Chapter 2
TWO
LIZ
The first thing I notice is the snoring.
A deep, rumbling that vibrates through the cabin’s floorboards and sounds like someone trying to chainsaw their way through a Christmas tree.
The second thing I notice is that it’s not mine.
I pause halfway down the hall on my way to get a cup of coffee, and listen. The storm that rolled in overnight has covered everything outside the window in white.
It’s a sparkly, shimmery blanket that makes you want to burst into Christmas carols and curl up next to a roaring fireplace with a cup of coffee. Preferably with a flannel-wearing hunk with a beard and a Christmas tree farm.
There’s another loud snort, drawing me back toward the living room. I tiptoe down the hall, tightening the grip on my phone. Ready to call the police if necessary.
Oh, God. We’re in the middle of nowhere. It could take someone forever to get here. I look around and lock eyes on a ski pole, and pick it up to arm myself.
Stevie swore no one would be here until tomorrow. She’d asked me to come up early to make sure the kitchen was stocked and add a few cozy touches before she and Grady arrived for the holidays.
I’d spent the night before unpacking groceries and sitting in front of the fireplace, enjoying the solitude.
Now? Solitude apparently snores.
I edge toward the great room, the rich smell of pine and smoke curling through the air. The fire I built before bed is still a low glow in the stone hearth. A pair of boots sits haphazardly near the door, dusted with snow. A heavy parka is draped across the back of the couch.
And the man.
He’s sprawled across the cushions, all broad shoulders and long legs, a blanket half-tangled around his hips.
His shirt is twisted, revealing a sliver of hard stomach and a trail of dark hair that disappears beneath worn jeans.
One big hand rests over his chest, rising and falling steadily. His face, shadowed with a thick beard.
He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him.
He’s handsome in that unbothered, too-good-looking way that no doubt spells trouble.
For a moment, I just stare. My pulse jumps—pure instinct—and then irritation shoves its way in right behind it.
Who the hell passes out in someone else’s living room like this? Especially somewhere this remote?
I stomp my way into the living, the sound making him grunt but not stir.
“Great,” I mutter. “He’s alive. Unfortunately.”
My phone buzzes from my pocket. I fumble it out and answer in a whisper. “Hey, Stevie.”
“Morning!” my best friend chirps. “You make it okay yesterday?”
“I made it just before the snow picked up.” I keep my voice low and glance at the couch. “But, uh… quick question.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Did you send someone up early?”
There’s a pause. “No, why?”
“Because there’s a man in the living room.”
“What?” she squeaks. “Wait—what kind of man?”
“The alive kind. Big. Loud. Currently drooling on your throw pillows.”
There’s a rustle on the other end, then a muffled laugh. “Oh no. You’re talking about my brother. Aren’t you?”
My stomach sinks. “Your brother?”
Now the familiarity makes sense.
“Thatcher,” she confirms. “He must’ve decided to come up early. He’s been… going through it. You know, suspension drama.”
“Suspension,” I repeat.
“From hockey,” she says with a sigh. “Long story. He’s a handful but mostly harmless.”
“Mostly,” I echo dryly, staring at the mountain of man on the couch.
“Just—be nice to him, okay? He’s having a rough patch.”
“Stevie,” I hiss, “he’s asleep on the couch and smells like he crawled out of a whiskey bottle.”
“He’ll probably sleep half the day,” she says, unbothered. “Text me if he gives you trouble. Love you!”
She hangs up before I can respond.
I slide the phone back into my pocket, stare at the snoring offender, and sigh. “Love you too,” I mutter.
I should leave him alone. He’s her brother; she vouched for him. But something catches my eye—a crumpled sheet of paper on the rug near his boots. I stoop to pick it up. It’s covered in thick, messy handwriting.
Skip the gym.
Sleep past 6 a.m.
Drive too fast on a snowmobile.
Drink a gallon of eggnog.
