Chapter 2
Clara
I still can’t believe I did it.
I book nothing.
I tell no one.
I have my gym bag in my car, the dry cleaning I picked up earlier, and I’m wearing my new spring coat.
Not to mention I have my laptop and my phone with me, too.
Anything else I need, I’m sure I can buy on the way.
From my research—okay, my internet stalking—of the Lumberjack Artist, I’ve narrowed down possible locations in Maine to a few remote mountain towns.
After sending my info to a friend of my parents who happens to work for Sigma International Security, he further narrows down possible locations to one town. And then further still to one location sent via GPS coordinates.
“Are you sure you want to go up there alone, Miss Belle?” Noel Kane asks, his voice clear and professional.
“I’m sure, Mr. Kane. Thank you for your help, and please send the bill to me directly,” I reply.
“Of course. Miss Belle. Happy to oblige,” he says, and I end the call.
Excitement ripples through me, and I have to bite my lip to keep from squealing aloud.
Next, I plug my destination into the Tesla like I’m planning a weekend getaway instead of an emotional breakdown road trip.
Woodhaven, Maine.
That’s where he is.
The Lumberjack Artist.
That’s where he finds his inspiration and creates his masterpieces. So, that’s where I’m going.
To those wild mountains in Maine where anything seems possible.
It’s a long drive, but I’ve done longer for less important reasons.
The city fades behind me mile by mile, replaced by darker roads, fewer lights, trees that crowd close like they’re curious.
For the first few hours, I feel excited. Almost like I’m on a mission.
Like I’m sixteen again, doing something impulsive just because I can.
Then the weather turns.
It starts as a drizzle. Annoying. Manageable.
Then the sky bruises purple-black, and the rain comes down in sheets.
By then, I’m close.
I’m in Woodhaven, and I find the mountain.
I start to climb the roads.
Lightning forks across the horizon, too close, too bright, and the thunder hits a beat later—deep and angry, like the world is warning me to turn around.
My navigation recalculates.
Then recalculates again.
A road closure sign flashes by in the storm, half-hidden, and I’m already committed to a detour.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “Okay. It’s fine. It’s just rain.”
Except it isn’t.
It’s mud.
It’s darkness.
It’s a mountain road that looks like it was carved into the side of the world by someone with a grudge.
Trees loom. The phone signal disappears.
The Tesla’s screen goes from helpful to smug as it tells me—calmly, politely—that charging options are limited.
Of course they are.
My battery percentage ticks down like a countdown timer in a horror movie.
Twenty percent.
Fifteen.
Ten.
“This is so stupid,” I whisper, but I keep going, because turning around feels like admitting defeat, and I’m not ready to do that today.
Then the tires hit a slick patch of mud, and the car fishtails—just a little.
Enough to send adrenaline screaming through my veins.
I slam the brakes.
The Tesla corrects, but the road doesn’t care.
The rain pounds harder. The wind whips.
Another crack of thunder shakes the whole world.
And then—like the universe has decided it’s done humoring me—my car gives a soft, devastating chime.
BATTERY CRITICAL.
“No,” I breathe. “No, no, no—”
I press the accelerator.
The car lurches forward… and then everything goes quiet.
The screen dims.
The power dies.
The headlights wink out like someone blew out candles.
I’m sitting in a dead car on a mud-soaked mountain road, surrounded by nothing but storm and trees and the sound of my own breathing.
My heart pounds so hard it hurts.
I stare at the dark windshield.
At my reflection—mascara smudged, hair frizzing, face pale.
Clara Belle, city girl extraordinaire, currently starring in her own bad decision.
“Okay,” I say, voice shaking. “Okay. We can fix this. We can—”
I can’t.
Because there’s no signal.
No help.
No chargers.
And the rain is coming down like it wants to drown the world.
I fumble for my phone anyway, like stubbornness is going to create bars out of thin air.
Nothing.
I grab my bag and my coat and open the door. The cold hits me so fast it steals my breath.
I step out into mud that sucks at my shoes like it’s trying to eat me.
My designer heels are absolutely ruined within two seconds.
Lightning flashes again, illuminating the road ahead—curving, vanishing into trees.
And behind me—nothing.
Just darkness swallowing the direction I came from.
Panic claws up my throat.
I don’t like being stranded.
I don’t like being helpless.
I don’t like not knowing what to do next.
But there’s a sharp, steady part of me that’s always survived the city, always found a way through chaos, and she chooses now to take the wheel.
Move.
Do something.
So I start walking.
I don’t know for how long—minutes feel like hours out here.
My fingers go numb inside my pockets.
My hair sticks to my face.
My coat is not made for this kind of wet cold no matter how much it cost.
I’m shivering, soaked, cursing, half-laughing at the absurdity of it, when I see a shape through the storm.
A figure.
Tall.
Broad.
Moving like he belongs out here.
My breath catches.
For one irrational second, I think I’ve hallucinated him—some mountain-man fantasy conjured by my desperate brain.
Then lightning flashes, and I see him clearly.
A man with a beard, thick and dark, wet with snow and rain.
A hood pulled up.
Shoulders wide beneath a heavy coat.
He looks carved out of the wilderness itself—gruff, rough, entirely unimpressed by weather or civilization.
He stops when he sees me.
His gaze lands on my ruined heels, my shaking hands, my ridiculous city coat.
And I swear, even from a distance, I can feel his judgment.
I don’t care.
I lift my hands like surrender and step forward anyway, voice coming out ragged and desperate.
“H-hello? Hello! Can you help?”
He stays quiet but I’m too relieved to care.
“Oh, thank God, I thought I was gonna die out here,” I say and stumble my way through the mud towards him.
Why isn’t he saying anything?
I’ve seen horror movies that start this way, but I refuse to believe the worst of humanity just because a few writers get carried away.
Besides, I have pepper spray and despite being pleasantly plump, I’ve taken several advanced self-defense courses.
“Can you talk?” I ask, wondering if maybe this man is mute.
I stop in my tracks, blinking through the rain. He’s so big, and his facial hair hides most of him from me, but his eyes.
They’re dark and glittering down at me, like he’s mad for some reason.
I swallow.
Then he speaks.
“Go back the way you came. This is private property.”
“O-okay, I know this is insane, but my car died and I have no signal and I’m, I’m kind of stranded.”
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak again.
Just stares at me like I’m a problem he didn’t ask for.
I swallow hard and push through the humiliation.
“Please,” I add, because pride is useless in a thunderstorm. “I need help.”
The man’s jaw tightens.
His eyes flick over me once more—sharp, assessing.
Then he responds, voice low and rough enough to scrape.
“Just what the hell are you doing out here?”
My laugh comes out shaky, bordering on hysterical.
“I-I made a series of questionable life choices,” I admit almost hysterically.
And something shifts in his expression—something small and dangerous, like amusement he doesn’t want to allow.
I take another step closer, rain dripping off my eyelashes.
“I’m Clara,” I say quickly, like names make strangers less scary. “Clara Belle. And I’m—”
I almost say fine, because that’s what women like me are trained to say.
But I’m not fine.
I’m cold.
I’m scared.
And I’m standing in the middle of nowhere, staring at a gruff, beard-covered, annoyingly sexy mountain hermit who might be my only shot at not freezing to death.
So I tell the truth instead.
“Look, mister, I’m desperate,” I whisper. “And I really need you to help me. I can pay.”