CHAPTER 1 Snowed In with the Enemy #2
“He also says you destroy everything you get close to.”
That got his attention.
Mason went completely still.
For the first time since he found me on the road, there was no humor in his face.
None.
“What exactly did Noah tell you about me?”
“Not much.”
“Apparently enough.”
“Why?”
“Forget it.”
“No.”
He grabbed his T-shirt and headed toward the bathroom.
I stepped into his path.
Mason stopped.
Suddenly, the room felt very small.
“Move, Emma.”
“Not until you answer.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You always this stubborn?”
“Genetics.”
“That explains your brother.”
“Answer the question.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Your brother and I have history.”
“What kind of history?”
“The kind that isn’t your business.”
I stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“That’s incredibly convenient.”
“It’s also true.”
“If it involves Noah, it might be my business.”
“No.”
The single word landed harder than I expected.
Mason stepped closer.
I refused to move.
“Some things,” he said quietly, “are between him and me.”
“What happened?”
His eyes held mine.
For a moment, I thought he might actually tell me.
Then his expression closed.
“Ask Noah.”
“I told you. He won’t answer.”
“Then maybe you should wonder why.”
He moved around me and disappeared into the bathroom.
The door shut.
I stood there staring at it.
Wonderful.
Now I didn’t just dislike Mason.
I was curious about him.
That was considerably more dangerous.
My phone still had no signal, so I changed into the emergency clothes I kept in my camera bag—a pair of leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. By the time Mason came out of the bathroom, I was sitting cross-legged on the bed trying to convince my phone to communicate with civilization.
Then I looked up.
And forgot what I was doing.
Mason was wearing gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt.
That was it.
No coat.
No hockey pads.
No layers hiding the fact that apparently professional athletes were built by deeply unfair biological processes.
His shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders. His arms were muscular without looking manufactured, and a line of dark ink disappeared beneath one sleeve.
Tattoo.
Interesting.
He caught me looking.
Naturally.
Mason leaned against the bathroom door.
“See something you like?”
My brain returned.
“Your humility.”
“Thought so.”
“I was looking at the tattoo.”
“Sure.”
“What is it?”
He glanced at his arm.
“Nothing.”
“People don’t usually permanently tattoo nothing on their bodies.”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“You avoid a lot of answers.”
He smiled.
“Maybe we’re compatible.”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because we are not compatible.”
“You decided that quickly.”
“You’re my brother’s enemy.”
“Rival.”
“Same thing.”
“Not even close.”
I studied him.
Again, something in his voice suggested there was more to the story.
Before I could ask, the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then everything went black.
“Oh, come on.”
Mason laughed somewhere in the darkness.
“Still thanking God for civilization?”
“Shut up.”
The emergency lights came on a few seconds later, casting the room in a dim amber glow.
Mason checked the window.
“Snow’s getting worse.”
I joined him.
Outside, we could barely see the parking lot.
The wind screamed against the glass.
A knock sounded at the door.
Mason opened it.
The receptionist stood outside carrying two lanterns and several blankets.
“Power line’s down. Generator’s keeping emergency lighting on, but heat might not last.”
“How long?” Mason asked.
“Hard to say.”
He handed us the supplies.
“Fireplace works. There’s wood downstairs. I’d grab some now.”
“I’ll get it.”
Mason pulled on his coat.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
I stared at him.
“No?”
“You stay here.”
“Why?”
“Because the stairwell’s dark.”
“I’m capable of walking down stairs.”
“In those boots?”
“I’m not wearing the boots.”
He looked at my socks.
“That’s worse.”
“Mason.”
He smiled.
“I’ll be five minutes.”
Then he left.
I stared at the closed door.
Nobody had ever managed to annoy me so consistently in such a short period of time.
Five minutes became ten.
Ten became fifteen.
By twenty, irritation had become worry.
I told myself it was stupid.
He was downstairs.
Inside the building.
Probably charming some poor woman into forgetting her own name.
Still, when the door finally opened, relief hit me before I could stop it.
Then I saw the blood.
“Mason.”
He carried an armful of firewood against his chest. A thin red line ran from his temple toward his cheek.
I was off the bed instantly.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Sit down.”
He looked surprised.
“Emma—”
“Sit.”
Maybe it was my tone.
Maybe he was tired of arguing.
Either way, Mason lowered himself onto the couch.
I grabbed the small first-aid kit from my camera bag.
“Why do you have that?”
“I travel for work.”
“What kind of photography requires emergency medical supplies?”
“The kind where models occasionally think standing on cliffs in expensive shoes is artistic.”
I sat beside him.
“Turn your head.”
He obeyed.
The cut was small.
Probably caused by falling debris or a sharp edge somewhere downstairs.
I cleaned it carefully.
Mason hissed.
“Oh, please. You get slammed into walls for a living.”
“Boards.”
“What?”
“We get slammed into boards.”
“Thank you for the technical distinction.”
“You’re welcome.”
I tried not to notice how close we were.
It was difficult.
His knee touched mine.
My fingers rested near his temple.
His skin was warm.
Very warm.
Mason stopped joking.
His eyes settled on my face.
“What?” I whispered.
“Nothing.”
“That’s twice tonight you’ve said nothing when it clearly means something.”
He didn’t answer.
I placed a small bandage over the cut.
“There.”
I started to pull away.
His hand closed gently around my wrist.
My breath caught.
“Mason.”
His thumb rested against my pulse.
Neither of us moved.
Something electric passed between us.
Not affection.
Not yet.
Something more primitive.
Awareness.
The kind that made every rational thought suddenly feel far away.
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
My heart slammed once against my ribs.
Then again.
I should pull away.
I knew that.
Noah’s warning echoed through my mind.
Stay away from Cole.
Mason released me.
Abruptly.
He stood.
“You hungry?”
The question was so ordinary that for a second I wondered whether I had imagined everything.
“Um.”
Brilliant, Emma.
Very articulate.
“Yes.”
“I’ll find food.”
He walked toward the door.
“Mason.”
He stopped.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For finding me tonight.”
His back remained toward me.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he looked over his shoulder.
“Don’t thank me yet, Bennett.”
The familiar smile returned.
“We’ve still got an entire night together.”
I threw a pillow at him.
He caught it.
His laugh followed him into the hallway.
And I smiled.
That was the first truly dangerous thing I did that night.
Not getting into Mason’s car.
Not sharing a room with him.
Not letting him touch my wrist.
Smiling after he left.
Because hatred was simple.
Hatred had rules.
But the moment you started enjoying someone you were supposed to hate, everything became complicated.
An hour later, we were sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace eating crackers, cheese, and two questionable protein bars Mason had found downstairs. The power remained out, the storm had buried the road, and the temperature inside the lodge was slowly dropping.
I had wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.
Mason sat opposite me with his back against the couch.
“You know,” I said, examining the protein bar, “for someone who earns millions of dollars, you have terrible taste in food.”
“It has thirty grams of protein.”
“It tastes like drywall.”
“Performance has sacrifices.”
“So does happiness, apparently.”
He smiled.
I took another bite and immediately regretted it.
Mason watched me struggle.
“You don’t have to eat it.”
“I refuse to let a protein bar defeat me.”
“Definitely Bennett’s sister.”
“There you go again.”
“What?”
“Comparing me to Noah.”
“You’re similar.”
“We are not.”
“You both hate losing.”
“Everyone hates losing.”
“Not like you two.”
I leaned against the bed.
“You’ve known me for approximately two hours.”
“Twenty-seven minutes at the arena.”
“You counted?”
Mason went still.
Only slightly.
But I noticed.
“No.”
“You literally just—”
“I remember numbers.”