3. Payton
Payton
The storm continues to howl, hardly easing up despite the couple of hours that have passed. After catching August muttering about how the storm should be easing up, probably in a way to aid my worries, I realized it must’ve been the opposite.
The worst has yet to come.
Every time the wind rattles the windows, his jaw tightens. I can’t tell if it’s the storm that’s put that permanent crease between his brows or the fact that I’m here at all—an inconvenient guest in his solitary world.
Then he went out of his way to shove a blanket at me without me having to tell him that I’m cold. He asks if I need water, then scowls when I say yes, as if my thirst is a personal offense.
This guy is the definition of frustration. I don’t get it.
Still, that look on his face—jaw tight, eyes dark with something between irritation and something I don’t recognize —makes me wonder if he resents me for being here. Or worse, resents himself for making the offer to come inside.
If he hadn’t stopped me from storming off, I don’t think I’d like imagining where I’d be instead. Trapped inside my car beneath a big tree, probably. Definitely dead.
When the thought makes a shiver crawl up my spine, I clutch the blanket closer to my body to hide my tremble before he tries to shove another log inside.
“We should do something.” Muttering the words, I ache to get my mind off of what could’ve happened to me.
Sitting next to me, he turns to look my way. We’re both crazy for sitting here in the silence, doing nothing but counting the seconds that go by.
It’s getting late, but I don’t know the time. The clouds swallowed up the sun before my tire caught something sharp, so who knows the hour.
I’m nowhere close to feeling exhausted. I need something to tire me out.
“What should that be?” Cocking a brow, he waits for me to throw something worthwhile out.
There’s no way he isn’t dying of boredom. Something tells me that he’ll agree to whatever I can think of.
I figure the best thing to do to pass the time is to play something. While I can’t imagine him playing family-like games, he has to have something to help pass the time.
When he disappears long enough, I try to imagine what it’ll be. Is he the kind of person to have friends over to play board games, or does he try to solo play games? My answer comes when he returns with a deck of cards that looks older than I am.
August had vetoed Go Fish and Old Maid with a scoff, so now we’re knee-deep in poker with nothing to bet but pride and sidelong glances.
I kneel across from him, the blanket slipping from my legs as I lean forward against the table we’ve moved closer to the couch. It took some persuasion earlier that I was completely fine where I was.
The firelight catches the creases in his forehead, his brows pulled tight like he’s deciphering battle plans instead of working towards a full house.
I try to read his expression, to see how confident he is. Unfortunately, he’s mastered keeping a blank expression. I couldn’t decipher what thoughts are spiraling in his head if I looked deep enough.
Lowering my eyes, I look at his frown. Instead of wondering if his frown is from a displeasure of his hand, I’m wondering how soft they are. It’s a fleeting thought, drifting through my mind while completely destroying my concentration.
So sudden, and a terrible thought at that, I pray my cheeks don’t reveal my thoughts. Silly and outrageous, the last thing I want him to know is that I’m curious about a few things here and there.
I jerk my gaze back to my hand, trying my hardest to focus on the game. Every flick of his thumb against a card sends a traitorous spark up my spine, and I chew on the inside of my cheek as I try to take in my pathetic hand.
A pair of twos won’t get me very far. Even if we’re playing without chips, I still don’t like the thought of losing to this guy three times in a row.
We take turns discarding cards, and the three I replace aren’t any better.
“Well?” He lifts a brow, and that deep voice of his sends an unwelcome heat through me. My stomach betrays me, but I grit my teeth.
It’s easier to ignore the way my pulse jumps when he’s being an ass.
“Fold.” The word tastes like defeat, and my body sags with it. Elbows on the table, I slump forward, watching as he flips his cards—just as worthless as mine.
Awesome. The loss burns sharper this time, edged with something dangerously close to frustration. Or maybe it’s the way his fingers drag the cards toward him, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring my surrender.
