Chapter 2
Penny
I’ve just walked for what feels like an eternity, the bitter cold seeping into my bones, telling me I am foolish, telling me I am going to freeze to death out here.
My car, my sweet, reliable, artistic chariot...
It's now an abandoned heap in a snowdrift a mile back, the victim of black ice and a storm that has literally materialized out of nowhere.
But then... oh thank goodness... I saw his cabin.
Edward Rogers. The mountain man. The recluse. The guy my parents constantly warned me about when I was little. The man whose piercing blue eyes have haunted my fleeting childhood memories.
He is also, at this very moment, my only chance at survival.
A wave of warm air, smelling faintly of woodsmoke and a clean, masculine scent that does funny things to my body, washes over me.
I practically fall through the doorway, my legs feeling like lead after the hike up here in the deepening snow.
The sheer relief is so overwhelming it makes my knees buckle. Just as they threaten to give out completely, a strong hand, surprisingly gentle despite its calloused roughness, grips my arm and steadies me.
"Whoa there... Take it easy."
It is a fleeting touch, but it sends a jolt of something electric through me.
I stumble further inside the rustic cabin, shrugging off the heavy, dripping raincoat that feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.
My teeth are still chattering, my body convulsing with shivers, but the immediate threat of freezing to death has receded.
Edward closes the heavy door, instantly cutting off the furious roar of the wind.
The silence that follows is thick and awkward, punctuated only by my own ragged breathing and the faint drip of water from my soaked clothes onto his roughly hewed wooden floor that looks somewhat unfinished.
I risk a glance at the giant man staring down at me.
He is still holding the rifle, his jaw still clenched, his blue eyes still wary. He looks furious, annoyed, and utterly unapproachable.
Maybe my parents were on to something after all.
But he’s let me in. He hasn’t left me outside for the storm to take me like it has so many others on this mountain.
That has to mean… something, right?
My gaze sweeps around the cabin, taking in the rustic, almost spartan interior. Everything looks... hand-built. Every piece of wood, every stone in the fireplace that roaring with flames in one corner.
It's dark, a little dusty, and feels heavy with unspoken stories.
My artistic eye immediately begins to categorize, to interpret all of it.
This isn’t just a cabin; it is a fortress, a carefully constructed shell around a wounded soul.
A tiny, hopeful spark ignites within me.
My parents have told me to find myself, to find clarity for my art. To 'do something with my life', as they put it.
Well, here I am.
This man, this gruff, rifle-wielding recluse with a scowl so deep his granite features make it seem like he's been carved by the mountain winds themselves.
Yet beneath that imposing exterior, I sense something else. Like untouched marble waiting for a sculptor's touch. An artists touch. My touch.
Edward is the blank canvas I didn't even known I was looking for.
He is a mystery, a challenge, a vibrant, if dark, inspiration.
“So… Edward. Cozy place you’ve got here.” My voice is annoyingly cheerful even to my own ears.
“Cozy,” he grunts, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sends a surprising shiver down my spine. “It’s functional.”
He finally puts the rifle down, leaning it against the stone of the fireplace. His blue eyes fix on me, making me feel like a particularly perplexing bug under a microscope.
I peel off my ridiculous purple raincoat, the wet fabric squelching as it hits the floor.
Another mistake, apparently, because his heavy gaze darts to the puddle forming around the mess.
I offer a sheepish smile. “Right. Functional. And… rustic. Definitely rustic. Love the exposed beams. Very… mountain aesthetic.”
He just stares. No inflection, no smile, just that potent, uncomfortable stare.
Okay, so small talk isn't exactly his love language.
My perpetually sunny disposition, usually a superpower in awkward social situations, is apparently no match for Edward Rogers, the man of few words and much brooding.
“You’re dripping on my floor,” he finally says, his voice devoid of emotion.
“Right! Sorry. Habit,” I babble, bending to pick up the offending garment. “It was quite a trek up here. And my car… well, it’s not exactly in one piece anymore. Black ice, you know? Just jumped out of nowhere. Poof! Right off the side of the road. I swear, the mountain just swallowed it whole.”
I manage a small, unconvincing laugh. He does not join in.
I drape the raincoat over an empty chair, hoping the warmth from the roaring fire will dry it out before it becomes a permanent fixture.
I notice the cabin is sparsely furnished, but it's also impeccably clean.
Everything has its place, a rigid order that screams of a man who craves control.
My gaze lands on a small, battered wooden box on a nearby shelf. My constant companion, curiosity, pings inside my head.
