Page 5

Chapter 5

Lana

T he general store is warm and cozy, and feels like we’ve stepped into an 1800s homestead with modern amenities. There's even a cast iron wood stove burning wood in the far corner.

I head there first, ready to defrost my frigid fingers. But also to get away from Trevor as fast as I can. I'm not falling for his little nice guy tactics even for a second. I don't care how cute his dimples are or how warm his gaze on me feels. And that scent. Don't get me started on how this guy smells like the perfect mix of musk and wood… I need to stop.

It hasn't even been two months since my wedding day went to shit and I'm already cracking.

I step up to the fire and hold my cold hands out.

I can't let myself be taken advantage of again. Never again .

This time, I know better. This time, I'm not a desperate woman trying to get validation from a guy that could never be what I need him to be.

No. Trevor Sincaid won't get access to me. I don't care how much my brother claims to love the guy.

"The sheriff seems to have taken a liking to you," a voice says quietly behind me.

"And you feel the need to mention that to me because…?"

Trevor shrugs, still holding the jacket over his arm that he wrapped me in without asking. It was sweet, but I know better.

"No particular reason, I guess. Just seems to be going out of his way for a group of strangers."

I turn to him. "Maybe if I bat my lashes and shake my ass he'll put us up in a big, fancy cabin. Seems to work for you professional hockey players."

His gentle smile disappears. "I've never shaken my ass to get something. I took my pants off."

I give him a look.

"Besides," he adds gruffly, "I didn't say I liked that he's looking at you."

Wait… what?

Trevor's eyes stay glued to mine and there's a possessiveness in them that takes me by surprise.

"Woah! You won't believe what the sheriff just got us." My brother walks up to us, swinging a set of keys around his pointer finger breaking our locked gazes.

"Are those the keys to his handcuffs?" I balk at him.

"No," he rustles my hair, and I slap his hand away.

"One of the owners of the inn told him we could stay in his empty cabin just up the hill for the night."

Maybe Trevor was right. It does seem like a lot of trouble for a few strangers just passing through.

"Let me guess, in exchange, he wants Lana's number?" Trevor says, still defensive.

"Nope, but he does want yours."

My eyes shoot back to my brother, and we both say, "What?"

"I mean, your jersey number. Signed. That was his only request. I told him you'd do it, no problem," Vance laughs. “Anything so that we don’t have to wait out a snowstorm from my car.”

"But I don't have a jersey,” Trevor says.

"No need. He's a fan, man. Apparently he has one at the cabin we'll be staying in. It's hanging in one of the guest rooms."

How nice that we'd find ourselves nearly a thousand miles from home and just so happen to run into Trevor's biggest fan.

"But actually now that you mention it, yeah, big bad sheriff dude did low-key ask me for Lana's number."

Trevor gives me an I told you so look.

I try to ignore him. "So, where is this cabin?"

"Welp," Vance says. "About that."

I'm once again engulfed in that scent that is purely Trevor Sincaid. A smell like that should be illegal. It's the kind of fragrance that makes for bad decisions. I realize the effect as I'm grabbing onto his midsection like my life depends on it.

The firm muscles of his stomach tighten at the way I grasp onto him as he speeds over bumps in the snow on the snowmobile.

My brother is riding just next to us. The people of Holly Ridge really are way too trusting to let people they don't know just stay in their cabins and borrow their snowmobiles.

What's next? A visit from the neighbors with a plate of cookies in the morning? Actually that wouldn’t be so bad.

The snowmobile hits a bump, and we fly into the air and land with a big thump, my body pushing up against Trevors as my legs hug his thighs in a way that isn't entirely appropriate, but I wasn't about to do this with my brother. Hell no.

Vance stops just before the dark cabin and shuts the ignition off. There aren't any lights for miles, and the cabin looks abandoned and untouched from where we are. Now, it all makes sense.

Trevor parks next to Vance and whistles, saying, "Looks about as festive as your house, little grinch."

I push myself away from him. "You’re one to talk."