He reshuffles the deck, bending effortlessly under those broad hands. My gaze snags on the tattoo inked across his knuckles, faded from time but still dark enough to trace the winding design leading toward his fingers. The skin there is slightly raised, with blurred edges due to age.
“Again?” he asks, thumb splitting the deck with a practiced flick.
I should quit while I’m behind and lick my wounds while they’re fresh.
“Maybe.” Pursing my lips, I squint at him. “If you tell me how you keep winning, I’ll think about it. Not cheating, are you?”
He scoffs, not answering my question. He deals the cards slowly and deliberately. When I reach for my hand, his fingers linger near mine for a heartbeat before withdrawing.
I’m halfway through deciding which cards to discard when he sighs.
“You make it easy. It’s hardly a challenge to read you like an open book.” His voice is rough, words coming out clipped. He hasn’t even touched his own hand, just watches me with those heavy-lidded eyes.
The weight behind his stare is making my body want to crumble. I don’t want to come off as weak by stirring, and it takes strength I don’t realize I have to sit still.
“Your eyes light up when you get something good. Then—” A pause, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “—you can’t help yourself. You push your luck, chase something better.”
My fingers freeze. The air between us grows thicker, warmer. Each inhale makes my skin prickle.
“And when your cards are shit?” He leans forward, bracing his forearms on the table. The tattoo on his knuckles stretches with the movement. “You deflate. Bite your lip.”
His eyes dip toward my mouth like he’s ready to provide proof of my bad habits. He grunts when he catches me swiping at my bottom lip with my tongue instead.
It’s something I do when I’m feeling nervous. Another bad habit.
Has he always watched me this closely?
The realization licks through me, hot and slow. My skin flushes; my pulse thrums in my throat. He sees it all—the hitch in my breathing, the way my lashes flicker when his voice drops.
“So no,” he murmurs, finally picking up his cards. Pulling back completely unaffected, he flicks through his card. “I don’t need to cheat to win against you.”
I should say something clever, claim that he’s completely full of it. However, I don’t trust myself to speak. Not while my breath is shaking and my toes are curling tight. When I do have the confidence to part my lips, I don’t get the chance to say anything.
Rather, the only sound to leave my lips is a gasp when the lights suddenly go out, leaving us in darkness. The fire makes it possible to see the outline of everything, but it’s the lightning that lights up the scowl on August’s face.
We wait a few seconds in silence, and I realize I’m holding my breath. As my lungs burn, I take in a deep breath as he moves to stand.
“Wait, where are you going?” I hate the panic in my voice, but I can’t lie, I like that he’s purposely stayed at my side this whole time.
I don’t want to be left alone.
“Power isn’t going to kick back on by itself. Need to get the generator going.” He carefully maneuvers around the table and sighs when I try to get up and follow him. “I have to leave the cabin. It’s out in the garage. Stay here where it’s dry.”
He’s back to using the authoritative tone that makes my heart flutter. Too serious for his own good. While it technically makes me stop moving, it doesn’t stop the panic from rising in my chest.
“You can’t be serious. Is it even worth going out there?” Remembering how to use my legs, I take a few more steps toward him. “It’s fine. We can just call it and sleep. It’s not worth going out there. You… you’ll be blown away.”
It sounds ridiculous coming out of my mouth, especially when this guy is built like a brick wall, but I feel like I have to convince him to stay somehow.
What if he slips and gets hurt? There are worse fates than breaking a bone. After going so far out of his way to accommodate me, there’s no way I won’t feel responsible if something happens.
Making it all the way to the front of his home, I chew on my lip as he laces up his boots and throws on a jacket. As if such flimsy fabric will keep him dry.
“I’ll be quick. Why not reshuffle those cards and think of a game you’re better at?” With an attempt to reassure me, his scowl cracks, revealing a hint of a smile.
A nervous tremor flutters through my ribs, sinking like a stone into my stomach. My toes curl against the carpet, gripping as if they could root me in place. When I try to speak, my tongue sits heavy and useless in my mouth, so I just nod as he turns toward the door.
