man.
My ex pulls into my driveway like he owns the place.
My stomach twists violently.
This is not the experience I want for my guests. Not the vibe I want to create. Not the chaos I want to spill into a stranger’s peaceful mountain retreat. I squeeze the handle of my car door, nails digging into my palm.
Anger shakes through me—hot, humiliating, furious.
How dare he show up here. At my home. While I’m working. While I’ve been killing myself to fix everything he broke.
How dare he think he can just appear. My vision blurs as my rage climbs.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, barely above a whisper.
But the words don’t matter.
Because my ex is already climbing out of his car.
And Mr. Brocato—my guest, the man with the serious face and the unreadable stare—is watching every second of it.
What the hell do I do now?