Randall
I've been standing outside my own front door for four minutes trying to figure out how to walk back into my house.
I saw her dark hair plastered to her skull, standing in my kitchen like she owns the place, and I lost all coherent thought.
She looked so small next to the raised counters I custom ordered from Liam to suit my six-foot-five height. Soaking wet and shivering from the cold, she looked like someone I should be protecting. And I yelled at her.
I don't even know her name and I've already thought about her more in the last two minutes than I've thought about anything in the last two months.
That's the part that pisses me off.
I get my boots off outside, stomp the snow loose, and force myself back through the door with my thoughts arranged into a logical, rational response, which is get this woman off my mountain before I do something stupid.
She's still standing by the kitchen counter, some kind of medical kit spread out in front of her, staring at me like I'm the intruder in this scenario instead of the other way around.
"Who the fuck are you," I ask. "And why are you in my house?"
"I'm—” she pauses before holding up her phone like it's evidence, screen showing some booking confirmation I can't read from here. "This is my rental. I booked this place for three weeks. I have a confirmation number. I have a key."
"I didn’t rent this place out."
"Well, somebody did."
I already know exactly who did this before she finishes speaking. There's only one person on this entire mountain reckless enough to list my cabin without asking me, and she's got the same last name I do.
Aunt Betty.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I’ve got a sinking feeling I know who it is. I pull it out, and there it is, a text from my great-aunt, cheerful as hell.
Betty: Hope you don't mind, sweetheart! Nice young lady needed somewhere to stay and your cabin's just SITTING there empty most of the year. Be a gentleman and a good host!
I stare at the screen long enough that the woman in my kitchen actually leans forward to try and read it upside down.
"Everything okay?"
"No." I pocket the phone. "My aunt rented out my cabin without telling me."
"Oh." She blinks. "Oh, that's…okay, that actually explains a lot, honestly, because the listing photos didn't have any of your stuff in them, and I thought that was weird, but I figured maybe you'd just staged it really well, and—"
"You talk a lot."
"I'm stress-rambling." She crosses her arms, some of the panic in her face shifting to annoyance.
"Look, I don't care whose fault this is.
I drove four hours through a blizzard to get here.
I've got enough insulin to last me a few days, and I am not driving back down that mountain tonight to find a hotel.
So, unless you're planning on throwing me out into a storm that could kill me, we need to reach an agreement fast."
That stops me cold.
Insulin. I clock the kit on the counter properly now. The blood glucose meter, the vial and syringes, the little logbook she's already flipped open, and my chest feels tight.
"You're diabetic."
"Type one. Ten years running, and yes, I already know I screwed up trusting an airline with my backup supply, so you can save the lecture."
I wasn't going to lecture her. I was already three steps ahead of that, doing the math on how bad the roads are getting. I’m remembering how long this storm system's supposed to sit over the ridge according to the forecast I checked this morning.
Three days, minimum, before the roads clear enough to get anyone down safely. Longer if the snow doesn't let up.
"Storm's not moving through tonight," I say, mostly to myself. "Or tomorrow. National Weather Service is calling it a once-in-a-decade system. Roads are already closed further down the mountain."
Her face goes a shade paler.
"How long?"
"Three days if we're lucky. Longer if we're not."
I watch her jaw tighten as she runs the numbers on her supply of insulin against a storm with no guaranteed end date. The way she doesn't fall apart, just squares her shoulders and starts working the problem instead, digs into me.
I don't do this. I don't let people into my space, don't let them see the parts of my life I've spent two years carefully kept mine.
I've got exactly one relationship with anybody on this mountain that doesn't involve me being polite for thirty seconds and then leaving, and that's with Betty and her sister, Barb, and even that comes with limits.
But I'm not sending a woman with a limited insulin supply out into a blizzard because I don't like surprises.
"You're not going anywhere tonight," I say.
"I wasn't planning on it."
"You're staying here until that storm breaks."
She looks around at my space, quiet and orderly and exactly the way I like it, and then back at me, something mischievous in her gaze that I don't trust for a second.
"Just so we're clear," she says, "I'm not thrilled about this either."
She sticks her hand out anyway, like this is a business transaction instead of a hostage situation neither of us signed up for.
"Kori."
I look at her hand for a second too long before I take it, and the second our palms touch something settles low and unwelcome in my chest, a warning I steadfastly dismiss.
"Randall."
"Well, Randall." She pulls her hand back first, already turning to survey my kitchen like she's taking inventory. "Looks like we're stuck with each other."
I already know I'm in trouble.