“I just moved in. What’s your excuse?” Trevor says.

Vance quickly dismounts, bounds up the steps to the two-story log cabin, and tries the door. After moments of messing with the lock, he resorts to knocking.

"Don't you have a key?" Trevor calls out to him as he follows him up the steps.

"It's not working," he calls back over his shoulder.

The wind is picking up, and it hasn't stopped snowing since we got into town. It's getting heavier. We weren't able to bring the SUV up the road, so we were only able to bring whatever could fit into backpacks for the night.

Hopefully, just for the night.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and I can imagine our family all gathered around the warm fire of the cabin in Breckenridge. A picturesque scene glowing behind them in the giant glass wall of the town full of lights and nearby snow-covered mountains. It was the post card that lives in my mind of every Christmas of our childhood.

That's the Christmas I was hoping for. Not getting detoured, snowed in, and trapped in an abandoned cabin in some small town with my brother and his obnoxious teammate.

An obnoxious teammate whose coat I'm now wearing since I was too aggravated at the sight of him to run back inside and actually grab mine before leaving on this stupid road trip.

Vance finally gets the door open. Inside, we split up in search of light switches. I run my hands over the walls in the dark place and find one, switching it back and forth—nothing.

"Power's out," I announce.

"Ah, shit." Vance pulls out his phone and turns on the flashlight setting. "I'll go outside and look for a breaker box. I'm sure there's one somewhere."

In the brief moment that he opens the door, the howling wind outside blows in more snow than should be allowed. He quickly shuts it behind him leaving Trevor and I alone in the dark.

He turns on his flashlight too and flashes it at me. I cover my eyes as he smiles and moves it around the darkened space.

The light reveals a main living space that has two leather couches covered in an assortment of throw blankets. A wood-burning fireplace. And a small dining table for four. There's a hallway off from the living room that must be where the bedrooms are and a stretch of stairs that lead to the second story.

I pull out my phone to turn my flashlight on as well. But it's dead.

"Hey Sherlock, point your light up there." I motion up the stairs.

"Why?" He says, moving my way. "You scared of ghosts, Lani Banani?"

"My brother's the only one that can call me that and just barely. And no, I'm not scared of anything."

"That's very on-brand for you," he brushes past me and points the light up the steep steps. At the very top is a tiny door that looks like it was created for a leprechaun.

"Creepy," we both say slowly.

"Well, I think we can both agree there's nothing up there for us," he says, stepping further down into the hall and shining down the light down revealing three doors. I notice him hesitate.

"Who's scared now?" I smirk, holding my hand out open for him to pass me the phone we're using as a flashlight.

He doesn't think twice before giving it to me.

I huff out a laugh and keep pushing forward. The first door is a bathroom. One that must've been recently remodeled since it has a big glass steam shower next to a very vintage-looking clawfoot bath.

He sticks his face in next to me and whistles. "Fancy," he says. "I call dibs on the shower."

We move on to the other doors. One is a children's room with two little beds—one in pink covers and one in blue. A lamp on a nightstand between the two is in the shape of a star. Quaint and cute.

The second room is my literal worst nightmare. I shut the door behind me so fast before Trevor even has a chance to look in.

"What is it?" he asks, with an eyebrow quirked up in curiosity.

"Just a room, let's go see the kitchen." I attempt to duck around him and draw his attention away.

"Uh uh, gimme that," he reaches for his phone again, and I jump to try to get it back.

"Trevor, no!"

I wrestle it back out of his hands, and he catches me by the waist and swings me back against the wall, trapping me between his arms.

"Give me my phone, Lana," his voice sounds like a threat, but I know better. The little curve at the corner of his lip gives away his playfulness.

"No," I say again, trapping the phone behind my back. In a panic, I slip it into my pants.

His eyes widen. "Did you just stick my phone in your ass crack?"

The way he says ass crack filled with so much disbelief makes me burst out into a laugh that makes me bend forward just enough that he reaches behind me and slips his hand into the waistband of my jeans.

