Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
WREN
The cabin is one room. Woodstove, leather armchair, a bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks.
Kitchen along the far wall with a cast iron skillet already on the stove.
Everything built from real wood, not the reclaimed-chic kind clients want for their rustic mountain weddings. The real thing. Solid, plain, lived in.
Silas closes the door behind us, and the storm becomes muffled. Rain on metal roofing. Thunder rolling farther across the ridge. Ash shakes himself dry in the middle of the floor, spraying water across everything, then trots to a bed in the corner and collapses like he's done his job.
"Bathroom's through there." Silas tips his chin toward a narrow door. "Towels on the shelf. I'll find you something dry to wear."
The bathroom is small. One towel rack, one bar of soap, one toothbrush in a cup by the sink. Everything in its place. Nobody else's things anywhere.
My reflection in the mirror is horrifying. Mascara down to my jawline. Hair matted flat. The sundress is see-through. Completely, fully see-through, and I walked half a mile next to him in it. Wonderful. Really putting my best foot forward for the stranger who rescued me off his private road.
A knock on the door. His hand reaches through the gap holding a flannel shirt and a pair of drawstring sweatpants. "These'll be too big."
"Thank you."
The flannel smells like woodsmoke. It hangs past my thighs, the sleeves falling over my hands. The sweatpants require rolling four times at the waist, and they still pool around my ankles. But they're dry and warm, so vanity can wait.
When I come out, he's changed into dry clothes too. A worn t-shirt and jeans. His hair is damp, pushed back from his face, and in the warm light of the cabin I get my first real look at him.
Tall. Lean in a way that's all muscle, nothing extra. Sun-bleached brown hair curling at his neck, a full beard with a streak of silver on the right side. Hazel eyes that catch the light from the woodstove and go gold at the edges.
And a burn scar. It starts at the collar of his shirt, crawling up the right side of his neck, disappearing under the sleeve.
Not small. Not subtle. He doesn't adjust his collar or angle his body away.
Just stands there at the stove cracking eggs into the cast iron like I'm not studying every inch of him.
My fingers itch for my camera.
"Hungry?"
"Starving. I had a granola bar six hours ago." My stomach growls on cue, loud enough that Ash lifts his head from his bed. "And apparently my body wants everyone to know about it."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. He doesn't give me the full thing, but the twitch is there.
He plates scrambled eggs with toast and sets it on the small kitchen table. Pulls out a chair for me, then leans against the counter with his own plate, eating standing up. Watching the storm through the window. Giving me space without making a production of it.
The eggs are perfect. Butter, salt, nothing fancy. My grandmother would have approved.
Gran. The locket at my throat is warm against my skin, the one piece of her I carry everywhere. Eleven months since she died, and grief still sneaks up at the strangest times. Over scrambled eggs in a stranger's cabin while a thunderstorm tries to rip the mountain apart.
"So." He sets his empty plate in the sink. "Wedding photographer."
"Weddings, elopements, adventure sessions.
Mostly Reno-Tahoe area." Fork down, I pull my camera bag onto my lap.
The equipment inside is dry. Thank God. "A bride wants to get married somewhere remote and mossy.
A local in Whisper Vale mentioned a chapel ruin off Forest Road 247, so I drove up to scout it. "
"That chapel's been rubble for twenty years."
"Yeah, I'm getting that sense."
Another almost-smile. "You drove a rental sedan up a mountain dirt road in a thunderstorm to look at rubble."
"When you say it like that, it sounds irresponsible."
"It is irresponsible."
"Fair." A laugh escapes before I can stop it. He blinks at the sound, and those hazel eyes hold on my face for a beat too long before he turns back to the window.
Rain is still hammering. Lightning flashes, and the whole cabin goes bright white for a second. The thunder that follows shakes the floor, close enough that Ash picks up his head again.
My shoulders tighten. I've never loved storms. They're beautiful from a distance, through a window, with a glass of wine. Up close and personal on a mountain with no cell service and a washed-out road, the beauty factor drops considerably.
"The road." I set my plate in the sink next to his. "How long until it's passable?"
"Depends on how much it rains tonight. Tomorrow at the earliest. Probably two, three days."
Three days.
Three days in a one-room cabin with a man I don't know who looks like he was carved from the mountain itself. No phone. No car. No way out.
"Okay." Deep breath. "Okay, I can work with that. My next shoot isn't until Saturday."
"It's Wednesday."
"Right. So. Tight but doable."
He pulls a pillow and a wool blanket from a trunk near the bookshelf. Drops them on the leather armchair.
"Take the bed."
"Absolutely not. That's your bed."
"You're the guest."
"I'm the idiot who drove up your private road in a rental sedan. The armchair is more than I deserve."
His jaw tightens. Not anger. Stubbornness. "Bed."
"Chair."
"Wren."
My name in his voice is low and rough. Nobody has said my name like that in a long time. Maybe ever. Like he's making a point just by saying it.
"Fine. The bed. But I'm protesting."
"Noted." He turns toward the armchair, then stops. "There's a lock on the bathroom door. And I'm a light sleeper, so if you need anything, just say it. You're safe here."
The fact that he thought to say that. That he considered I might be nervous alone in a cabin with a strange man and addressed it without me asking. My chest does something complicated.
"Thank you, Silas."
He nods once. Drops into the armchair. Ash gets up from his corner bed and pads over to lay next to me on the bedroom floor, apparently having made his choice of allegiance for the night.
"Traitor," Silas mutters at the dog.
"He has good taste."
Another twitch at the corner of his mouth. Two almost-smiles in one night. I wonder what it takes to get the real thing.
The bed smells like him. Clean cotton and something warm underneath. I lie there listening to the storm thin out for what seems like forever. An hour passes as I lie listening to the thunder spacing farther apart, rain softening from assault to steady rhythm.
And then I hear him.
Not words. Just sounds. A sharp inhale. A low, pained noise in his throat. His breathing goes ragged, then faster. Ash lifts his head from the floor, ears forward.
A nightmare.
Before I can think about it, I'm out of the bed and crossing the cabin in the dark. He's rigid in the armchair, hands gripping the armrests, face tight. Sweat on his forehead.
"Silas." Quiet. Then louder. "Silas."
His eyes snap open. Wild for a second, unfocused. His hand shoots out and grabs my wrist before recognition catches up. The grip is strong enough to bruise.
Then he sees me. Registers who I am. Lets go immediately.
"Sorry." His voice is wrecked. "Sorry, I didn't mean to."
"You were having a nightmare."
He scrubs both hands down his face. In the low glow of the woodstove embers, his eyes are dark and raw.
"Go back to bed, Wren."
But my hand is already on his. Just resting there, fingers curled over his knuckles. His skin is hot. Rough.
He stares at my hand on his. Then up at my face. We're close. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his eyes, the pulse jumping in his throat. His gaze drops to my mouth for one second. One.
Then he pulls his hand away.
"Go back to bed."
So I do. But sleep takes a long time to come, and when it does, I dream about hazel eyes turning gold in firelight.