Chapter 12
Twelve
Holley
The first thing I hear is the wind—howling, battering the sides of the cabin, rattling the windowpanes like a living creature desperate to get in. For a moment, half-asleep, wrapped in warm blankets and an even warmer body, I don’t understand what’s happening. Everything feels too soft, too safe.
Then Tony breathes behind me.
That’s when I remember.
The shower.
The bed.
His hands on my skin, his body wrapped around mine, the slow, burning way the night unfolded.
Heat spreads through me, even as the cold outside tries to claw its way in.
His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me back into his chest. He’s still half-asleep, voice low and gravelly. “Morning, trouble.”
There’s something about the nickname that all but melts me.
I shift slightly, blinking toward the window. It’s nothing but white—snow piled in thick waves, wind whipping it sideways, sky a swirling, merciless blur.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “It’s a blizzard.”
“Mm-hmm.” Tony nuzzles his face into my neck, unbothered. “Storm rolled in fast.”
Fast is an understatement. It looks like someone turned the world into a snow globe and shook the hell out of it.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand, squinting at the screen.
Five missed calls from work people.
Three voicemails.
And a text from work:
OFFICE CLOSED. WHITEOUT CONDITIONS. DO NOT DRIVE. WE WILL UPDATE WHEN ROADS CLEAR.
I stare at it long enough that Tony cracks one eye open.
“Work?” he asks.
“Closed. They shut down the whole office.” I let out a long breath. “The roads are probably a nightmare.”
“Not probably,” he says, stretching behind me, muscles rippling under the sheet. “Definitely.”
I swallow, nerves and something warmer tangling in my stomach. “So, it looks like I’m stuck here.”
He smirks, still half-asleep. “Damn. What a tragedy. I guess I’ll have to get creative with ways to keep you entertained. I know you’ll be bored not working.”
I swat at him, but he catches my wrist, laughing as he tugs me back against him.
The warmth is addicting.
Dangerously addicting.
I could spend the whole day right here in this bed.
But the thought makes something tighten under my ribs. I shouldn’t get comfortable. I shouldn’t want this as much as I do.
Tony rolls to his back and looks at the ceiling, listening to the storm.
“We’re not going anywhere for a while,” he says. “Two days at least.”
Two days.
With him.
My pulse jumps, equal parts excitement and panic. The kind of trapped feeling that isn’t really trapped, more like cornered by my own thoughts.
“Coffee?” he offers, sitting up. “I’m a tea guy, sweet and iced, but I can make coffee.”
I nod, letting the blankets slide around me as he climbs out of bed—completely unselfconscious, moving like a man who knows his body, knows he’s being watched, knows I’m going to look even when I pretend not to.
He glances over his shoulder and catches me staring.
“See something you like? My peach is perfect. And my eggplant is better than any emoji!”
My cheeks burn. “You’re impossible.”
He grins, cocky and warm, then disappears into the kitchen.
The cabin smells like coffee and woodsmoke, and the storm sounds like it’s ripping through the forest. I wrap myself in one of his flannels and pad barefoot into the kitchen where he stands beside the stove, tattoos flexing on his biceps as he pours coffee into a mug for me and makes himself a glass of sweet tea he apparently made at some point in time and had in the fridge.
“You take it black,” he says without turning around.
I blink. “How did you know that?”
“You strike me as the type.” He hands me a mug. “Someone who doesn’t pretend things are sweeter than they are. And you have small containers of creamer options in powder form, lasts longer, and an avid creamer person would stock it in big bottles.”
The comment lands deeper than he probably meant it to. When was the last time anyone paid attention to the small details concerning me? When has anyone ever cared to look at how I prefer anything?
I blow on the coffee, letting the warmth seep into my hands. “Thanks.”
He nods toward the window. “Whiteout’s gonna last a while.”
“Yeah.” I look out. “It’s bad.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, studying me in that way he does—like he’s not just looking at me but looking through the walls I keep trying to hold together.
