Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Samuel
The hot cocoa had gone lukewarm in my hands, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.
I was curled up in the oversized armchair by the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly of cedar and someone else’s nostalgia, watching flames dance behind the glass.
Purrsephone had claimed my lap approximately twenty minutes ago and showed no signs of relinquishing her territory.
Her purr was a constant, rumbling vibration against my thighs—the only sound in the cabin besides the occasional pop of burning wood.
Outside the window, snow had begun to fall.
How quaint, I thought, watching the fat white flakes drift lazily past the glass. A cozy cabin, a crackling fire, a cat on my lap, and snow. This is exactly what people pay thousands of dollars for in those ‘escape the holiday chaos’ packages.
It should have been perfect.
Instead, all I could think about was the way Farley had cried when he told me he couldn’t do this.
You’re worth waiting for, Farley Davenport. Even if you don’t believe that yet.
I’d meant it when I said it. I still meant it now, alone with my cooling cocoa and my borrowed cat and the memory of the best kiss of my entire life.
But meaning something didn’t make it hurt any less.
“This is fine,” I told Purrsephone, who blinked up at me with her mismatched eyes. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Everything is completely, absolutely fine.”
She made a sound that suggested she didn’t believe a word of it.
The thing was, I understood. That was what made it so frustrating.
I understood why Farley needed time. His ex-boyfriend had betrayed him in the most humiliating way possible.
Farley hadn’t just lost a relationship; he’d lost his sense of judgment, his professional reputation, and his ability to trust his own instincts.
Of course, he wasn’t ready to jump into something new.
He needed time to heal before he could open himself up again.
He’d told me, with tears streaming down his face, that he couldn’t be someone’s second choice again.
That he didn’t trust himself to know the difference between genuine feelings and potential rebound issues.
And I’d said okay. Because what else could I say? Actually, Farley, I think you should ignore your emotional trauma and come to bed?
I wasn’t that guy. I refused to be that guy.
But God, it would be easier if we hadn’t had that day in Charlottesville first. If we hadn’t spent time wandering through Whole Foods, bickering about kombucha and bourbon and whether premium cat food was worth the extra money.
If we hadn’t hidden from a pack of church ladies in a photo booth, pressed together in that tiny space, taking stupid pictures that I now had tucked into my wallet like a lovesick teenager.
If he hadn’t kissed me back like I was oxygen and he’d been drowning.
“Friends,” I said out loud, testing the word. “We’re friends. Friends who kissed once and then discovered three dead mice and decided to only be friends.”
Purrsephone’s expression suggested this was the most pathetic thing she’d ever heard.
“Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who left the murder presents.”
She began grooming her paw.
I thought about the way I’d screamed when we walked in and found her little offerings, while Purrsephone sat in the middle of the carnage looking immensely proud of herself.
It had been funny. Horrible and gross, but genuinely funny.
When Farley looked at me with those sad eyes and told me he should go, I’d watched my window of opportunity close like the world’s most depressing elevator door.
I took a sip of my lukewarm cocoa and grimaced. Even the chocolate had given up on me.
The snow was falling harder now. I watched it through the window, trying to remember when snow had stopped being magical and started being just cold, wet stuff that ruined your plans.
Probably around the same time I’d stopped being Samuel Bennett, hopeful actor, and started being Dr. Brock Blaze, contractually obligated soap star.
Seven years. I’d been playing the same character for seven years.
I’d been poisoned, kidnapped, and had my memory erased so many times that the writers made jokes about it.
So many freaking love interests, none of whom lasted more than a season because the show’s formula demanded constant romantic upheaval.
And through it all, I’d been lonely.
That was the thing nobody told you about fame.
You could be surrounded by people—fans, co-stars, agents, publicists—and still feel completely alone.
Because nobody saw you. They saw the character, the brand, the carefully curated public persona.
They wanted Dr. Brock Blaze’s autograph and Dr. Brock Blaze’s selfie and Dr. Brock Blaze’s opinion on which lip balm he used.
Nobody asked Samuel Bennett what he thought about anything.
Except Farley.
