Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
NADIA
Idon't sleep.
The guest room is gorgeous. Exposed beam ceiling, queen bed with a handmade quilt that probably costs more than my monthly rent, and windows that would showcase stunning mountain views if they weren't currently being pelted with what sounds like the apocalypse.
The wind howls like something alive and angry. Every few minutes, a gust hits the cabin hard enough to make the walls creak. I lie in the dark, listening to the storm and thinking about the man sleeping somewhere on the other side of this house.
Callum Ridge.
I replay our conversation at the bar, searching for red flags I might have missed.
He's older, successful, apparently the town's most eligible bachelor, and he hasn't dated seriously in eight years.
That last part would normally send me running.
Men who've been single that long usually have a reason, and it's rarely a good one.
But the reason he gave me wasn't a red flag. It was a wound.
She wanted me to be something I'm not.
I know that feeling. Marcus, my last serious relationship, spent two years trying to sand down my edges.
Stop being so aggressive in meetings. Smile more.
Let me handle this. He called it helping me navigate corporate politics.
I called it slowly suffocating until I couldn't recognize myself anymore.
We broke up a year ago. I threw myself into work to avoid dealing with it. Now there's no work to throw myself into, and I'm lying awake in a stranger's guest room wondering if I've made a series of terrible decisions that led me to this exact moment.
The wind screams. Something crashes outside, loud enough to make me bolt upright.
Okay. Sleep is definitely not happening.
I grab my phone from the nightstand. 2:47 AM.
The battery is at twelve percent because I forgot to ask Callum for a charger, and I have seventeen unread messages in the family group chat.
Mom asking if I've arrived safely. Dad sending a photo of the mountain views from his hotel room.
Yasmine sharing the final seating chart with my name next to a blank space labeled "Nadia's Plus One. "
I type a quick response confirming I'm alive and that I have a date, then silence the notifications before anyone can ask follow up questions.
My throat is dry. The whiskey, probably, or the recycled airplane air I breathed for sixteen hours. I need water, and maybe a snack, and definitely to stop lying here overthinking every choice I've ever made.
The hallway is dark but not pitch black. Soft light glows from somewhere downstairs, probably the fire Callum built earlier. I pad barefoot down the stairs, grateful for the thick wool socks I packed, and navigate toward the kitchen by memory and ambient glow.
The refrigerator is stocked like he's expecting company. Fresh vegetables, quality cheeses, containers of what looks like homemade soup. I grab a bottle of water and drink half of it standing in front of the open door, letting the cold light wash over me.
"Couldn't sleep either?"
I spin so fast I nearly drop the bottle.
Callum stands in the doorway to the living room, backlit by the dying fire. He's changed out of his earlier clothes into loose gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt that stretches across his chest in ways that make my mouth go dry again immediately.
"Storm's loud."
"It'll pass by morning." He moves into the kitchen, and I'm reminded again of how big he is. How much space he takes up. "The roads will be bad for a day or two though. County doesn't prioritize this far up the mountain."
"A day or two?" I set down the water bottle. "The rehearsal dinner is tomorrow night."
"I know."
"And you're just now mentioning that we might be snowed in?"
"I'm mentioning it now because I just checked the weather report.
" He pulls out his phone and shows me the screen.
A wall of red and purple covers the entire region, with warnings about dangerous conditions and travel advisories.
"Storm shifted. It was supposed to track south of us, but it turned.
We're looking at eighteen to twenty four inches before it's done. "
"Eighteen to twenty four inches." I stare at the screen, processing. "Callum, I have to be at the rehearsal dinner. I'm the maid of honor. Yasmine will literally murder me if I don't show up."
"Then we'll figure it out." His voice is calm, steady. Annoying in its reasonableness. "I have a plow on my truck. Once the worst passes, I can clear the driveway and get us down to the main road. From there it depends on how fast the county crews move."
"And if they don't move fast enough?"
"Then we improvise."
I want to argue. Want to pace and panic and call my sister and explain that I'm trapped on a mountain with a man I met six hours ago. But Callum's composure is doing something to my nervous system, slowing the spiral before it can fully form.