My brows rise. “What on earth…”
I’m still frowning at the page when a low, rough voice cuts through the quiet.
“Wow,” he rasps, brown eyes cracking open, a crooked grin curving his mouth. “That was fast.”
I nearly drop the paper. “Excuse me?”
He blinks at me, confused but amused. “Didn’t think I’d check that one off the list this quick.”
“The list?” I hold up the paper, heat crawling up my neck.
Recognition flares in his eyes, and he sits up fast, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Hey, that’s private.”
I hold it out of reach. “What is this, a bucket list or a cry for help?”
“Research,” he says again, snatching it and folding it like it’s a state secret. “You must be Stevie’s friend.”
“Liz,” I confirm. “The one who was supposed to have this place to myself for the next few days.”
“Thatcher,” he says, recovering fast and flashing a grin that could power a small city. “The prodigal pain in the ass who is your roommate until they get here.”
“Nice to meet you, Pain in the Ass. Coffee’s in the kitchen. Try not to throw up in it.”
By the time he drags himself into the kitchen, I’ve poured him a mug. He inhales it as if he needs it to exist.
He grimaces at my healthy spread of ingredients—ground chicken, egg whites, steamed spinach. “Are you punishing me?”
“You’re an athlete.”
“I know.”
“I assumed you liked to eat clean.”
“I’m on break,” he says, voice gravelly but playful. “No kale, no guilt.”
“Fine.” I sigh and open the fridge. “How do you feel about pancakes and bacon?”
His grin turns wicked. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
I set to work while he watches, elbows on the counter.
His eyes track my every move. Not in a creepy way, exactly.
But curiously. As if he hasn’t spent much time watching someone cook.
There’s a heat in his steady gaze that makes me painfully aware of my leggings and the messy bun on top of my head.
I can feel the weight of his stare, the warmth spreading through my chest. I hate that I don’t hate it.
My first instinct was right. He’s trouble. I can tell.
When I pull out the eggnog, he perks up. “What’s that?”
“Eggnog for the pancakes. It is Christmas, after all. I thought it would be more festive.”
“Festive,” he repeats, then grins. “You ever drink that stuff straight?”
“Occasionally.”
“Guess I’m about to live dangerously.”
Before I can stop him, he unscrews the cap and tilts it back.
“Oh, for crying out loud—”
He keeps going until the carton’s empty, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks ridiculously pleased with himself.
“Delicious,” he declares.
Thirty seconds later, he goes pale.
“Oh no,” I say flatly.
He wavers. “I think I’m gonna—”
“Don’t you dare.”
I help him to the trash can before he spews his guts. Doing my best not to breathe in the scent, I pat his back.
Once he’s gotten everything out, I help him back to the couch.
He collapses into it with a groan, a hand on his stomach. “That was worth it.”
“Really?” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re impossible.”
“I prefer legendary.”
“You keep this up, you’ll be deceased”
I grab a glass of ginger ale and a cool cloth from the freezer, then kneel beside the couch. He opens one eye, looks at me like I’ve descended from heaven.
“You’re an angel,” he murmurs.
“For the moment, I’m your nurse.”
“A sexy nurse,” he corrects.
I roll my eyes but dab his forehead anyway. Even half-dead he’s unfairly gorgeous. His dark lashes are long, his brown hair unruly.
The heat crawling up my neck has nothing to do with the fire.
“You should sleep it off,” I say softly, feeling more than a pang of gentleness.
“Think I will,” he mumbles.
He’s out within a minute. I find a throw blanket and tuck it around his shoulders.
Shaking my head, I mumble, “Men.”
While he sleeps, I curl up on another sofa, the fire rekindled. Outside, the snow keeps falling outside.
I sip my coffee, resisting the urge to peek at that folded paper tucked in his pocket. The edge of it sticks out just enough to taunt me.
If this morning is any indication, whatever’s on that list, is going to make my next few days anything but peaceful.