Farley, who’d Googled me and still shown up at my cabin with groceries.
Who’d watched me make a mustache out of my own hair and laughed in my face, and instead of being upset I’d laughed along with him.
He’d sat across from me in the Range Rover and listened—really listened—while I told him about Sabrina’s betrayal and my identity crisis and all the ways fame had hollowed me out from the inside.
Farley saw me. The real me. And he’d still kissed me back like he meant it.
He just wasn’t ready to do anything about it.
“I should be grateful,” I told Purrsephone. “I have a charmed life. Millions of fans, a steady paycheck, the kind of career most actors would kill for. I should be happy.”
The snow was coming down faster now, and the flakes had become something more urgent, swirling past the window in thickening gusts. The wind had picked up too—I heard it moaning through the trees, a low, unsettling sound that made the cabin walls creak in protest.
I frowned at the window. “That escalated quickly.”
Purrsephone’s ears had pricked forward. She was staring at the window too, her body suddenly tense against my legs.
“It’s just the blizzard Gladys warned us about,” I told her. “Remember? Less than twenty-four hours, she said. I guess this is it.”
The wind howled louder, and the lights flickered.
My heart did a little stutter-step. “Okay. That’s less quaint.”
I set the cocoa aside and shifted to the edge of the armchair, earning a disgruntled noise from Purrsephone as she was forced to readjust. Through the window, I could barely see the outline of the trees anymore—the snow had become a white curtain, dense and impenetrable, whipping sideways in the wind.
This wasn’t the gentle December snowfall I’d been watching twenty minutes ago. This was a storm.
A flash of light split the sky, bright enough to make me flinch, and a crack of thunder followed so close behind that the entire cabin shook. Purrsephone leaped off my lap with a yowl, her claws catching my thigh through the blanket.
“Jesus—” I scrambled to my feet, heart pounding. “Thunder? In a snowstorm?”
I wasn’t a mountain person. I was an LA person who understood earthquakes, traffic, and which juice bars were worth the forty-five-minute wait. Whatever meteorological hellscape was currently descending on this cabin was out of my realm of understanding.
The lights flickered again, then died completely.
“Oh, that’s great,” I said to the darkness. “That’s really, really great.”
The fire was still burning, thank God—casting dancing shadows across the walls. I could see Purrsephone’s silhouette near the kitchen, pacing back and forth with her tail puffed up to twice its normal size.
“It’s okay,” I called to her, not sure if I was trying to convince her or myself. “It’s just a storm. Storms happen. They pass.”
Another flash of lightning, another boom of thunder. The wind screamed—there was no other word for it—and somewhere outside, I heard a cracking sound. Like a gunshot, only deeper. More resonant.
Purrsephone yowled and bolted for the bedroom.
“Okay,” I said, my voice higher than I would have liked. “Okay, okay, that’s—”
CRACK.
This time it was louder. Closer. The sound of something massive giving way, followed by a groan that seemed to come from the cabin itself.
And then: a thud that shook the entire structure.
I stumbled backward, grabbing the armchair for support. The thud had come from above—from the roof—and the ceiling was making sounds that ceilings should absolutely not make.
“What the hell—”
I didn’t get to finish the sentence.
The wall exploded.
That was the only way to describe it. One second I was staring at the window, trying to make sense of the sounds coming from above, and the next, the entire front corner of the cabin was gone—replaced by a massive pine tree that had crashed through the wall and window like a battering ram, bringing half the roof down with it.
Glass shattered. Wood splintered. Snow and wind and freezing air rushed into the cabin.
“What the fuck?!”
The tree filled half the living room, its branches still shuddering from the impact, needles and bark and debris scattered everywhere. I could see the storm through the gaping hole where the wall used to be—could feel it, the wind and snow slicing into the cabin like knives.
Lightning flashed again, illuminating the destruction in stark white light, and thunder rolled across the mountains so loud it rattled what was left of the windows.
From somewhere in the back of the cabin, I heard Purrsephone wailing. A terrible, frightened sound that cut through the chaos and lodged itself directly in my chest.
