Chapter Twelve Enemies with Electricity
Chapter Twelve
Enemies with Electricity
Scarlett
The storm rolls in fast.
One minute, the lake is calm, the sky painted in soft pinks and oranges from the sunset. The next, the temperature drops—that sudden, skin-prickling chill that makes the hair on my arms stand up. The air grows thick and electric, heavy with the metallic scent of approaching rain.
Through the windows, I watch the lake transform from placid blue to angry gray-green, whitecaps forming like bared teeth.
A wall of gray clouds barrels in, and the wind starts whipping my patio furniture around the deck.
I rush outside, barely managing to drag the chairs closer to the house before the first fat raindrops splatter against my arms—irregular plops that quickly become a deafening drumroll against the roof.
I’ve just made it back inside when—boom!
Thunder doesn’t just sound—it vibrates through the floorboards, rattling the dishes in the cupboard. The whole cottage groans against the wind, wood creaking like an old ship at sea.
Then, violent and sudden, another crack of thunder shakes the air, and the power cuts out completely.
I stare into the now pitch-black interior of my house. Are you freaking kidding me?
With a sigh, I grab my phone and turn on the flashlight. I manage to scrounge up a single candle, but no matches.
I grab my laptop, thinking maybe I’ll write. The faint glow of the screen is barely enough to see by, but I try to make the best of it.
With the Wi-Fi out, it’s actually every writer’s dream—the Internet can be a massive distraction.
But my laptop is low on battery, and a warning flashes on the screen. Great. I close it. No writing tonight. And no Netflix either. No distractions from my own miserable thoughts.
Maybe it’ll come back on soon.
It doesn’t.
I give it fifteen minutes, then thirty. Nothing. Just the sound of rain hammering the roof, the wind lashing at the windows. My phone battery is at a tragic 18%, and I left my portable charger in my suitcase. Somewhere in the dark abyss that is my bedroom.
Perfect.
I mutter to myself about how this was supposed to be a peaceful, distraction-free summer. A chance to recharge, to figure out what the hell is wrong with me and why I can’t write this damn book. Now, I can’t even charge my laptop, let alone my brain.
I grab a blanket, throw myself onto the couch, and try to convince myself that this is fine.
Except it’s not fine.
Because it’s muggy as hell with no AC, my phone is dying, and worst of all… I’m bored.
I pace the small living room, stopping dead in my tracks when I see lights glowing from next door. Chase’s house has electricity. I flip the light switch a few times to make sure I’m not losing it.
Nothing.With an irritated groan, I storm over to the door. Fine. If the universe wants to screw with me, then I’ll screw right back.
I’m going to knock on Chase Remington’s door, demand to charge my cell phone, and leave without engaging in a single second of unnecessary conversation.
This is survival. Not some excuse to see him again.
Not at all.
I yank open the front door, immediately regretting everything.
The wind practically body-slams me, sending my hair flying into my face, rain pelting my skin like tiny bullets. I stagger forward, pulling my arms around myself as I stomp across the small stretch of sand and grass to his annoyingly well-lit rental.
I reach the door and hesitate for half a second before knocking.
It swings open almost immediately.
Chase is standing there in sweatpants and a plain T-shirt, looking casual and slightly rumpled. His hair is all messy and tousled, and he looks unfairly good for someone who was probably lounging around doing nothing.
One dark brow lifts. “Lemme guess—you finally missed me too much?”
I cross my arms. “My power’s out.”
His lips twitch like he’s holding back a smile. “And?”
“And do you have a spare room or not?”
He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Smugness practically radiates off of him. He’s thinking… like I asked him to solve a difficult math equation. What the actual.
“Depends. You planning to kill me in my sleep?”
I scowl. “No promises.”
He smirks, takes way too long to answer, then finally steps aside. “Come on in. Try not to set anything on fire.”
I step past him, muttering, “Like I said, no promises.”
The second I step inside, the warmth hits me—a sharp contrast to the cold rain still dripping down my arms. Chase shuts the door behind me, locking out the wind.
I take a deep breath. Wow, it smells good in here. Like fresh laundry and some faint woodsy cologne.
Not that I should care.
Not that I do care.
Chase eyes me, his lips twitching like he’s barely restraining himself. “So, you just stood in the rain for fun or…?”
I glare. “It’s called getting from Point A to Point B, Remington.”
He drags his gaze over me, his expression unreadable. “Well, Point B is making a mess of my floor.”
