Chapter 2 Sierra
SIERRA
I’d been in plenty of uncomfortable situations before. Like the time my ex went on Instagram Live and broke up with me, or the time I got fired via group email. But sharing a cabin with a man who looked like he wrestled bears for fun and won? This was a whole new level of awkward.
Especially when he was shirtless.
“Do you walk around like that all the time?” I blurt out.
Hunter doesn’t look up from where he stands in front of the wood stove, stacking logs with those massive, calloused hands.
His T-shirt is tossed over a chair, exposing muscles that look like they were carved from stone and not in an “I go to the gym every morning” kind of way.
No, this man had earned every line and scar with sweat and hard work.
He’s big, probably six foot two or more, and bulky.
Not over the top, but damn, he made a thick girl like me feel small next to him.
“I live alone,” he says simply.
“Right,” I mutter. “Social graces not required when your only neighbor is a moose.”
“If I’m lucky.”
I wrap my arms around myself and shuffle into the living room, pretending the cabin’s chill is the reason for my goosebumps and not the way his shoulder blades flex when he moves. His body is amazing. And mine is… not.
Focus, Sierra.
I drop onto the overstuffed armchair by the fire and pull a wool blanket over my legs.
The cabin was nice—rustic but homey. A cozy fireplace, shelves filled with worn books.
No pictures, though. It’d be even more amazing with a Christmas tree, or some lights strung up.
Maybe a stocking. But I was sure if I mentioned that, I’d end up in the woodpile outside.
But everything smelled clean, like cedar and soap.
And, of course, testosterone.
I’ve never seen a man like him. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he stokes the fire with jerky movements. His jaw is clenched, and he just seems angry. But those eyes, they’re a piercing blue which is such a contrast to his dark hair and beard.
“So,” I say, trying to break the silence, “do you live off-grid, or is this just a seasonal hermit gig?”
His back tenses, but he doesn’t turn around. “I live here year-round.”
“That sounds… lonely.”
“That’s the point.”
I frown. “You ever hear of therapy?”
“I chop wood. Same thing.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. He turns, finally meeting my eyes, and there’s something in his stare that makes the air thicken. Not just irritation—but a hint of curiosity. He wants to laugh, but he won’t give in.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
I sigh, clearing my throat. “Oh, nothing. I just laugh when I’m uncomfortable. Or when I’m not. Or when things are dark and weird and I don’t know what else to do.” To be the funny girl instead of the fat girl. I shake my head. “Definitely don’t sit next to me at a funeral.”
“At least you’re self-aware.”
“And at least you’re consistently cranky.”
He tilta his head slightly, something sparking behind those blue eyes. “Keep pushing, Snow Princess, and see how long you last here.”
I catch my breath—but not from fear. A thrill skates down my spine. God, why did those words do something to me?
“I’m not afraid of you,” I say, a little breathless.
“You should be,” he murmurs. “I don’t play well with others.”
Clearing my throat and trying to calm my racing heart, I say, “Lucky for you, I do. I’m not just a wrong turn with pretty boots and a bad cousin.”
That almost gets a smile. Almost.
“I’m making chili,” he says, turning away again as he makes his way to the kitchen. “If you’re picky, too bad.”
“Wait. You cook?”
“I eat,” he says simply. “Can’t exactly order takeout from the top of a mountain.”
Fair point. My eyes track him to the stove. The open-concept layout gives me a clear view of Hunter moving around the kitchen, and he looks damn good doing it.
I fold my arms, trying to keep myself from reaching out. “So what’s your deal, Hunter? You ex-something?”
He doesn’t flinch. “Marines.”
“Figures.”
He looks sharply at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shrug. “You’ve got the vibe I’ve read about. Lots of discipline, some built-up anger. That ‘don’t-talk-to-me’ energy.”
He looks back to the pot he’s stirring slowly. “You think you’ve got me figured out?”
“I ask questions and try to go from there.”
“I don’t answer many.”
“I see that. Guess I’ll make my own assumptions about you, then.”
Silence stretches between us again, the only sound is the bubbling chili and the hiss of the fire.
Then, without turning around, he says, “Don’t unpack. You’re leaving the first chance you get.”
My throat tightens. I don’t know why that stings. Maybe because it reminds me of every guy who decided I was too much before they bothered to really see me.
“Don’t worry,” I say, biting my tongue. “I don’t make a habit of overstaying where I’m not wanted.”
He says nothing in return, and that silence hurts more than it should.