Chapter 2
Not Another One!
Grayson
I'm standing in the bathroom, towel in hand, about to wrap it around my waist when the door slams open.
I freeze—dripping wet, half-covered—staring at the woman who just barged in.
She gasps. Her jaw drops. Her eyes go wide. She makes a sound like a strangled cat.
I raise an eyebrow. "You knock before entering, city girl."
She slams the door so hard the frame rattles.
I stand there, staring at the closed door.
My peace is officially over.
I dry off fast, fury building with every movement. Who is she? How did she get into my cabin?
I pull on jeans and a shirt, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
Maxwell. It has to be Maxwell.
He's done this before—sent people up here. Girls from the bar. Colleagues. Always some excuse about team building or reflection time or whatever corporate therapy he's peddling.
It never works. They never last long. They leave within days. They always leave miserable.
And I always end up more determined to stay away from Evervolt and everything it stands for.
I storm downstairs, ready for answers, and stop dead in the living room.
A glitter-covered tote bag slouches on my couch like it owns the place.
Glitter pens and pastel notepads are spilled across the coffee table.
A loud pink hat with sequins and feathers sits on the armchair.
A neon-pink suitcase covered in graffiti art and smiley-face stickers leans against the wall.
A half-empty tube of strawberry lip gloss sits on top of a manila folder.
"This is an invasion," I mutter.
I head outside, jaw tight.
She's standing by a car, arms crossed, half-whining about the cabin having no snacks, no rugs, and no working lightbulbs.
Then I see him.
Maxwell Jameson, grinning like he just won the lottery. "There he is!" He spreads his arms wide. "The man, the myth, the mountain hermit!"
I open my mouth.
He cuts me off, slapping my back hard enough to make me stumble. "Thanks for being so flexible. You're such a good friend."
"Maxwell—"
"This is Kate Morgan!" He gestures to her like he's presenting a prize. "Sunshine in human form. Organizational genius. Walking PR miracle. You're gonna love her."
Kate waves, all smiles and fake innocence. "Hi again."
Like she didn't just see me half-naked five minutes ago.
I stare at her. Deadpan. Unimpressed.
Maxwell launches into his explanation without waiting for me to speak.
Kate is staying for a couple of months. She'll be organizing files and visiting clients around town for Evervolt's solar home projects. It's a chance for her to focus and reflect.
In short: punishment for whatever disaster she caused back at the office.
I pull Maxwell aside, away from Kate, who leans against the car and calmly starts filing her bright red nails. "What the hell are you doing?" I keep my voice low. "Again?"
"What do you mean, 'again'?"
"You've done this before. Sent people here. Hoping I'd bond. Reflect. Whatever." I cross my arms. "It never works."
"This isn't that—"
"They always leave miserable. And I end up dragged back into your company games."
Maxwell's expression shifts. More serious. "This isn't about you, Gray. She's not here for you. She's here to fix what she broke. This is a consequence, not a setup."
"She's from your office. That makes her your problem."
"She's doing well at work—this is just course correction. She's impulsive, smart, but reckless. I had to show I'm still the boss." He lowers his voice. "This will help her learn."
I study his face. He's not lying. But he's not telling me everything, either.
"Fine." I exhale through my nose. "But she stays out of my way."
"Deal."
"No unnecessary talking."
"Understood."
"No glitter explosions in the living room."
Maxwell smirks. "I'll mention it."
"And if she messes with my routine, she's out. No warning. No explanation."
"Agreed."
He walks back to Kate. I watch from a distance as they talk quietly by the car. I can't make out the words.
But she suddenly lights up. Grins. Gives Maxwell a playful salute.
Practically glowing with optimism.
I narrow my eyes.
What the hell did he say to her?
It's definitely not the same version of the talk I just had.
Maxwell drives off with one last wink at Kate and a warning glance at me. The sound of his engine fades into the trees.
Just the two of us now.
Kate and I lock eyes outside the cabin. Neither of us speaks.
I turn and walk inside. No greeting. No conversation.
She follows, swinging her glittery gold clutch with exaggerated optimism.
Inside, she tries to haul her oversized pink suitcase up the stairs. It tilts dangerously. She turns to me with hopeful eyes—silent, smiling—clearly asking for help.
I look at her.
Then walk to the kitchen without a word.
I grab a protein bar from the near-empty fridge, make coffee in silence. She doesn't make a scene. Just turns and drags that ridiculous suitcase up the stairs one step at a time.
I ignore the twinge of guilt.
This is my space. My peace. I'm not letting some city girl with glitter pens disrupt it.
I sit at the kitchen counter, drinking my coffee, trying to pretend everything is normal.
But upstairs, I can hear her moving around. Opening drawers. Unpacking. Humming some pop song I half-recognize.
Making herself at home.
In my home.
I grip my mug tighter.
I need air.
I finish my coffee, grab my flannel from the hook by the door, and head out to the woodshed.
Chopping wood is the one thing that clears my head. Always has. The rhythm of it. The weight of the axe. The clean split of grain.
No noise. No glitter. No strangled-cat sounds.
Just me, the cold air, and the trees.
I lose track of time out there. But, that's the point.
—
By the time I walk back inside, the light has changed. Late afternoon bleeding toward evening.
And something else has changed too.
The smell hits me at the door.
Warm. Sweet. Chocolate and butter curling through the cabin like it belongs there.
I stop in the doorway.
She's at the stove, humming softly, elbows-deep in sudsy water washing mixing bowls.
She glances over her shoulder. "I'll let you know when the cookies are ready. I even made sure none of them sparkle."
I don't respond.
I step inside, hang my flannel by the door, and walk to the kitchen. I fill a glass with water from the tap.
My eyes land on the bright sticky notes she's plastered all over the fridge doors. Without a word, I pull them down one by one and place them silently on the counter beside her.
"I'm very proud of those, you know," she says, completely unbothered. "Color-coded by vibe. It's a system."
She keeps talking. Recipes. Her favorite baking shows. How she once used salt instead of sugar and her coworker bit into a cookie and looked like she'd been poisoned.
I say nothing.
It's like talking to a tree—but she refuses to stop.
As she wipes the counter, I reach for the napkin holder at the same time.
Our hands touch. Just fingertips.
A spark. Small. Strange. A tingling that runs up through my fingers before I can stop it.
I freeze.
She pulls her hand back fast, eyes wide.
Neither of us moves.
"Static," she says, laughing nervously. "Must be the dry air."
I nod. Say nothing. And walk away.
But my hand still tingles where her skin touched mine.
I don't like it.
Not one bit.
An hour later, I head upstairs to grab something from my room.
That's when I see what she's done to the bathroom.
A color-coded schedule taped to the mirror—complete with glitter-pen stars. Her makeup kit spread across the shelf next to my shaving cream. Bright blue facial mask packets. A rhinestone-covered hot pink toothbrush standing in the cup next to my plain black one.
And a sticky note that reads: SMILE. YOU CAN brIGHTEN UP SOMEONE'S LIFE.
I rip the schedule off the mirror, crumple it, and toss it in the trash.
"What grown woman uses glitter pens," I mutter.
I head back to my room and sit on the edge of my bed in the dark.
Upstairs, I can hear her moving around. Humming again. That same pop song.
This is going to be a long couple of months.