CHAPTER FOUR – ARRIVAL AT THE CABIN #2
I follow, feeling the heat in my face and chest, trying not to trip on my own shoes. If this is a dream, it’s the kind where you know you’re out of your league, but you’re too hungry for it to wake up.
The sound of the axe still echoes in my bones. The forest is silent again, but I can’t shake the feeling that somehow I just landed in hot water … with my sexy boss about to join me.
Mr. McKnight holds the door for me, and I catch a flash of his bare forearm before I register what’s happening.
The hairs stand up on my nape—this is not the way you meet a celebrity, or even a boss.
This is the way you meet the very specific man your mother warned you about, the kind who will ruin you for everyone else, then walk away with zero emotional hangover.
I step into the cabin’s entryway and immediately lose my balance—not from the threshold, but from the assault of woodsmoke, lemon cleaner, and hot, living body.
There’s a fire burning somewhere, its heat suffusing the place in a slow, even glow.
The floor is a herringbone of old pine, so clean I could eat off it.
On the walls, there are framed first editions, each with a custom nameplate: Hemingway, Chandler, Highsmith, LeGuin.
The air in here is alive, vibrating with the words of people who made a living off their obsessions.
I suppose it makes sense, seeing that my new employer also makes an excellent living writing novels.
He gestures to a bench where I can leave my suitcase, then disappears into the kitchen without another word. I stand in the entry, suddenly aware of how sweaty my own hands are, and try to recall the last time I ate anything that wasn’t sugar and caffeine.
In the next room, I hear the thud of a fridge, then the clink of a mug on granite.
A moment later, Mr. McKnight returns, shirtless, wiping his hands on a towel.
My eyes can’t help themselves—they track the deep V of his torso, the way his jeans ride low enough to show the shadow of his abs and the dark line of hair running beneath the waistband.
There’s a splay of old scars on his ribs, jagged and pale against the tan.
His right bicep is inked with a sleeve of black and blue, an intricate tangle of birds and barbed wire.
I want to touch it. I want to lick it, and immediately catch myself.
You can’t be having these thoughts about your new boss, the voice in my head screams. He’s not paying you money to ogle him.
Yet why did Mr. McKnight take off his shirt then? I still don’t get it but put it out of my head because I need to keep my wits about me at the moment.
He hands me a mug. “I didn’t know if you wanted cream or not.”
“Black is perfect,” I manage, and clutch the mug with both hands, hoping it will keep them from shaking.
He leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, and just stares. Not rude, not even curious—just watching, like he’s waiting for me to crack first. The silence stretches, thick and pulsing.
“So, you’re the writer,” I blurt, voice a wreck. “I mean, the writer I’m supposed to assist.”
He smirks. “Unless there’s another writer with my name scribbling in the woods, yeah. That’s me.”
I laugh, because the alternative is to faint. “I read, like, all your books in high school. My friends and I used to sneak them into AP Lit class and trade them when the teacher wasn’t looking.”
He raises an eyebrow, maybe amused. “You like murder mysteries?”
“Mostly I like stories where women don’t get fridged in the first five pages.” The words just tumble out; it’s my default defense when I’m nervous. I regret it instantly, but he just nods, like I’ve passed some kind of test.
“Good. Maybe you’ll last.”
He uncrosses his arms and reaches for a rag to wipe the sweat from his neck. The motion is casual, but every line of muscle in his body shouts intention. I try not to stare at his chest, at the freckles and scars, but my eyes are traitors.
He sees. Of course he sees.
“So, Kat—” and he says my name slow, like he’s testing it for weight “—do you know what your job is here?”
I nod, smiling weakly. “Yes. Camille said it’s, uh, general assistant work. Scheduling, prepping meals, maybe some light cleaning. And proofreading, if you want. I’m good with edits.” I try to sound competent, like I have skills that could possibly matter to someone with his resume.
He moves closer. Not in a threatening way, but in the way of someone who has never once in his life been told “personal space.” I’m relatively short, but he towers over me.
“Good,” he says in a mild voice. “I like a go-getter. A girl who knows her letters.”
I smile weakly.
“Yes, I try. I’m a creative writing major at Century College in the city. Well, trying to major in it. I’m taking some time off from school at the moment.”
He nods.
“To work?”
