Chapter 3
Nate
I don’t know what cosmic clerical error landed Ally Montrose, the person I’ve been refusing to think about, in my snowed-in refuge. But the universe clearly has a sick sense of humor.
She stands dripping on the wooden floorboards like an avenging snow angel, cold, furious, and faintly vibrating.
Her blonde hair is shorter than it was the last time I saw her, chin length and wavy and covered in snowflakes.
My brain is doing that embarrassing restart loop where everything inside me goes blank except her name.
We have not been alone together in years.
And we definitely have not been alone together in a blizzard, in a cabin, in clothing I could wring out like dishrags.
And we absolutely, definitively should not be.
Ally shivers, hard enough to rattle. “Do you have any dry towels? Before I lose a toe?”
“Yes,” I say too quickly. “Yeah. Of course. Here.”
I gesture toward the hallway and lead her to the bathroom, forcing myself not to look at her more than necessary.
Which is impossible, because every time I try not to look, she makes a sound, like an annoyed huff or a panicked inhale, and my attention snaps right back like a masochistic rubber band.
“There should be a stack under the sink,” I say, backing away, keeping my eyes safely on the wall. “Take what you need.”
“Thanks.” Her voice is tight. Controlled. Wary. And, for some reason, not exactly thrilled to see me.
Which is fair. She was probably looking for the same alone time I wanted.
Plus, one of the last times we were in the same house she found me passed out with her friend Chelsea sleeping next to me.
I guess she drew the obvious conclusions, but nothing happened.
Ally never knew that part, unless Chelsea told her, which I doubt; she was quite happy to let people think it did. The joys of being a Woodruff progeny.
And besides, I doubt Ally’d care one way or the other.
“Um,” she adds, “are you… staying in the cabin too?”
“Looks like it.” I try for casual. It comes out like gravel in a blender. “Fallon said it would be empty. Guess Mac told you the same thing.”
There’s a pause. Not a long one. But long enough.
“Sorry to have intruded,” she mutters, and closes the bathroom door with more force than necessary.
I stand in the hall like an idiot and listen to the lock click. Perfect. Day one and she already hates the situation.
I take a breath, then two, and go back to the living room to stoke the fire.
It gives my trembling hands something to do.
The generator’s half-revived hum is comforting and suspect at the same time, like a smoker’s cough pretending to be a working engine.
I feed the fire until the logs catch bright again, then strip off my wet jacket and hang everything near the hearth.
My sweater clings damply to my skin, and I peel it off, toss it onto the chair, and pull on a dry thermal.
When Ally emerges from the bathroom wrapped in an oversized towel with steam clinging to her hair, I look away, desperately pretending I’m not in the middle of remembering every soft-edged detail I’ve tried my whole adult life to forget.
Once she comes back to the room, she’s in yoga pants and a beige knit sweater, both clinging slightly from dampness, but at least she isn’t shivering.
“I didn’t see my bag,” she says, frowning.
“It’s by the door. I was going to bring it in, but you came in looking like a frozen Muppet and I, uh, panicked.”
Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. She loses that battle after half a second. “Glad to know my near-death experience evokes Muppet imagery.”
The laugh that escapes me is too soft, too relieved. “You made it here alive, didn’t you? That’s impressive in itself. The roads are pure hell.”
“Trust me, I know.” She rubs her forehead. “I’m still vibrating from adrenaline.”
“Sit,” I say, pointing to the couch. “Warm up.”
She considers refusing. Ally Montrose’s pride is practically a living organism. But then she sighs and lowers herself onto the shabby two seater sofa. The firelight casts warm shadows across her face, letting me notice how her normally sharp, bright expression looks worn out, softer at the edges.
Hurt.
I sit in the armchair across from her, keeping distance. Close enough to talk. Far enough to keep my heart from doing something stupid. “So,” I start, because silence is worse, “what happened with your team Christmas?”
A muscle in her cheek twitches. “Josh fucked Olivia.”
I go completely still. He what?!
Anger radiates off her, a palpable thing. But the obvious wound isn’t entirely cloaked by it. “Jesus, Ally.”
“Yup.”
“You OK?”
“Nope.”
I wait, still reeling from Josh’s stupidity. He had her, and he chose someone else?! Unfathomable. She stares at the fire, jaw set like she’s trying to hold back all the things she doesn’t want to say. Or shout.
“Look,” she murmurs after a moment, “I really… I just don’t want to talk about it, OK? Not with you. Not tonight.”
That hits harder than it should.
Not with you. What the fuck does that mean?
Regardless, I nod. She gets what she needs from me, always. “OK.”
Her shoulders drop a little. Relief, maybe. Gratitude, maybe not. But I’ll take whatever she’s willing to give.
“Thank you,” she adds, softer.
I have a million questions, and I want to tell her she deserves better, that her ex is a moron of the most extreme type, that she is brilliant and extraordinary and no-one should get to break her like this. But that’s a boundary I realized I could never cross years ago.
So I say nothing.
A gust of wind slams against the wall, and both of us flinch.
The cabin windows shudder in their frames, rattling loudly.
Ally pulls the blanket off the back of the couch and wraps it around her like a burrito.
She looks tiny in it, even though I know she’s strong enough to hold a bow steady in a gale.
“Is the generator meant to sound like that?” she asks.
“No,” I admit. “But it’s doing its best.”
She huffs a mirthless laugh. “That makes two of us.”
Another silence stretches, this one less painful. Only then do I remember the part I’ve been avoiding. “So,” I clear my throat, “the cabin.”
She groans immediately. “Oh no. What now? Coyotes? Bears? Serial killers? Cos I’m happy to take on all comers.”
I give a small smile; I don’t doubt it. “Worse.”
Her eyes widen. “How is it worse?”
