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Which is perfect.

I stop a good ten feet from the entrance, right where the trail breaks, and I clutch my arms like I’ve been out here all night, like I’m scared and cold and a little helpless. Which is deliciously funny, considering what I’m actually packing.

I sniff and call out softly, just a tremble in my voice. “Hello? Is someone there?”

Silence.

Then there’s rustling. Movement behind the door. A slot opens near the top of the reinforced hatch. Just a sliver. But enough to catch the glint of sharp, suspicious blue-grey eyes.

Holden.

“Who the hell are you?” he barks.

Oh, his voice. It’s rough from sleep. Or maybe disuse. Deep like a shotgun blast muffled by trees. I shiver on cue, and not even all of it is acting.

“My car broke down,” I say, voice breaking. “I’ve been walking forever. I just. I saw your lights. Please, I don’t need to come in, I just… I’m so tired.”

There’s a pause. He’s weighing it. Smart. But not smart enough.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Maple,” I say, softly. “Like the syrup. I’m not sick, I swear. I’ve been holed up, no exposure. Please.”

He pauses again.

Then there’s a click.

The door creaks open an inch. Just enough for me to get a much better look.

And ohhh holy mother of loaded guns, he’s hotter up close.

I mean, yeah, he looked good through the binoculars. All functional muscle and survivalist sex appeal. But up close? He’s a fucking problem. Tall, lean, and wiry. He’s not bulky like Brock, he’s all endurance and efficiency.

No shirt. No shame. His torso is all sinew and scars, lean but powerful. That ‘I carry logs and gut elk with my bare hands’ kind of body. Almost black hair, damp like he just threw water on his face. Blue eyes scanning me like I’m a deer that might bolt or bite. A wicked jaw covered in the kind of scruff that makes your thighs try to open on instinct.

And the veins in his forearms? Thick and running right down to the kind of hands that make you rethink your entire relationship with pain.

My breath hitches.

My nipples are immediately at full attention. Because of course they are.

I swallow hard and do my best not to purr when I say, “Thank you. You don’t know what this means.”

He steps back just a little, cautious but not immune. “You got anything on you?”

Just these panties and a hundred filthy thoughts, babe.

“Just what’s in my pockets,” I say, slowly unzipping my jacket so he can see the flat of my stomach and just a hint of cleavage. Not enough to scream ‘trap,’ but enough to say ‘yes, I’m real and you definitely want to help me.’

His eyes flick down, then back up, but not fast enough to pretend he’s not interested. Men are all just blood and guns, really. You get it flowing the right direction, and they’ll walk into the net with a smile.

He mutters something under his breath. Maybe a curse. Maybe a prayer. Then he opens the door wider.

Bingo.

I step inside and the door closes behind me with a heavy thud and a metallic click. It’s like stepping into a bear den.

It’s dim in here, all thick shadows and the warm, woodsy scent of cedar, gun oil, and Holden himself, earth and sweat and firewood. My lungs expand like they’ve missed this particular flavor of man. There’s something feral about the place. No frills, just what he needs. Bedroll, shelves lined with vacuum-sealed meals, racks of weapons so clean I could kiss him for the maintenance alone.