I follow his glance and scowl. Damn it. My T-shirt is soaked through, dripping small puddles onto the hardwood. My shorts are damp, and my sneakers squish slightly when I shift my weight.
He sighs and shakes his head. “Hold on.”
He disappears down the hallway and returns a few moments later, tossing me a towel and—of all things—a hoodie.
I catch both instinctively, frowning at the fabric in my hands. It’s soft and well-worn, a dark navy with the Stampede logo on the chest.
I lift a brow. “You’re really gonna make me wear your team merch?”
Chase smirks, way too pleased with himself. “Think of it as an initiation.”
A reminder that I’ll be working with him on the team’s book club. Gag.
I roll my eyes but take the towel and start drying off anyway.
Rip watches us from his spot near the couch.
“Guest room’s down the hall if you wanna change.”
I debate refusing—on principle—but my soaked clothes are glued to my skin, and I’m not about to sit around in damp discomfort out of sheer spite.
With a dramatic sigh, I grab the hoodie and stomp off to change.
I slip off the wet T-shirt and tug the hoodie on. The damn thing smells like him. Like cedar and soap and something uniquely Chase. Unfair.
I return to the living room with Chase’s hoodie drowning me. The sleeves are ridiculously long, the hem falling mid-thigh over my shorts.
Chase takes one look at me and grins.
I thrust the towel at him, and he takes it.
He chuckles but says nothing and hangs the towel over a dining chair. A fire flickers in the fireplace, casting warm light across the space. The storm rumbles outside, but in here, it’s almost… cozy.
Chase flops onto the couch, stretching an arm along the back. Like he owns the place. Which, fine. He does.
I hesitate, then lower myself into the chair across from him.
Chase shakes his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. He tips his water bottle to his lips, watching me over the rim.
I ignore the way his stupid forearm flexes.
I definitely ignore the way he’s watching me like I’m the most entertaining thing in the room.
This is not how I envisioned my night going. Finally, he exhales, setting his water down. “So.”
I arch a brow. “So.” My gaze drifts to the coffee table.
I freeze.
Blink.
My book.
My book, sitting right there, next to his drink, a worn bookmark peeking out from the middle.
I sit up and reach for it before I even think twice. “Wait. Are you reading my book?”
Chase stretches, like this isn’t shocking information. “You thought I just bought it to impress you?”
I scowl because yeah, that’s exactly what I thought. But I can’t say that out loud, so instead, I huff, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not that easily impressed.”
Chase hums like he’s considering that, then shrugs. “Eh. I’ll figure out what works eventually.”
I flip through the pages, half-expecting them to be crisp and untouched, but no—there are dog-eared corners and subtle creases along the spine. The man has been reading this.
“You’re halfway through.” My voice is laced with suspicion. “That’s… unexpected.”
He shrugs. “It’s not bad. A little bleak for my taste, but I’m holding out for the part where you admit love isn’t a scam after all.”
I snort. “Spoiler alert: that part doesn’t exist.”
Chase sighs. “Damn. And here I thought it was all just a slow burn to the big romantic realization.”
I narrow my eyes at him, gripping the book a little tighter.
His lips twitch.
I close my mouth.
Set the book back down.
Take a deep breath.
I swear he does these things just to mess with me.
“What’s the deal with your current book?” he asks.
My stomach tightens. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” He gestures vaguely. “You’ve said you’re here to work, and you’ve been holed up like a gremlin, so how’s the book coming along?”
I glare. “I’m not a gremlin.”
“You’re a little gremlin-y.”
I take a breath through my nose. Do not kill him. This is his house.
Then I exhale. “Fine. Yes. I’m here to work. And no, I haven’t written much.”
His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s actually thinking this through. “Writer’s block?”
I hesitate because it’s more than that. But that’s the easiest answer, so I nod. “Something like that.”
He hums, studying me. It’s unnerving.
Then, out of nowhere, he grins. “You know what helps with a creative block?”
I give him a flat look. “If you say ‘watching hockey,’ I’m leaving.”
He snorts. “No. Ice cream.”
I blink. “Ice cream?”
He stands, sauntering toward the kitchen like this is just a normal Tuesday.
Maybe it is.
I hesitate for half a second before following.
He pulls a pint of chocolate peanut butter swirl from the freezer and slides it across the counter.
I stare at it.
Then back at him.
I remember fighting over the last pint at the store. “My favorite.”
He smirks, grabbing two spoons. “Mine too. And yet, I’m sharing it. Look at me, being the bigger person.”
I roll my eyes but grab the pint, popping the lid. “Bare minimum effort, Remington.”