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one

Sheryl

Thecabincreakslikean old paperback being opened for the first time, and I can't help but think it's the perfect soundtrack for a writer on deadline. My deadline. The one that's approximately—I check my phone—eighteen days, seven hours, and twenty-three minutes away.

"This is where bestsellers are born," I whisper to myself, setting my laptop on the rustic wooden table by the window. The view of the Darkmore Mountains stretches before me, all imposing peaks and mysterious shadows. Exactly what I need to inspire this romance novel that currently exists as forty-seven disconnected scenes and a prayer.

My agent Melanie's voice echoes in my head:"Sheryl, darling, 'Blood Moon Desires' tanked harder than the Titanic. If this third book doesn't deliver, we can kiss your three-book deal goodbye."Always the motivational speaker, that one.

I unpack my "writing nest" essentials: favorite oversized cardigan (with only two small holes), three notebooks of varyingsizes (one for plot, one for character development, one for random brilliance), my collection of rainbow sticky tabs, and enough tea to hydrate a small country. The cabin's owner left detailed instructions about everything from the temperamental hot water heater to the location of the circuit breaker, but all I really care about is the Wi-Fi password.

At twenty-two, I should probably be at some college party doing jello shots off a future investment banker's abs. Instead, I'm arranging my reference books and hoping this self-imposed isolation will somehow transform me into a romance writer who doesn't make her publisher regret their advance.

The irony isn't lost on me. I write steamy romance novels that make my few readers fan themselves, yet my own romantic experience consists primarily of awkward coffee dates that go nowhere.

"Time to write an expert level sex scene," I mutter, opening my laptop. "Based on extensive research and absolutely zero practical application."

The power flickers as the sun begins to set, and I light the trio of scented candles I brought.

Three hours and two cups of tea later, something magical happens. The words start flowing like they haven't in months. My characters, Brooke and Dominic, suddenly feel real. Their banter sparkles on the page, their chemistry practically steams off my screen. I'm getting somewhere.Finally.

I push my glasses up and stretch, glancing at the clock. 11:47 PM. The candles have burned down considerably, but I barely notice as I dive back in. This is the scene where Brooke finally admits her feelings to Dominic. It's pivotal, it's emotional, it's—

My eyelids grow heavy. Just a few more sentences. Just need to finish this scene before...

Dominic reached for her, his strong hands gentle against her face. "I've wanted you from the moment I saw you," heconfessed, his voice rough with emotion. "But wanting and deserving are two different things."

Brooke stepped closer, eliminating the distance between them. "Then let me be the judge of what I deserve," she whispered, rising onto her tiptoes as his mouth descended toward hers...

My head dips forward, then jerks back up. One more paragraph. Just one more...

His kiss was everything she had imagined and nothing like she expected. It was...

It was...

The word escapes me as my consciousness fades. I rest my head on my arms, just for a moment. Just until the right description comes to me. The manuscript pages I printed earlier to review scatter slightly in the draft from the window I cracked open for fresh air. The candles flicker, casting dancing shadows across my notes.

In my half-dreaming state, I imagine the perfect hero. Not the sculpted college boys with their rehearsed pickup lines, but someone real. Someone with experience etched into the lines of his face. Someone who knows who he is and what he wants.

Someone whose kiss would be worth writing about.

two

Alex

Something’soff.

I adjust my headlamp and check my watch: 2:17 AM. Three hours into my voluntary night patrol during high fire season. The radio at my hip crackles with routine check-ins from the station, breaking the midnight silence of the Darkmore Mountains.

"Brennan checking sector eight, all clear," I report, my breath visible in the cold night air.

This route takes me past the rental cabins on the eastern ridge. It's added twenty minutes to my patrol for the past five years, but I make the detour anyway. Old habits. Necessary precautions. At forty, I've learned that five minutes of prevention saves years of regret.

The memory surfaces without invitation: coming home to find our house engulfed in flames, the knowledge that Mike and Jason were inside. The knowledge that I wasn't.

I push the thought away and focus on my surroundings. The dry conditions have everyone on edge. Three months without significant rainfall means the forest is a tinderbox waiting for a careless camper or a lightning strike.

The smell hits me first. Smoke. Not the pleasant, contained scent of a properly maintained fireplace, but the acrid warning of something burning that shouldn't be.