Edward catches my eye, and I quickly avert my gaze, feeling guilty for my mental trespassing.
“You’re Penny Kaye, right?” His question is less a question and more a statement, his tone flat. “Penny Kaye as in Judy Kaye's daughter?”
“That’s me!” I beam, trying to infuse some much-needed warmth into the air between us. “And you’re Edward. Though I think everyone just calls you Eddie. Or maybe the Edward. Or that grumpy recluse?”
I immediately slap a mental hand over my mouth.
Too much, Penny. Waaaay too much.
His left eyebrow twitches, almost imperceptibly. “Just Edward is fine.”
“Right. Edward. Good. Simple. To the point.” I nod, probably too vigorously.
I need to take a breath. Calm down. This isn't some awkward first date. This is a survival situation.
Kind of feels like a first date, though.
“What were you doing up here anyway, Penny Kaye?” His voice is laced with suspicion. “No one comes up this far, especially not in a storm like this. You’re lucky to be alive.”
I shiver again, recalling the terrifying slides and the deafening roar of the wind.
“I… I was looking for inspiration,” I admit, then immediately cringe at how trite it sounds. “For my art. You know, to get the creative juices flowing."
I stare at him for a moment, expecting a conversation of sorts, but he doesn't say anything. Not a word.
So I continue, anyway.
"My parents think I need to ‘find myself’ or ‘do something productive’ with my life. So, I figured… I live in the wilderness. The raw, untamed beauty of it all… maybe that might spark something. And then…” I gesture vaguely out the window, where swirling white is now all that’s visible. "The storm rudely interrupted."
He scoffs. “Inspiration. Right.”
His gaze rakes over me, taking in my curvy frame, my perhaps overly optimistic bright yellow sweater, the colorful scarf still tied around my neck.
He probably sees a fluffy bunny trying to survive in a wolf den. But I think the scarf is cute.
“It’s true!” I insist. “I’m an artist. I’m starting my own studio down in Scottsdale, but if I'm going to make this work, I need… a vision. Something profound. Something that really speaks to the soul.”
My words hang in the air, sounding incredibly silly in this masculine and way too functional looking cabin.
He turns away, dismissing me. “You’ll find profound in a snowdrift if you keep wandering these mountains.”
He moves to the fireplace, adding another log. The flames leap higher, making shadows dance across his rugged features.
It's then I notice the strong line of his jaw, the subtle scar near his temple.
God, he’s objectively gorgeous, even with that perpetual scowl. Like a grumpy lumberjack supermodel.
He continues poking the fire, and I notice how his jeans pull tight across his backside. I feel heat rise to my cheeks, and it has nothing to do with the new roaring flames making the cabin brighter.
Those strong, capable hands that rescued me... I wonder how they'd feel against my skin?
“So,” I persist, refusing to be deterred. “What do you do up here, Edward? Other than… glare at unexpected visitors?” I try for playful, but it probably comes out as desperate.
He stops, one hand on another log.
He slowly turns his head, and I brace for another scathing remark. Instead, he just says, “I exist.”
My mouth opens, then closes.
That’s… succinct. And also, deeply sad.
A pang of empathy stirs in my chest, a feeling unfamiliar in the face of such raw, unvarnished despair.
“Well,” I say, trying to pivot. “Existing is… important. A good baseline. But maybe we can elevate it? For the next few days, at least.” I glance pointedly at the window. “Looks like we’re going to be co-existing for a while.”
He sighs as he stands, and finally walks over to a worn leather armchair, sinking into it. His posture is rigid, but there’s a subtle slumping in his shoulders that betrays his inner battle.
He looks utterly exhausted.
“Look, Penny,” he begins, his voice softer now, though still gruff and kind of sexy in that way-too-old for me kind of way. “I’m not… hospitable. This isn’t a bed and breakfast. You’re here because you’d freeze to death out there, and my… better judgment has clearly abandoned me.”
“Your better judgment is commendable,” I reply instantly, a genuine warmth in my tone. “And thank you, Edward. Really. You saved me.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. “Don’t thank me. Just… try to be quiet. And don’t touch anything.”
My mouth snaps shut. Don’t touch anything. Right.
As an artist whose primary mode of exploration is tactile, this is going to be incredibly difficult.
Because everything in this rustic, charming cabin calls to me.
The smooth, aged wood of the table, the rough texture of the stone fireplace, the mystery of the box on the shelf.
My fingers practically tingle with the desire to… engage.