Page 3

Tessa

I’ve been in some ridiculous situations in my life. Once, I interviewed a pop star who insisted I crawl into her crystal meditation tent before she’d speak to me. Another time, I got locked inside a porta-potty at a desert music festival. And yet this? Stranded on a mountain in the pouring rain with a shirtless, scowling lumberjack? It might just be my favorite ridiculous situation.

Sawyer Holt is stomping around his cabin like I’m an intruder who tracked mud across his white carpet, which I would have if his floors weren’t wood.

The storm is in full tantrum mode outside, wind slapping the windows and rain hammering the roof. The air is filled with the low growl of thunder and the occasional creak of ancient pine trees swaying in protest.

I hang up my soaked jacket, trying not to wince at the cold water clinging to my skin or the fact that my white t-shirt is now translucent. My boots squelch with every step, each one louder than the last in the quiet of the cabin.

“Shoes,” Sawyer mutters without turning around, already crouched by the fireplace, stacking logs in the fire. “You’re tracking mud.”

I blink at him. “Nice to see your hospitality matches your charm.”

“You’re the one who showed up uninvited.”

I toe off my boots with a sigh, leaving them by the door, then cross my arms tightly over my chest. My shirt is soaked. My bra is soaked. Everything is clinging in ways that are decidedly uncomfortable and indecent.

He finally turns and catches sight of me standing there, wet and miserable. His eyes flick down for half a second, fast, but I catch it. A quick scan over my shirt, sticking to skin and curves and probably not leaving much to the imagination.

His jaw tightens. He mutters something under his breath and walks past me to a wooden chest under the window. He opens it and pulls out a stack of clothes—thick flannel and sweatpants.

“Here,” he says, thrusting them into my arms. “They’ll be big, but they’re dry.”

I look up at him. “You’re just giving me your clothes?”

“You want to sit around soaked all night?”

“I mean, maybe, for the attention,” I reply, letting him know I caught his wandering eyes.

His eyes narrow. “Bathroom’s through there.”

I head in with the bundle, closing the door behind me and locking it for good measure. It’s small but surprisingly clean. The mirror is slightly fogged from the heat of the fire in the next room, and the faint scent of pine soap lingers in the air.

I peel off my wet clothes and towel off quickly. The flannel shirt he gave me is soft from years of wear, oversized and warm, falling to mid-thigh. I tug the drawstring pants on and roll the waistband twice just to keep them from sliding off. The clothes—smoke and cedar.

When I step back out, Sawyer is stirring something in a pot on the stovetop. He doesn’t look up, but I see the way his shoulders shift slightly. He’s as aware of me as I am of him.

I sink onto the couch near the fire, my body aching with the kind of tired you only feel after a long day of travel, unexpected downpours, and verbal sparring with a very hot mountain man.

“Dinner?” I ask, gesturing toward the stove.

He nods. “Soup.”

“Smells good.”

“You want something else, you can cook.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I burn toast.”

He finally glances at me again and does a double take. His eyes catch on the flannel, the way it drapes off one shoulder, the rolled waistband of the sweatpants, my legs tucked under me on his couch. There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Just for a second. Hunger. Curiosity. Want. Then it’s gone, buried under that beard and a frown.

He ladles soup into two bowls and brings them over, handing one to me with a spoon. “It’s hot.”

“Thank you.”

He grunts and drops onto the chair opposite me, the firelight casting his face in warm shadows. I take a bite. Okay. Wow.

I blink. “This is really good.”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I make due.”

“You cook. You chop wood. You brood. Do you also moonlight as a sexy elf or forest king?”

His eyes cut to me, and I swear one corner of his mouth twitches.

I slurp another spoonful, letting the warmth seep through me. It’s quiet in here, just the soft pop of the fire, the occasional groan of the wind outside, and our spoons clinking against ceramic.

“So,” I say after a minute, “what’s your deal?”

Sawyer doesn’t look up. “My deal?”

“Yeah. Your backstory. The reason you live alone in a cabin with no internet and hate visitors.”

He leans back, stretching his long legs out. His socked feet rest near the edge of the firelight. “Not everything needs a story.”

“Spoken like a man who has one.”

He lifts his bowl, sips, and doesn’t answer.

I lean forward, chin in hand, spoon poised midair. “Come on. Give me something.”

He considers me for a long moment, then says, “I like the quiet.”

I wait, but that’s all he offers.

“That’s it?” I ask. “That’s your whole vibe?”

He shrugs. “You wanted me to give you something.”

“Yeah, but I wanted a little more oomph . Like ‘I used to be a Navy SEAL, but now I make artisanal maple syrup and talk to wolves.’”

He snorts, actually snorts, and it’s the first real sound of amusement I’ve heard from him. It’s a nice sound. I want to hear it again.

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters.

“And you’re still shirtless.”

He glances down like he forgot. Which, honestly, is probably true. If I looked like that, I’d walk around shirtless as much as possible. A small shiver runs through me as I look at his defined abs.

“Cold?” he asks, voice low.

“Not even a little,” I say too quickly, spooning more soup into my mouth to cover the flush rising in my cheeks.

He stands, finally grabbing a T-shirt from the back of the chair and tugging it on. I try not to be disappointed. I fail.

We finish the soup, and I carry our bowls to the sink, rinsing them out while he throws another log on the fire. The flames catch and roar up, casting the cabin in golden light.

I dry my hands and turn to find him watching me.

There’s something in his eyes I can’t quite place. It’s like awareness, but I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says quietly.

“Oh? And what did you expect?”

He shrugs. “Someone louder. Flashier. Less persistent.”

“I’m an acquired taste.”

He nods. “So are Brussels sprouts.”

We fall into silence again, and I sit back down on the couch, tucking my legs under me. He walks over and picks up a folded blanket from the back of the chair, tossing it at me with a grumble.

I catch it. “Thanks. You’re a real softie under all that grump.”

“Don’t spread lies.”

I giggle and drape the blanket over myself with a sigh, leaning back into the cushions. My body is warm, full, and more relaxed than it’s been in weeks.

Sawyer disappears up the ladder to the loft and returns a moment later with another blanket and a pillow. He drops them on the couch opposite mine and gestures.

“I’ll take the couch, and you can sleep in the loft.”

“You sure?”

He nods. “You’re the guest.”

I smile. “This is the weirdest hotel I’ve ever stayed in.”

“Rate it one star and keep moving.”

I chuckle and pull the blanket tighter. Thunder rumbles again, quieter now. The rain has mellowed into a steady patter on the roof, soothing in its rhythm. The fire crackles, and warmth seeps through me, inch by inch.

“I’m sorry if I pushed,” I say softly.

He glances at me.

“Earlier,” I clarify. “About the photos. The story. I know you didn’t ask for any of this.”

He exhales slowly. “It’s not just about the photos.”

“What is it about?”

He hesitates, then says, “People see something, and then they make up a version of you that fits their fantasy. Doesn’t matter if it’s true.”

“And you hate being someone’s fantasy?”

“I hate being reduced to one.” His voice is quiet. Weighted.

I nod, watching the fire. “I get that.”

He doesn’t answer, but I feel a shift, a slight softening of tension in the room. The way he sits a little closer to the edge of his seat. The way our silences don’t feel so pointed now.

I lie back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. “This isn’t how I thought today would go,” I say into the quiet.

Sawyer’s voice drifts back. “Less rain. Fewer trees.”

“Less grumpy hot guy with an axe.”

I swear I hear him chuckle. Just barely.

Outside, the storm begins to fade, but inside, something is just beginning. I close my eyes, wrapped in warmth, and I’m not in such a rush to leave anymore.