Chapter 3 – Carrie
I can't get comfortable on this couch. It's not that it's lumpy or too short—actually, it's surprisingly accommodating for my size—but there's something about being in a strange man's living room that makes relaxation impossible.
Every time I shift positions, the leather creaks beneath me, and I wince, certain the sound is echoing through the entire cabin.
The storm has settled into a steady rhythm, rain drumming against the roof like impatient fingers.
The fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across wooden walls adorned with mounted antlers and framed photographs I'm too far away to see clearly.
Everything smells of pine, smoke, and something masculine that I assume is just... Hugh.
He sits in a worn leather armchair across from me, a book open in his lap, though I haven't seen him turn a page in at least fifteen minutes.
His attention seems divided between the unread words and the hallway leading to Aria's bedroom, as if he's listening for any sound from his sleeping daughter.
The silence between us stretches thin, punctuated only by the pop of burning wood and the occasional grumble of thunder.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how I must look in his clothes—the flannel shirt hanging off my frame, the sweatpants rolled several times at the ankles.
I feel small and out of place, like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life.
A shiver runs through me, not entirely from cold. Hugh looks up, his steel-gray eyes catching mine for a brief moment before I glance away.
"Cold?" he asks, the single word gruff and to the point.
"A little," I admit. "I'm still drying out, I think."
Without another word, he stands, crosses to a chest against the wall, and pulls out a thick, hand-knitted blanket in shades of blue and gray. He tosses it toward me, and I catch it awkwardly against my chest.
"You're gonna freeze to death sitting there like that," he mutters, already turning away.
"Thank you," I say, unfolding the blanket.
I wrap the blanket around my shoulders, instantly enveloped in its warmth and the faint scent of pines. Hugh returns to his chair, settling back without acknowledging my thanks. His focus returns to his book, though I'm increasingly convinced he's not actually reading it.
From my spot on the couch, I can now see some of the photographs on the mantelpiece.
One shows a younger Hugh, beardless and almost smiling, holding a toddler-aged Aria.
Another features a dark-haired woman with Aria's nose, her smile bright against a mountain backdrop.
I look away quickly, feeling like an intruder in their private memories.
"Did you make this?" I ask, fingers tracing the intricate pattern of the blanket, desperate to break the silence.
Hugh glances up, brow furrowed. "The blanket? No."
He offers no further explanation, and I resist the urge to sigh. Getting this man to talk is like trying to coax water from stone.
"It's beautiful work," I persist. "I've always admired people who can create functional art like this. There's something honest about it."
His expression shifts slightly—not quite softening, but something in his eyes changes. "My mother made it," he says finally. "Before she died."
"Oh." I clutch the blanket closer, suddenly aware of its significance. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine," he cuts me off. "Was a long time ago."
The silence returns, heavier than before.
I stare into the fire, watching the flames lick at the blackened logs.
My mind drifts to my own cabin, wondering how bad the damage really is, how long repairs might take, how much they might cost. My savings won't last forever, and the retreat hasn't even opened yet...
"I'm planning to turn my aunt's cabin into an art retreat," I blurt out, the words tumbling forth before I can stop them. "A place where artists can come to create, to teach and learn from each other. Somewhere they can disconnect from the noise of everyday life and really focus on their work."
Hugh's eyes flick up to meet mine, expression unreadable. But he doesn't tell me to stop, so I continue, wrapping myself in the comfort of my own dream.
"I know it needs a lot of work—even before the storm damage.
But the location is perfect. Those mountain views, the lake, the way the light changes throughout the day...
it's exactly what artists look for. I'm thinking of running weekend workshops at first, then maybe extending to week-long retreats during the summer. "
I pause, suddenly self-conscious. Hugh hasn't moved, hasn't reacted. He's just watching me with that steady, intense gaze that makes me feel simultaneously seen and completely misunderstood.
"You don't think it'll work," I say. It's not a question.
He shifts slightly in his chair. "Didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. It's written all over your face."
A flicker of something—amusement, maybe?—crosses his features before disappearing back behind his stoic mask. "You planning to run this retreat by yourself?"
"Yes," I answer, lifting my chin slightly. "I've been teaching art classes for years. I know how to organize workshops, how to create a curriculum."
