Chapter 2
Pike
The storm hits harder than I expected. Wind shakes the cabin walls and the sky outside has gone gray and heavy, the kind of weather that can bury the mountain in a few hours. I'm already irritated that she showed up on my doorstep, and the blizzard makes the situation worse.
Emory stands just inside the door, brushing the snow out of her hair. Flakes cling to her eyelashes, melting slowly. Her cheeks are pink from the cold. She’s beautiful.
I latch the door and take a step back. "We're officially snowed in. You’re not going anywhere for a while.”
My words sound menacing, but if she’s frightened, she doesn’t show it.
She takes in the space slowly, eyes trailing over the small room, the stone fireplace crackling with fresh logs, the shelves of half-finished ornaments, and the faint glow spilling in from my workshop.
The place isn't fancy, but it's warm and solid, and it will provide all the shelter we need from the storm.
Her coat is soaked through. Her boots aren't much better.
I clear my throat and nod toward her. "Take your coat off. Hang it by the fire before you get sick."
She hesitates for half a second, then slips it off and drapes it over the wooden rack.
Water drips onto the stone hearth with quiet hisses.
Underneath she's wearing a soft white sweater that clings to her curves in a way I try not to stare at.
She accepts a wool blanket from me, and when her fingers brush mine, the brief contact sizzles hotter than a furnace blast.
She settles on the edge of the couch, still wrapped in the blanket, looking around the cabin with bright, curious eyes. I can feel her trying to piece me together like she's already working on her article about me.
I don't appreciate it.
"What exactly were you thinking," I ask, "hiking up here with a storm rolling in?"
"I didn't plan on the storm hitting so fast. I was trying to find your workshop, and once I saw the light through the trees, I followed it." She offers a small, sheepish smile. "It felt like the right direction."
"Didn’t anyone ever teach you that you shouldn't go looking for strangers in the woods?"
She lifts an eyebrow. "Are you dangerous?" Without waiting for an answer, her gaze drifts toward the workshop again. "Your ornaments are beautiful. The way the colors swirl and merge… it’s amazing.”
Compliments always make me uneasy. Attention makes it worse. I try to shrug this off too. "They're just ornaments."
"They're art," she says, her voice warming. "Why keep your identity hidden? Why not claim your work?"
Because the attention nearly drowned me the last time I tried. Because people started demanding more than I could give. Because solitude has always been easier than being crowded by expectations.
I have no desire to help her write her story, so I say, "People don't have to know my name to enjoy what I make."
Her expression softens, and for some reason that annoys me more than anything else.
She shivers again, and I hear the edge in her breath. The fire is warm, but it'll take time for her to thaw. I head to the kitchen alcove. "Do you want coffee, tea, or cocoa?"
"Cocoa," she says immediately.
Of course, she does.
I heat the milk in a small copper pot, watching it steam, then mix in cocoa powder and a touch of vanilla. The scent fills the cabin, rich and sweet. When I hand her the mug, she takes it with both hands and lets the steam warm her face. Something loosens in my chest when she whispers her thanks.
I sit across from her, arms folded, pretending not to pay attention even though I'm studying every movement she makes.
"So you really won't do an interview?" she asks.
"No."
"A short one?"
"No."
"Just a paragraph?"
"No."
She laughs softly, the sound unexpected and warm. "You're not very cooperative."
I raise an eyebrow. “To reporters? No."
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Why does everyone in town protect your identity?"
"Maybe they’re on my payroll." I lean back. "Or maybe they also don’t like strangers showing up uninvited."
She winces. "Okay, fair enough. But I'm not here for nefarious reasons. I’m not going to out your location or anything. I'm just here for the truth."
"No, you aren't," I say quietly.
Her brows pull together. "What does that mean?"
“The truth doesn’t make for a good story. I live here because the quiet makes sense to me. That's it."
"I don't think that's all of it."
The furnace hums steadily in the background, a low rumble that vibrates through the walls. Snow pelts the roof in soft, insistent waves. She watches me like she wants to fit the pieces together.
I should never have let her inside.
Another blast of wind hits the cabin, and the windows shudder in their frames. She glances toward the noise, anxiety flickering across her face.
"The road's already covered," I say. "You'll have to stay here tonight."
She nods, looking relieved and grateful.
I grunt and tend the fire, adding another log, pretending this is an inconvenience and not something that has already begun to settle under my skin.
Because the truth is the moment I saw her standing outside, something in me shifted. There’s something about her… I feel connected to her somehow, like an invisible thread is tying me to her.
But she’s a stranger—a reporter, no less—and I can’t trust her.
I need to remember that.