I’ve never been around any man who literally makes coffee completely naked and holds a conversation like this is normal.
I keep looking at his cock and remembering the feel of it stretching me.
No toy will ever hit the spots he found inside me. I’m ruined.
“You okay being stuck here?” he asks taking me out of my dirty thoughts.
I nod slowly. “It’s better than being stuck in my car.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Tony goes still.
It’s too late to take it back.
He sets his glass of tea down reading me like a book. “Holley.”
“It’s fine,” I reply quickly. “I’ve been fine. I can handle it.”
“Holley.”
His tone deepens. Serious. Grounded. Not a question, not a command—just a tether pulling me back to honesty.
I swallow hard. “I live in the car sometimes.”
His jaw flexes. “Sometimes?”
“It’s complicated. If the cabin is booked, I sleep in my car. It’s not permanent. Just until I dig myself out of the hole my divorce left me in.”
His eyes search mine, far too perceptive.
I let out a breath. “It’s not that bad.”
“And the heat?” he asks quietly.
I look away, throat tight. “I don’t use it unless I have to so I don’t inhale fumes from the car.”
Tony’s hand curls into a fist on the counter. “Jesus, Holley.”
“It’s not your problem.”
“The hell it isn’t,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re freezing at night, sleeping in a damn car, and you think that’s not my problem when I’m the reason you’re doin’ that because I’m stayin’ here?”
I brace myself for pity. But he offers none.
Just anger—not at me, but for me. Protective in a way no one has been in years.
I wrap my hands tighter around the mug. “I didn’t want anyone to feel obligated.”
His expression softens. “I don’t do obligated.”
I meet his gaze.
There’s something there—something fierce and warm and unfamiliar.
It scares me.
It comforts me.
Both at once.
By afternoon, the storm only worsens. The power flickers twice, then steadies. We camp out in the living room, fire crackling, blankets piled around us.
“Tell me about Salemburg,” I inquire, curled at the far end of the couch. “You mentioned it once.”
He stretches out, long legs brushing mine. “Small town. Not much to it besides good people and too many bars. Club handles shit though, it’s safe, and it’s home.”
“Club as in motorcycle club? Is that what your vest is about? The one that says Stud on it?”
He gives a small nod, eyes flickering with something between nostalgia and trouble. “Yeah. Bikers. Brotherhood. Bar fights. Long rides. Good times. Hellions, baby. Road name is Stud. Hellions original and one of my closest friends gave me the nickname and it stuck.”
I smile. “You sound fond of it.”
“The name is me, one thousand percent. The club life isn’t for everyone. But it’s everything for me. Isn’t all good, all the time.” His voice dips. “But it taught me things. Taught me who I am. More than the Marines did. Made me a better man.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push.
He glances at me, reading something in my posture. “You don’t have to tiptoe around my stories, Holley. What about you?”
The fire pops, sending sparks up the chimney.
I take a breath. “Not much to tell. I’m getting through the aftermath of divorce. My marriage wasn’t abusive. Not physically. But it broke me anyway. I didn’t expect that. I thought I was stronger.”
He waits. No pressure, no impatience.
“My ex-husband loved expectations, as you saw meeting him the other night,” I share. “Loved control. Loved telling me how I should feel, think, behave. And I—” I swallow. “I spent so long bending myself into shapes that made sense to him that I forgot who I was.”
Tony’s jaw tightens. “He ever touch you in anger?”
“No. But he touched my life in every other way that mattered. I wasn’t allowed space. Or silence. Or mistakes. And when I finally broke under all the pressure he made me feel small for years. Then he cheated and told me it was my fault he stepped out.”
“Holley.” Tony’s voice softens but doesn’t pity. “No wonder you’re exhausted.”
I blink quickly, trying not to cry.
“I guess I’m just trying to rebuild and heal,” I whisper.
He shifts closer until our knees touch.
“You don’t have to be healed to be here.”
The words hit something inside me that hasn’t seen light in a long time.