The night swallows him whole.
One moment he’s there, shoulders braced against the coming storm, and the next…nothing. Just the slam of the door and the hollow echo of his absence. Cold air licks at my ankles where the draft slips through, raising goosebumps that have nothing to do with the temperature.
This isn’t right. The weight in my gut isn’t just worry—it’s dread, thick and suffocating, coating every thought of what comes next, of what might already be happening in that howling dark beyond the cabin walls.
He shouldn’t be out there.
On shaky footing, I make my way through the darkness, using the light of the fire to guide me toward the couch. Taking a seat, I gather up all the cars and work to mix them up.
Why am I so worried? August can take care of himself. He’s a part of this mountain; he knows what he can handle and what he can’t.
My heart won’t stop its traitorous rhythm—that relentless pounding that doesn’t care about distance or decency. Whether I’m close enough to catch the woodsmoke clinging to his flannel or sitting across the room, my pulse thrums the same frantic beat.
Setting the cards down, I thrust my fingers through my hair and sigh.
There’s another possibility, but it’s impossible. Totally impossible.
I get it. I haven’t put myself in a situation to be alone with a man very often, but I came here with the intent to marry a different man. My heart already had a name written on it. Sure, love has nothing to do with it, but Walton is the one who agreed to have me.
The worst part? I can’t even resent him for the hesitation on my part. He never asked for this. Never asked for me.
I press my palms to my closed eyelids until colors bloom. This isn’t how it was supposed to be.
How am I supposed to look Walton in the eye now when I meet him tomorrow? Will I picture it’s August, when I’m ready to slip a ring on my finger, or will I be able to forget all about him once some time passes?
Dropping my hands to my lap, I let out a laugh.
All this time spent alone with him is getting to my head, that’s all. It’s completely normal to worry about someone, even a stranger. There’s no way I could fall for a man I’ve just met.
Not even Cupid’s Bloom Co. can promise something so outrageous. So, in short, I’m not falling for August.
The lights flicker back on, and it’s like a silent confirmation that makes me feel a little better.
The creak of the front door splinters through my thoughts. Before I can process relief—before I can even breathe—my body’s already turning, feet carrying me toward the sound like some gravitational pull I can’t resist. The frantic drum of my heart? It blurs into white noise.
I skid to a halt just steps away.
August stands there, rainwater sluicing off him in rivulets, the storm still clinging to his skin.
He nonchalantly shrugs off his coat, hanging it on the hook to dry. Just as I expect, the water has soaked through.
As soon as I take him in, I realize I’ve done something I shouldn’t. If I were just glancing at him, I’d be innocent. However, it’s not a brief sweep of my eyes. Rather, I’m drinking in his appearance like I’m dehydrated.
His shirt is plastered to every hard plane of his torso, translucent and unforgiving. Droplets cling to his lashes, his beard, the defiant line of his jaw. He drags a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and that’s when his gaze locks onto mine.
A bolt of heat sears through me, sudden and reckless, settling low in my stomach before I can smother it. My pulse isn’t just in my ears now—it’s everywhere, a wildfire under my skin.
He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath too. Like he feels it, this thing between us that shouldn’t exist. Can’t exist.
What’s right and what’s wrong isn’t exactly what I’m trying to think about now.
Realizing he has a pool of water forming at his boots, I tear my eyes away and turn. “I’ll grab a towel.”
Like a repeat of earlier, our roles reversed, I’m far less cool as I move toward his bathroom.
The heat in my stomach doesn’t disappear as I make distance between us. Rather, it throbs like being separated from each other is the problem.
I can not want a man I’ve just met. I can not offer my heart to a man who plans on kicking me out once the weather clears.
Now, if only my body could get on board with the sense of the situation before I do something stupid that I can’t take back.
The truth is, right now, I feel like I’m about to do something completely reckless.