Chapter 3
THREE
LONDON
My nose twitches.
Dark roast. Quality beans. The faintest hint of nutmeg. Did I die and wake up in Paris?
Because if heaven smells like expensive coffee and cinnamon, I’m okay with that. Slowly, I crack open my eyes.
Warm golden light spills across rough wooden walls while a fire crackles somewhere nearby. A thick blanket tangles around my legs, and for one blissfully peaceful second, I have absolutely no idea where I am.
Then it all comes back to me.
The storm. The blown tire. Passing out in front of Terrible Troy Taylor.
Oh God.
I jerk upright so quickly dizziness immediately swirls through my head.
“Easy.”
The deep voice rolls through the cabin like distant thunder.
I whip toward the sound so fast the blanket tangles around my legs, and for one horrifying second, I nearly face plant onto the wooden floor.
A large hand shoots out and catches my elbow before gravity can finish the job.
Warm fingers curl around my arm. Steady. Careful.
“Easy,” Troy repeats, quieter this time.
I stare up at him.
The storm gear from last night is gone, replaced by worn jeans and a charcoal henley stretched across broad shoulders. Damp dark hair curls slightly at the ends like he recently showered, and there’s enough scruff along his jaw to make my fingers itch with deeply inappropriate curiosity.
No man rumored to have ties to international crime syndicates should smell this good before eight in the morning.
“You fainted,” he says.
Heat immediately floods my cheeks. “I don’t usually make a habit of that.”
One corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly. “Good to know.”
I blink at him. Did Terrible Troy Taylor make a joke?
Honestly, that might be more shocking than the possibility that he’s secretly involved with the Russian mob.
“Sit,” he says, releasing my arm only once he’s sure I’m steady.
It shouldn’t annoy me. And yet somehow it does.
Not because he’s bossy exactly. More because my ex used to bark orders at me constantly, and my body still instinctively stiffens anytime a man uses that tone.
Unlike my ex, Troy notices. His expression shifts almost immediately.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to sound so short.”
The apology catches me so off guard I just stare at him for a second. Most men don’t notice things like that.
Caleb definitely never did. If anything, my discomfort usually irritated him.
“You hungry?” Troy asks.
The question feels strangely gentle coming from a man built like he wrestles bears recreationally.
My stomach betrays me with a loud growl. “Maybe a little.”
Another flicker of amusement crosses his face before he turns back toward the stove.
“Table’s over there.”
I slowly hobble toward the small wooden table tucked beside the window, blanket still wrapped tightly around my shoulders. My ankle protests immediately, though not nearly as badly as last night.
The cabin is unexpected. That’s honestly the only word for it. Nothing about this place matches the stories I’ve heard.
For starters, it’s clean. But in a warm, lived-in way. Stacks of books line nearly every available shelf, logs are neatly piled beside the fireplace, and an old record player sits in the corner beside a collection of vinyl records.
I squint. “Is that Fleetwood Mac?”
He follows my gaze and grunts to the affirmative.
What kind of criminal mastermind listens to Fleetwood Mac while snowed into a mountain cabin?
Then my gaze lands on the bookshelf nearest the couch. I find what I’d expect.
Science fiction. Westerns. History.
An interesting number of astronomy books.
And—I lean forward slightly.
No. Way.
There’s a worn paperback copy of Pride and Prejudice wedged between Dune and some giant survival guide.
I stare at it. Then toward Troy. Then back at the book. This man continues to make less and less sense.
“Something wrong?” he asks without turning around.
“How exactly does a man with rumored ties to organized crime end up owning Jane Austen?”
Troy glances over his shoulder. “It’s a good book. Whether or not you’re into organized crime. Or a murder.”
I choke slightly on air. Did he make another joke? Or was it a confession?
He returns his attention to the stove while my brain short-circuits.
Okay, maybe the cold caused permanent neurological damage because there is no universe where Terrible Troy Taylor casually admits to enjoying Jane Austen before breakfast.
“You’ve read it?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Yes.”
I can’t help it. I laugh.The sound slips out before I can stop it. The whole thing is just so unexpected. I have to laugh.
For a split second, Troy goes completely still. I wonder how long it’s been since someone laughed around him instead of whispering about him.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
“So,” I say, trying to recover our earlier mood, “big Mr. Darcy fan?”
Troy slides a plate onto the table in front of me.
Thick slices of cinnamon french toast dusted with powdered sugar stare back at me. Beside them sits a small bowl of warm maple butter.
I blink up at him. “You made french toast?”
“You said you were hungry,” he says simply, like that explains everything.
“Most terrifying outlaw ever,” I murmur.
His mouth twitches again.
I pick up my coffee again and take another sip. And nearly moan. Again.
Deep, rich espresso notes bloom across my tongue, warm spice following a second later.
“This coffee is insane.”
Troy settles into the chair across from me with his own mug in hand. “It’s coffee.”
“No,” I say seriously. “This is a work of art.”
His gaze flicks toward me over the rim of his mug. “You always talk this much?”
“Most of the time. Especially when I’m nervous.”
Something shifts quietly in the space between us. An awareness that wasn’t there before.
Outside, snow continues falling heavily against the windows.
And for the first time since moving here last year, I realize I might not be the only person in town hiding out.