“Yeah, I figured I could use a break,” I say, fibbing a bit. “This looked like a good opportunity.”
“That’s all well and good, and I’m glad to hear it. I think this could work out for both of us. But before we get started, I have a few rules,” he says, suddenly brisk. “Is that okay with you?”
“Sure,” I babble. “Your house, your rules, Mr. McKnight.”
His blue eyes flare a bit as he nods.
“Great. First rule: Don’t go into my office unless invited. Second: If you see me outside before sunrise, ignore me. Third: Don’t bring anyone here. Not even the agency.”
I nod, dizzy from the force of his attention.
“Fourth,” he says, “if you want to leave, you can. But you have to tell me first.”
It sounds like a threat, but I can’t tell if he means it. “Okay,” I say.
He finally pulls back, folding his arms and leaning on the kitchen island. “Questions?”
I want to ask about the scars, the tattoos, the reason someone like him needs to hire a broke college kid to make his lunch.
But all I can think about is the way his body looked in motion: that tanned, bronzed skin, the rope of his arm, the hitch of his breath as he swung the axe.
I think about the bulge I absolutely saw in his jeans, and the image makes my knees weak.
I clear my throat. “So, uh, do you want me to start now? Or…”
He lifts his chin, eyes all over me, and grins with an edge that could cut glass. “I want you to settle in first. Kitchen’s stocked. Your room’s at the top of the stairs. You get the west wing in my castle.”
I almost laugh at the phrase “west wing,” but muffle my giggle.
“I’ll be outside for a while,” he says, and grabs a flannel from the coat rack, slipping it over his glistening chest. “Let me know if you need anything.” The shirt does nothing to hide the mass of him. If anything, it makes it worse. He’s too big for it, the fabric stretching at the buttons.
“Sure,” I murmur. “Take your time, Mr. McKnight.”
He leaves, and I exhale so hard I get lightheaded. I sag against the counter, coffee forgotten.
My entire body is humming, my heart in my mouth. I’m not sure if I want to scream, or yell, or just follow him back outside and beg him to throw me onto the couch and ravish me.
Instead, I tiptoe upstairs, dragging my bag, and find my room. It’s enormous, with a real bed and a desk and a view of the entire clearing. There’s even a bathroom, with a tub long enough for two.
I collapse on the mattress and stare at the ceiling, breath coming fast and hot. I text Simone (“My boss is not a serial killer, but I might let him take me any way he wants”) and then throw the phone on the pillow, no longer caring about the lack of signal.
All I can see is the way he looked at me, the way he made me feel. Like I was interesting. Attractive, even. Like I was a character in one of his books, only even better.
I close my eyes and feel the pulse between my legs, the throb of want that refuses to go away.
God help me, I want my new boss. Even if it means losing my job, my dignity, my mind.
Especially if it means that.
I wake up tangled in the softest sheets I’ve ever touched, the kind that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Then I sit bolt upright. Oh shit, what time is it? Did I fall asleep before dinner? I must have been more tired than I realized.
Sure enough, the clock on the nightstand says it’s 5:52 a.m. I’ve been sleeping for twelve hours straight! Oh shit, oh shit! I grab my phone but of course, there’s no service. I try to call Simone, fingers numb with hope, but nothing’s changed.
Downstairs, the house is silent except for the deep, steady ticking of an old-school grandfather clock.
I pad down the stairs, half-expecting Talon to be waiting in the kitchen, flexing his way through a hundred push-ups while reciting the opening lines of his next book. Instead, the place is empty and serene.
The kitchen is ridiculous: professional range, double fridge, walk-in pantry, butcher-block counters wiped down to surgical perfection.
There’s even a coffee station, with beans from three continents and an espresso machine so fancy it could probably diagnose me with anxiety.
On the butcher block, there’s a note in big, sharp block letters.
KAT— HELP YOURSELF TO ANYTHING. COFFEE’S BEST FRESH-GROUND. ~T
I make myself a cup, then wander through the house, mug clutched to my chest like a relic.
The main room is built around a massive stone fireplace, its hearth wide enough to sit in.
The ceiling soars overhead, rafters exposed and honey-colored.
There are deep leather chairs, sheepskin throws, a table stacked with battered books and yellow legal pads covered in a madman’s handwriting.
Above the mantle, there’s a black-and-white photo of a wolf, teeth bared, eyes knowing.