"This is insane," I say instead.
"Little bit."
"I'm stuck in a cabin with a stranger during a blizzard. This is literally the plot of every true crime documentary."
"If it helps, you're also stuck with central heating, a fully stocked kitchen, and a backup generator." He opens a cabinet and pulls out a glass. "Plus I have excellent taste in whiskey."
"I noticed."
He pours two fingers and slides it across the counter toward me. I take it without protesting, because apparently I've abandoned all my usual boundaries along with my career and my dignity.
"Since we're both awake," Callum says, pouring his own glass, "we might as well use the time productively. The convincing couple act is going to require some background information."
"Like what?"
"Basics. Where you grew up. What you studied. Whether you have any embarrassing family secrets that might come up over dinner."
I snort. "How much time do you have?"
"All night, apparently."
We migrate to the living room, where the fire has burned down to glowing embers.
Callum adds more logs while I curl into the corner of a massive leather sofa that smells like wood smoke and something distinctly masculine.
The whiskey warms my chest as I watch him work, efficient and sure in his movements.
"Detroit," I start when he settles into the opposite end of the sofa.
"Born and raised. My parents split when I was fourteen and Yasmine was ten.
Mom moved us to Chicago, Dad stayed in Michigan with his new girlfriend.
I saw him every other weekend until I turned sixteen and decided I was too busy for court mandated visitation. "
"You and your father don't get along?"
"We get along fine now. Surface level fine. Talk about the weather and pretend we don't have fifteen years of unresolved resentment between us." I take another sip of whiskey. "He's bringing his girlfriend to the wedding. Third one since the divorce. This one's only five years older than me."
"That bothers you."
"Everything about my father bothers me." The words come out sharper than intended. "Sorry. Family stuff. You probably don't want to hear all this."
"I asked."
"Most people ask to be polite. They don't actually want the real answer."
Callum holds my gaze across the length of the sofa. "I don't do polite questions, Nadia. If I ask something, I want the truth."
There's weight behind the words. A seriousness that makes me feel seen in a way I'm not entirely comfortable with.
"Fine. The truth is my father left my mother for a younger woman and I've spent the last eighteen years pretending I'm over it when I'm clearly not." I drain the rest of my whiskey. "Your turn. Tell me something real about your family."
"My parents died when I was twenty two. Car accident.
Black ice on the highway." He says it matter of factly, but I catch the tightness around his eyes.
"I raised my three younger brothers after that.
Took over the family business. Built this house because we needed something solid after everything fell apart. "
"God, Callum. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was a long time ago."
"That doesn't mean it stopped hurting."
His expression shifts, something raw flickering through before he locks it down again. "No. It doesn't."
The fire crackles. Outside, the wind continues its assault. I'm suddenly very aware of how intimate this is. Two strangers trading wounds in the middle of the night, wrapped in firelight and whiskey and the strange cocoon of a snowstorm.
"Declan is the second oldest," Callum continues. "He handles field operations for the company. Flynn is third, does our books and client relations. Ronan is the youngest, environmental surveys and forestry management."
"All working in the family business?"
"All living on family land too. Declan has a cabin about a mile east. Flynn and Ronan share a place closer to town." He pauses. "We're close. Probably too close by some standards. But when you lose your parents young, you hold onto what's left."
I think about Yasmine. About the way we drifted apart after our parents' divorce, each of us orbiting different households and processing the same trauma in opposite ways.
She leaned into perfection, curating a life that looked flawless from the outside.
I leaned into ambition, building a career to prove I didn't need anyone.
Neither strategy worked particularly well.
"What else do I need to know?" I ask, steering us back to practical territory before I start crying in front of a man I barely know. "For the act. What's your middle name? Birthday? Favorite food?"
"James. April fifteenth. And anything I don't have to cook myself." He tilts his head. "What's your middle name?"
"Michelle. After my grandmother."
"Nadia Michelle Smith." He says my full name like he's testing how it feels in his mouth. "It suits you."
"Thanks, I picked it out myself."
His almost smile makes another appearance. I'm starting to keep count.
"What else?" I prompt.