Chapter 7 #2
Wind gusts around us, sending snow swirling into miniature tornadoes. I pull my knit hat down over my ears, suddenly aware of how isolated we are up here. The nearest neighbor is two miles down the mountain, and the road is already getting slick.
I should have just waited it out.
"Look," I say, lifting my chin to meet his stare. "Whether or not my truck starts, we're both probably stuck here until this storm passes. We can either spend it fighting about romance tropes, or we can call it research and see what happens."
Mac studies my face for a long moment. Snow catches in his eyelashes, and I have the absurd urge to brush it away. "Research..." He mutters doubtfully.
"Exactly. Scientific method. We'll consider this our date, just like we planned to do. It'll just be a little more authentic than we intended. If forced proximity doesn't create any kind of connection between two people, then you win this round."
"And if it does?"
My heart hammers against my ribs. "Then maybe romance novels are onto something."
“Doesn't that sound fun?” He hums sarcastically, but I can still see the ghost of a smile.
Another gust of wind sends snow spiraling around us, and Mac glances up at the darkening sky. "We should get this stuff inside before we both freeze to death. Can't test your hypothesis if we're popsicles."
He hefts two bags of supplies that took me separate trips to load and heads toward the cabin. I grab the remaining groceries and follow, trying not to notice how his jeans hug his thighs or how his shoulders strain against his sweater when he lifts heavy things.
Research. This is just research so I can help revive my town.
The cabin is exactly how I remember it—rustic but comfortable, with exposed wood beams and a massive stone fireplace that dominates the main room.
What I didn't expect are the added personal touches scattered throughout.
A photo of his family on the coffee table.
A Boston University mug on the kitchen counter.
A bright red Howlers throw pillow that's completely at odds with the furniture but somehow makes the whole space feel warmer.
Mac notices me looking, and his jaw tightens. "Just a few artifacts from home."
"I'm not judging." I set grocery bags on the kitchen counter, hyperaware of Mac moving around behind me. "It feels more like a home than a rental."
"Yeah, well." His voice goes flat. "Not much anymore."
I want to say something comforting, something that might ease the pain that radiates from him like heat from a furnace. But Mac's already moving toward the fireplace, crouching to add more logs to the flames that are crackling cheerfully in the grate.
Snow pelts against the windows now, hard enough that I can hear it over the fire's snap and hiss. I check my phone—no signal, which isn't surprising this far up the ridge.
"How's the cell service been up here?" I ask.
"Spotty on good days. Nonexistent when the wind picks up." Mac straightens, brushing bark dust off his hands. "Looks like you're getting the full forced proximity experience, whether you planned it or not."
I try not to grimace. This town is taking it too far with their bets. "Lucky me."
"That's one way to put it."
We stand there for a moment, the weight of being truly alone together settling between us like another presence in the room. Outside, the wind howls through the trees with increasing intensity.
"So," Mac says finally, settling onto the couch with studied casualness. "How does this work exactly? Do we just sit here and wait for magical romance feelings to develop, or is there some kind of process?"
I can't tell if he's mocking me or genuinely curious. With Mac, the line between the two is always razor-thin.
Instead of getting caught up, I force myself to focus on the facts.
"Well, typically forced proximity involves sharing resources, working together for survival, and having deep conversations that reveal hidden vulnerabilities.
" I sit on the opposite end of the couch, tucking my legs under me.
"But I suppose we could just glare at each other for twelve hours if you prefer. "
"Tempting." His mouth quirks up at one corner. "But probably not great data for your research."
"Probably not."
Mac reaches for one of the books displayed on the table, flipping through pages of black and white landscapes.
His fingers are gentle with the pages, reverent.
"I found this at the inn before I left. She took these the last summer we were here.
Kept saying she wanted to capture how the light looked different in Millbrook Falls.
Mrs. Chen said she mailed it to her a couple months later as a gift. "
I lean forward slightly, catching glimpses of the photos as I realize what he's saying.
These are Lily's photos. They're beautiful, soft focus shots of covered bridges and misty meadows that make the town look like something from a fairy tale. She hasn’t picked up a camera in years.
Not since she met her fiancé. "She had a real eye for it. "
"She had a real eye for a lot of things." Mac's voice goes rough around the edges. "Always saw beauty where other people just saw ordinary stuff."
"Like what?"
He turns a page, revealing a photo of the bookshop bathed in golden afternoon light. In the corner of the frame, a younger version of me is visible through the window, reaching for a book on a high shelf.
"Like you," Mac says quietly, then seems to realize what he's said. His shoulders tense, and he snaps the book shut. "I mean, she always thought you were nice."
My cheeks warm, and I'm grateful for the fire's glow to hide my blush. "She was a great friend until the end. From the first day she came here, she was kind to me. Most of the vacation kids ignored the locals."
His gaze lazily shifts up to meet mine. "You were hardly ignorable."
The words hang in the air between us, loaded with implication that neither of us is ready to address. Snow continues its assault on the windows, and the lights flicker once, twice, then steady.
"We should probably get the generator prepped," Mac says, standing abruptly. "In case this thing lasts longer than expected."
"Good thinking." I busy myself unpacking groceries, hyperaware of Mac moving around the small kitchen. "I brought soup. And hot chocolate mix. Very practical storm foods."
"Of course you did."
I tilt my head at his tone. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Mac pauses in his inspection of the firewood supply. "Nothing. Just... you really commit to the bit, don't you?"
"This isn't a bit." The words come out sharper than I intended. "I mean, yes, it's part of the bet. Well, it's turned into part of the bet, especially thanks to Chet," I ramble on, shaking my head. “But I'm not performing for you, Mac. This is just who I am."
He turns to face me fully, something shifting in his expression. "Someone who drives up a mountain in a snowstorm to take care of people?"
"Someone who believes in taking care of each other,” I correct sternly. “It's what communities do. It's why I want to save this one."
"Right. Communities." Mac's tone is unreadable. "I forgot you still believe in those, too."
The lights flicker again, this time staying off for several seconds before coming back on. We both freeze, listening to the wind howl around the cabin with increasing fury.
"Okay," I say, forcing lightness into my voice. "Maybe we should talk about backup plans."
Mac's laugh is sharp and humorless. "Story of my life lately. Nothing but backup plans."
Something in his voice makes my chest ache. I stop unpacking groceries and really look at him – the tense set of his shoulders, the exhaustion etched around his eyes, the way he holds his left arm just slightly closer to his body.
"Mac–"
The lights go out.
Complete, absolute darkness swallows the cabin. The only sound is the fire crackling in the hearth and Mac's quiet curse from somewhere near the kitchen counter.
"Well," I say into the darkness, proud that my voice sounds steadier than I feel. "I guess we're about to find out if forced proximity actually works."
Mac's laugh is rough but genuine this time. "Yeah. I guess we are."