"Teaching art in a city studio is different from maintaining a property in the mountains," he points out. "Winters here are brutal. Pipes freeze. Roads get blocked. Power goes out."
"I can learn," I insist, though doubt crawls up my spine. "My aunt managed just fine."
"Mabel grew up here. She knew what she was doing." He sets his book aside, giving me his full attention for the first time. "You don't strike me as someone who's prepared for this kind of life."
I bristle at his assessment. "Because I'm a woman? Or because I'm from the city?"
"Because you were standing in the middle of a storm looking like you'd never seen rain before," he says bluntly. "Because you don't have the right clothes, the right supplies, or apparently, the right sense to listen when someone tells you a storm is coming."
Heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. "I was trying to save my supplies," I say defensively. "And for your information, I'm more capable than you think. I may not have grown up in the mountains, but I'm not helpless."
Hugh studies me for a long moment, his expression softening just a fraction. "Didn't say you were helpless. Said you weren't prepared. There's a difference."
Before I can respond, a small sound from the hallway draws our attention. Aria stands there in purple pajamas, her dark hair tousled from sleep, one hand rubbing at her eyes.
"Dad?" she calls, her voice small and sleepy. "I had the dream again."
Hugh's entire demeanor changes instantly. The gruffness melts away, replaced by a gentle concern that transforms his face.
"Hey, kiddo," he says softly. "Come here."
Aria pads across the room and climbs into his lap without hesitation. Hugh wraps his arms around her, one hand smoothing her tangled hair. The tenderness in the gesture makes my throat tighten unexpectedly.
"Was it the same one?" he asks, his voice so quiet I almost don't hear it.
She nods against his chest. "The one where I'm lost in the woods."
"You're not lost," he murmurs. "You're right here with me. Safe and sound."
"I know." She looks up at him with complete trust. "Can I have some water?"
"Course you can." He sets her gently on her feet and stands. "Let's get you back to bed after, okay?"
As they move toward the kitchen, I avert my eyes, feeling like I'm intruding on something private. The easy intimacy between them speaks of years of trust and love. It's beautiful to witness, but it also sends a pang of loneliness through my chest.
Hugh returns a few minutes later, alone. "She's back in bed," he says, as if feeling the need to explain his absence. "Storm probably woke her."
"She seems like a wonderful girl," I offer.
His expression softens again, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the man behind the gruff exterior. "She is."
"She has your eyes," I observe without thinking.
Hugh stiffens almost imperceptibly before giving a noncommittal grunt and returning to his chair. The brief moment of openness is gone, the walls firmly back in place.
I pull the blanket tighter around me, suddenly exhausted. The events of the day—the storm, the damage to my cabin, the unexpected closeness of sharing space with this enigmatic man—have drained me completely. My eyelids grow heavy as I watch the fire slowly dying in the hearth.
"You should get some rest," Hugh says, noticing my fatigue. "We'll check your cabin in the morning, see what can be salvaged."
I nod, too tired to argue or ask questions. "Thank you again. For letting me stay."
He shrugs, as if taking in a stranded woman during a storm is nothing worth mentioning. "Get some sleep, Carrie."
The sound of my name in his deep, rough voice does something strange to my insides. I lie down, pulling the blanket up to my chin, watching as Hugh adds another log to the fire before turning down the lamp on the side table.
The room falls into semi-darkness, illuminated only by the golden glow of the flames. I can make out Hugh's silhouette as he settles back into his chair, a dark, solid presence across the room.
He doesn't leave, and I wonder if he plans to sleep there, keeping watch like some bearded guardian angel.
I should feel uncomfortable, spending the night in a stranger's home, wearing his clothes, wrapped in his mother's blanket. Instead, I feel an unexpected sense of security. Despite his gruffness, there's something undeniably safe about Hugh Blackwood's presence.
As I drift toward sleep, watching the play of firelight across his strong profile, I find myself wondering about the man behind the silence.
What shaped him? What brings the rare softness to his eyes when he looks at his daughter?
And why, despite his clear desire to keep me at arm's length, did he bring me into his home?
"This was a mistake," I think hazily as sleep begins to claim me. But the thought lacks conviction, dissolving like smoke as I surrender to exhaustion.
My last conscious awareness is of Hugh's steady gaze, watching over me from across the room.