But then his expression changes—slightly, subtly—and I can feel a shift coming before he speaks.
“Holley,” he starts, voice low, carefully controlled. “There’s something you should know about me. Before this goes any further. Normally, I would have this conversation before I ever touch you, but what can I say, I can’t resist you.”
My heart stutters. “Okay.”
He runs a hand over his jaw. “I don’t do monogamy.” He doesn’t hold back, soften, just puts it out there.
I blink. “You mean right now? I’m confused. I didn’t ask you for a relationship, Tony.”
“I mean ever,” he states plainly. “I won’t promise exclusivity.
I have women in Salemburg. I get tested regularly, I’m clean and I had a vasectomy.
I tell you this since I didn’t use a condom last night which isn’t typical of me.
Something about you has me breaking all my rules.
Won’t pretend I’m built for one person. Women have tried and I even tried, it just isn’t who I am.
I was married. My wife tried to shape me into that, and it tore us both apart inside. ”
Wife.
The word echoes, sharp and unexpectedly heavy.
“What happened?” I ask softly.
“She died,” he shares frankly like everything else.
“Cancer.” He doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch.
“And I realized afterward, I’d spent so much of our marriage fighting being tied to expectations I couldn’t meet, I couldn’t breathe.
So I rebelled. She did too. We both hurt each other immensely.
But I loved her, my God I loved her. I’ll always love her.
And I’ll always wish I had been up front with her.
I cared for her deeply. But the version of me she wanted wasn’t who I am.
Losing her taught me not to be anything less than absolutely me including the part of me that isn’t a choir boy. ”
I let the words settle around us.
He lifts his eyes to mine. “I’m telling you this now because I’m not here to give false hope or play house.
I don’t want you thinking I’ll become something just because you deserve someone steady.
I can’t heal you, that’s work you have to do for yourself.
I can have fun with you. We can enjoy one another, but I need you to know I can’t give all of me to any one person. ”
I inhale a shaky breath. The strange part—the unexpected part—is that instead of feeling let down… I feel relieved. He is who he is and why do I want him to be any different? I don’t. Is it unconventional, yes, but I’m not trying to be married.
“Holley,” he says slowly, “I understand if that changes something for you.”
I shake my head, surprising even myself at how comfortable I am with this simply because he was honest. “No. It doesn’t.”
His brows pull together. “You sure?”
“I spent years wanting to be someone’s whole world,” I say. “And losing myself in the process. I’m not ready for serious. I’m not ready for expectations. I’m not ready for someone depending on me to be anything again.”
He studies me like he’s surprised. Like he didn’t expect my answer.
“It’s actually comforting,” I continue. “The idea that you’re not asking me to be perfect or healed or committed. I don’t think I could do any of that. Not right now.”
His shoulders ease.
The tension in the air shifts.
Warms.
Deepens.
“So you’re okay with this?” he asks, gesturing between us. “Whatever it is.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “For the first time in a long time I feel like I can breathe. Because you’re not trying to own me or fix me.”
He exhales slowly, like the honesty affects him more than he expected.
“We take this slow,” he says. “No promises. No cages.”
“Just connection,” I say.
“Just connection,” he repeats.
Our eyes hold.
The snow keeps falling outside.
Inside, something steadier forms between us—something shaped by the quiet truth that neither of us is ready for more but both of us want what we have right in front of us.
He nudges my knee. “Come here.”
I shift toward him. He pulls a blanket over us and settles me against his chest. His warmth sinks through me, soothing and grounding, even without touching anything more intimate.
“Holley?” he murmurs.
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad the storm trapped you here.”
I smile into his shirt. “Me too.”
And for the next two days—through the blizzard, the flickering firelight, the shared meals, the quiet confessions, and the slow, unhurried nearness—we learn each other in a way that isn’t fast or explosive.
It’s steady.
Warm.
Dangerous in a gentle way.
The kind of closeness that doesn’t demand anything but offers everything we’re both capable of giving.
For now.
And I’m good with it.