6. Kyle
KYLE
PRESENT
The snowstorm was picking up. The wind outside the small wooden cabin had upgraded from a whip-crack to a full-body howl, like the mountains wanted to remind him that those who couldn’t pay for expensive lodging would pay the price tonight.
Good thing I rented a car with chains. Otherwise, getting back to the Greyrock tomorrow would involve prayer, a shovel, and maybe cross-country skis.
Kyle loosened the bow tie on his rented tux and blew out a breath. What a night. He’d expected champagne and mild discomfort that came from going to something like a wedding where he knew no one.
He’d never expected the bride for this blessed event to be Sloan Carrington.
Sloan . The girl who had shattered his heart when he was twenty and then apparently moved on to starring in her own glossy, expensive life while he became a man who pulled cactus spines out of his ass for content.
He’d been tempted to tell Davy the moment he’d recognized Sloan, but when Sloan had made it clear that she preferred they pretend they didn’t know each other, he chose to respect her silence.
She didn’t exactly look thrilled to see him.
Besides, the only time he’d attempted to talk to her tonight, she’d been gone in two seconds like the balcony floor had opened up beneath her.
He grimaced, then moved over toward the woodstove and opened it. The fire was close to dead, which wasn’t surprising given he’d been gone for a few hours.
Maybe he’d been naive about the amount of wood he’d need to keep this damn place warm, but he’d have to go out there and grab some more before the pile got completely buried.
The listing for Fort Paradise— Fort Paradise —had promised a fully stocked wood pile.
It neglected to mention the part where he’d have to split the logs himself like a lumberjack with a tragic backstory.
Throwing another log into the stove, he watched as the fire danced around the wood already burning inside, licking up the sides in something that felt ancient and mesmerizing. Or maybe that was the type of mental headspace he’d reached—giving meaning to shit that had no meaning at all.
Like showing up to your ex-girlfriend’s rehearsal dinner.
He shut the latch, then straightened, taking a sidelong glance out toward the door.
He’d need to change out of this tux before he went back out.
He’d split several logs when he’d arrived four days ago, thankfully, but he’d woefully underestimated how much wood he’d go through in that time.
Hopefully, there’d be enough split wood to last through the night.
The cabin was less insulated from the cold than he’d hoped it would be when he’d found the place online. The pictures had also clearly been taken with a wide-angle lens because it only took ten steps to cross the length of the whole cabin.
After slipping on a pair of sweatpants, a thermal shirt, and his parka, he yanked his snow boots on, then headed for the door.
He pulled his gloves out of the pockets of his jacket where he’d stashed them, then gritted his teeth, bracing himself for the blast of cold that would hit him when he opened that door.
His phone rang in his pocket.
Biting the tip of his glove, he yanked it off, then reached for his phone. The number wasn’t stored in his contacts, but something about it jogged his memory. “Hello?”
“Kyle, thank God.” Sloan’s voice came breathlessly through the crackle of static. “Are you still at the hotel?”
His brows furrowed. Why in the hell is Sloan calling me? “Uh . . . no? I’m at my cabin.”
A sob broke through the line. “Can you go outside with a flashlight?”
“What?”
“—a flashlight. I’m lost.”
What the fuck?
Kyle went completely still. “Lost where?”
“—I’m—” The connection stuttered. “Kyle, please—”
“Are you here?” he snapped.
The line went dead.
“Fuck.” Swinging toward his camping bag, he crouched. He grabbed a flashlight and sprinted out the door, dialing the number back. Cold punched him in the face. Snow fell harder now, the flakes thick and relentless, the wind swallowing the sound.
How had she remembered his number when he’d deleted hers off his phone years ago?
The call went straight to voicemail. Of course. Service out here was about as reliable as Fort Paradise’s definition of “fully stocked.” That left him with no option but to flip the flashlight on. The light illuminated the snowflakes. “Sloan?” he called out.
He swung the light in the darkness, peering through the trees. “This is insane,” he muttered. He hoped to God this was just her idea of a bad joke or something. She wouldn’t really have come out here, right?
And if she had, what in the hell had gotten into her?
His boots sank deep into the snow as he trudged from the safety of the porch to the small gravel car pad he’d shoveled out earlier. He followed that toward the main road.
Nothing.
“Sloan?” he shouted, feeling like a madman.
Only the wind answered him.