“Purrsephone!” I coughed on dust and debris, trying to orient myself. The fire had died when part of the chimney collapsed, and now my only light was the intermittent flash of lightning and the faint glow of snow reflecting ambient light from somewhere. “Purrsephone, where are you?”
I stumbled toward the bedroom, my hands shaking, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. This couldn’t be happening. I’d kissed Farley Davenport less than three hours ago, been gently rejected in the most heartbreaking way possible, and now a tree had crashed through my cabin.
The universe had a sick sense of humor.
I found Purrsephone huddled under the bed, her eyes reflecting what little light there was like twin moons—one blue, one green, both absolutely terrified. She was pressed against the back wall, trembling.
“Hey,” I said, crouching down, trying to keep my voice steady. “Hey, sweet girl, it’s okay. I’ve got you. We’re going to be okay.”
I had no idea if we were going to be okay.
Half of my cabin was destroyed. I had no power, no heat, and a winter storm was howling through my living room.
My phone was still on the end table—assuming the end table still existed—and even if I could reach it, the reception up here was terrible on a good day.
Farley’s cabin.
The thought crystallized in my mind with sudden clarity. Farley’s cabin was maybe a hundred yards away. The idea of showing up at his door, desperate and disheveled, after he’d just asked to be friends—it should have been humiliating. But right now, pride seemed like a luxury I couldn’t afford.
“Stay here,” I told Purrsephone, and crawled back toward the living room to find my phone.
The tree had taken out the entire corner of the cabin, including the big picture window I’d been so charmed by when I arrived. The fire was completely out, and the temperature was dropping fast—I could already see my breath fogging in the air.
I picked my way through the debris, wincing as something sharp caught my palm. My phone was where I’d left it, miraculously intact. I grabbed it with shaking hands and pressed the home button.
No signal. “Fuck!”
I was trying to figure out how to get Purrsephone out from under the bed when I heard it.
A pounding. Not from the storm—from outside. From the direction of the gaping hole that was once my wall.
“Samuel!”
I spun around so fast I nearly fell.
There, silhouetted against the swirling white chaos of the storm, climbing over the debris like a man possessed, was Farley. He had a flashlight in one hand and an expression of absolute terror on his face.
“Samuel!” He was already stumbling through the wreckage, not waiting for an answer. “I heard the crash—I saw—are you hurt? Samuel!“
“I’m here,” I managed, my voice coming out weird and wobbly. “I’m—I’m okay, I think, I—”
And then Farley was in front of me, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes scanning my face with an intensity that made my breath catch.
This wasn’t the careful, guarded Farley who’d asked to be friends three hours ago.
This was someone raw, terrified, all his walls shattered as thoroughly as my cabin walls.
“You’re bleeding,” he said. “Your hand—”
I looked down. There was blood on my palm from whatever I’d cut it on, mixing with the snow that was already accumulating on my sweater.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “I’m fine. I’m—” My voice cracked. “Farley.”
Just his name. Just that. But it came out like something else entirely.
He pulled me into his arms.
It wasn’t romantic—it was desperate, urgent, the embrace of someone who had genuinely believed they might find a body in the wreckage. His arms wrapped around me tight enough to hurt, and I could feel him shaking, whether from cold or adrenaline or something else entirely.
“Oh my God, I thought—” He stopped, took a breath. “I saw the tree come down from my window. I saw it. And I just—”
“You came,” I said.
“Of course I came.” He pulled back just enough to look at me, and there was something raw in his expression, something unguarded that hadn’t been there even during our kiss. “Of course I came, Samuel. Did you think I wouldn’t?”
I didn’t know what to say. Three hours ago, he’d told me he needed time, that he couldn’t do this, that we should just be friends. And now he was standing in my destroyed cabin, holding me like I was the most precious thing in the world, looking at me like—
Like everything had changed.
Lightning flashed again, thunder rolled, and Purrsephone chose that moment to wail from the bedroom.
“The cat,” I said. “We have to—”
“I know. Come on.” Farley grabbed my hand—the non-bloody one—and didn’t let go. “Both of you are coming with me. Right now. Don’t argue.”
I didn’t argue.