Swallowing hard, I blurt it out. “There’s only one bed.”
The whimper of despair she lets out is eloquence itself. “Don’t tell me the couch is broken.”
I wince. “…Yeah, it’s broken.”
She presses the heel of her hand to her forehead. “Are you kidding me? I’m sitting on the bastard right now.”
“And how comfortable are you?” She shifts grudgingly under the old, rickety sofa that isn’t long enough for either of us to stretch out.
“And the other one in the den has been used as a prop storage dump for Mac’s latest Oscar grab.
Unless you want to sleep under shit tons of horseback riding shit, broken saloon furniture, and a fake cactus… ”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then there’s just the one bed.”
Silence rings out with the same impact as a klaxon, and she goes very still. “We are not sharing a bed.”
“Obviously not.” She looks relieved. I don’t let myself feel the sting of that. “I’ll take the floor,” I tell her. “I’ve slept on worse.”
“Nate—”
“Seriously. I have a sleeping bag. It’s fine.”
She hesitates, biting her lip as she does mental math. “You need proper rest, too.”
“I’ll manage.”
She narrows her eyes. “For frig’s sake, I’m not kicking you onto the floor like a mistreated dog.”
“Technically, I’m volunteering.”
“Even so.”
Lightning cracks outside, white and violent. The lights flicker. Instantly, we both look at the generator.
“Oh, come on,” I mutter.
The lights dim again. The hum wavers like a drunk soprano.
Ally groans. “If that thing dies, I swear by Satan’s ass I will scream into the void.”
“I’ll go check -”
“No,” she says sharply. “You’ve already been outside in a snowstorm. As if I’d let you freeze to death because you’re trying to outmaneuver a piece of machinery.”
I snort. “It’s not to impress -”
“Nate.”
The tone stops me cold. Not angry. Not annoyed.
Worried.
“For once,” she says gently, “let it rest. You can’t fight a blizzard.”
I exhale, defeated by her logic and her lovely, gentle, sarcastic voice. “Fine. But if it dies, we’re using firelight until morning.”
She nods. “Sure. I can live with that.”
Another gust attacks the cabin, banging the shutters. Inside, the fire pops loudly enough to make her jump, and she mutters something that sounds like “goddamn wilderness bullshit.”
Something inside me unclenches at the sound.
She’s here. She’s pissed off. She’s cursing like a grumpy sailor. It’s enjoyably familiar. Almost comforting.
“Right,” I say, tapping my hands against my thighs. “Next crisis: food.”
Her eyes widen again. “Please tell me Mac didn’t leave this place stocked with nothing but whiskey and beef jerky.”
I give her a look.
She collapses into the couch. “Oh my god.”
“I bought groceries,” I offer. “Not a ton, but enough. Fallon yelled at me about vitamin intake before I left.”
“She always did care more about our diet than Mac.”
“She cares more about everything than Mac.”
We share a look. A rare, old, easy look of total agreement. One I haven’t seen on her face in… too long. “OK,” she sighs. “I brought ramen, Doritos, and guac. And cookies. What else are we working with?”
I get up, head to the kitchen, and start pulling bags out from where I stashed them behind the counter.
“Let’s see…” I unload items onto the table. “Rice. Beans. Eggs. Two loaves of bread. Some canned soups. Fresh veg. And… uh… coffee.”
Ally stands and peers at the spread. “This looks like the pantry of a college student who just discovered budgeting.”
“It was a quick trip. I didn’t think I’d be hosting anyone.”
She picks up a head of broccoli. “This is unusually wholesome. Who are you and what have you done with Nate?”
“Funny.”
The air shifts subtly; less brittle, more warm. The edges of her hurt are still there, but dulled by exhaustion and survival mode.
“Right,” she says, scrubbing her hands over her face. “We have enough food to manage. What’s the sleeping arrangement again?”
“You take the bed,” I say firmly. “Non-negotiable.”
“Nate, I was gonna take the couch anyway -”
“Ally, stop. I’m not having you sleep on the floor after driving through a storm.”
She frowns at me. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
She studies me carefully, suspicious, like she’s waiting for a trap. When she finds none, something in her posture loosens.
“OK,” she says quietly. “Thank you.” The gratitude in her voice hits me somewhere deep and stupid.
She turns, grabs her bag by the door, and heads toward the bedroom. Halfway down the hall, she pauses and glances back.
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m… glad you were here.” She looks away immediately, cheeks warming. “Not… you specifically. Just. You know. Someone.”
I don’t let myself smile too much. “I get it.”
Her expression softens. Just for a moment.
Then she disappears down the hallway, leaving her shadow in her wake, flickering in the firelight.
***
By the time she returns, I’ve spread my sleeping bag near the hearth, close enough to stay warm, far enough that it doesn’t look pathetic. I’ve laid out a second blanket for her in the bedroom and left the door open so she won’t feel boxed in if the generator gives up.
“OK,” she says, leaning against the door frame. “This is… surprisingly cozy.”
“I’m a professional floor-sleeper.”
“I believe that,” she says. “Your entire twenties were a mess.”
My mouth hitches. “Thanks?”
“Anytime.”
A silence settles between us, this one lighter. More bearable.
“Goodnight, Nate.”
“’Night, Ally.”
She closes the bedroom door almost all the way. Not shutting me out; just creating space. I lie back in the sleeping bag, listening to the storm and the generator’s uneven hum.
This is temporary. Just a blizzard. Just bad timing.
But the house is warm. The fire crackles. And a few feet away, the woman I’ve spent a decade trying not to need with every fiber of my being is finally asleep under the same roof as me.
My chest tightens painfully. This is going to be hell. Beautiful, quiet, impossible hell. But at least she’s safe.
For now, that’s enough.