The muscles of his jaw went taut as he let out a short growl and started trekking up the road. If this all turned out to be nothing more than her crazy idea of a drunken, night-before-the-wedding—
“Kyle!”
Her voice was distant, swallowed and muffled by snow, but it was real. He turned toward the direction he thought he’d heard it, swinging the light. There she was, running toward him. Snow had crusted her golden hair and snow cap. No coat. A fancy bag bounced against her hip.
He went rigid as she came closer. “Oh my God,” she gasped breathlessly, setting her hand over her heart. “You scared the shit out of me when you hung up.”
“ I scared the shit out of you ?” Kyle repeated back, blinking hard at her.
“I—” She sniffed hard, nose red, eyes bright with panic. “Your phone died.”
“My phone didn’t die,” he said flatly. “ Your phone did.”
She glanced past him. “Is that your cabin?” She gestured back the way he’d come from.
No shit, Sherlock. Nothing else was in sight. He didn’t quite know why he was irritated with her, though, other than the fact that it was crazy that she was even here and he was freezing. “Nope. Random luxury chalet you’re hallucinating as a mirage in this heat.”
“Can I come in?” she asked, teeth chattering.
Did he have any other option? She’d clearly come all this way to talk to him. Without a coat. “Sure. Before your eyelashes freeze and fall off.”
She didn’t hesitate, grabbing her bag and bolting past him, straight inside.
He followed, still trying to compute what the hell was going on.
Once they were inside, he shut the door, warmth sinking into his skin. Shrugging his coat off, he moved toward her. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “You look like you could use this. Feel free to sit over by the stove where it’s warmer.”
“Thanks.” She took the coat from him and slipped it over her shoulders, then crouched by the stove like she was worshipping it.
“Yeah, no problem.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Feel free to get as close as you want. The stove doesn’t have boundaries.”
Her lips didn’t even twitch.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to process the fact that Sloan was in his cabin, the night before her wedding, in a snowstorm, without a coat. Among the realities he had not mentally prepared for, this ranked high.
“You . . . uh . . . you want a cup of coffee or something? Or soup—I’ve got some ramen. And by ramen, I mean the kind that’s somehow still under a dollar, wrapped in plastic, and tastes slightly like regret.”
“Okay.” Her voice was thin. Exhausted. Like she’d just about given up hope before she’d come to his door, and she wasn’t quite sure this was real either.
Or maybe he was projecting his own sense of disbelief about the turn of events. He hadn’t wanted or anticipated company . . . but she clearly needed help and he wasn’t about to begrudge her that.
She didn’t speak as he went over to the duffel bag he’d packed with supplies and pulled out a packet of ramen.
Then he grabbed the kettle from the brick beside the stove and set it on the flat top.
He didn’t have anything other than his camp mess kit with the one fork, knife, and spoon combo but it was clean.
He couldn’t ignore her obvious distress.
“So . . . everything okay?” he asked as he tugged open the ramen package.
She didn’t look at him, staring at the stove, long pretty lashes blinking slowly.
Her eye makeup was sort of smudged.
His heart beat faster. Did that bastard fiancé of hers hit her or something?
“No,” she said softly. “I just didn’t know where else to go.” Her eyes flicked up at him. “I’m sorry. I remembered the name of the place you said you were staying, and I just . . .”
He slipped the dried noodles into the bowl and then set it down on the small table where he’d been eating his meals, his shoulders growing taut.
He gave her a minute to finish what she’d been saying, and when she didn’t, he ground his teeth.
Something must have happened. Something bad enough to make her run.
But why come to me?
“What about your dad? Or your sister? Weren’t they at the hotel?”
“Yeah.” She shook her head, as though clearing her thoughts, then tugged his parka closer around herself.
“Look, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to intrude on your space.
Actually, I rented a cabin around here, but the driver who brought me here couldn’t make it down the road, so he left me up at the top of the street.
A-and then I couldn’t find it and he was gone and . . . I’m sorry.”
She stood abruptly, like she was getting ready to take flight. “I didn’t know what else to do but call you.”
“You’re fine.” He held a hand up. “It’s okay. It’s dark and it’s snowing out there. If you show me the reservation information, I can grab a flashlight and see if I can’t find where your cabin is and help you get there.” He gave her a closer look. “But, uh . . . why don’t you have a coat?”
She shook her head. “I forgot it.”
He stared at her. “In January.”
She lifted her chin. “I’m not an idiot.”
He raised his hands. “Didn’t say that you were.”