"Get your hand away from my ass!" I bark out with a laugh, twisting away from him.

"No, you get my phone out of your ass. You weirdo!" He twists me around, and now my back is to him. I quickly press into him so he can't reach between us and retrieve his precious phone. And as soon as I do, I'm able to feel him hard and excited behind me.

Good God. What is this man packing?

Before the thought completely overtakes me, he tickles the area beneath my ribs, which is the most ticklish spot on my body. I cry out for him to stop and pull away from him, just as he shoves his hand down my pants and pulls out his phone.

"What is wrong with you?" He chuckles, holding the phone away from my grasp. "You don't want me to see what's in this room that much?"

I'm still holding the side of my body where his fingers dug into me and made me lose all control just moments before. "Don't," I breathe out as he puts his hand on the door handle.

He grins triumphantly and pushes the door open. The second he does, the lights come on illuminating the entire house, but especially this space in such a way that it feels like a special middle finger from the entire universe to me.

Heatwave merch is everywhere. And when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere, from the bedspread with the signature flaming puck logo with a giant H to the jerseys lining the wall of every player in this season's starting lineup. Orange and yellow are the colors accenting the black in the space.

The owner of this cabin isn't just a fan of the Houston Heatwave; he might just be their number one fan.

Which is excellent… just freakin' fantastic.

Trevor spots his number two jersey among the others. Balinger, O'Connor, Ferguson, Hicks (who doesn't even play for them anymore, but hey), Landry, and of course…

"Would you look at that?" he says with a grin so incorrigible I might slap it off his face. "That must be the jersey he wants me to sign."

All the others already sport his teammate's signatures.

The front door slams, and my brother stomps his feet at the entrance before his heavy footsteps meet us at the end of the hall.

"Well, we got pow—Woah," Vance says, mouth agape as he enters the space.

"There's more Heatwave merch here than at the store at Space City Arena." Vance points to the wall of jerseys. "They forgot the best player, though."

I shove him in the side. "Alright, you two narcissists, let's figure out what the hell we're going to eat tonight."

I turn the light off and head to the kitchen. And I can hear them playing rock, paper, scissors over who gets the Heatwave room.

“Gah! Best two out of three,” Trevor offers.

“Nope, enjoy the toddler bed,” my brother says to him.

Now that the house is completely illuminated I'm able to really take in its charm. It's warm like a cute family might stay here every once in a while, but not overly decorated that it feels gaudy. The typical things you'd find in a mountain cabin occupy the space. Hand-carved furniture, wool blankets, oil paintings of mountainous scenes, and candles. Lots of candles everywhere. Probably due to the fact that they lose power a lot out here as we just witnessed.

Trevor opens a cabinet in the kitchen. "They have a lot of canned goods." He opens another. "Like, a lot of canned foods."

Vance grabs one from the open cabinet. "Peaches, corn, peas… we can make quite a canned food casserole."

I make a heaving sound.

"Oh, hush. You love my cooking."

"Excuse me?" I laugh out. "Your cooking? Since when do you cook?"

"Excuse me," my brother mimics me. "But I've cooked ever since I realized that girls are more attracted to Chef Daddy than a hockey one."

"A Chef Daddy?" Trevor snorts to himself, still searching cabinets and then opens the fridge—empty. But in the freezer, he sees something that makes him smile.

"You guys…" he pulls it out and shakes the chilled bottle at us.

"Vodka? I don't know, man," my brother hesitates.

"Are you pro players not allowed to drink vodka?" I ask him, leaning against the small island in the middle of the kitchen; I'm rubbing my arms because it's still so cold in this house.

"Our training staff aren't too keen on us partaking in alcoholic beverages during the season," Vance clarifies.

"But lucky for us," Trevor opens the lid and downs a big gulp. "None of them are here right now."

He passes the open bottle to my brother, who stares at it a moment too long. I roll my eyes and grab the bottle, bringing the cold glass to my lips and taking an extra strong pull of it.

If I'm going to be stranded in a cabin in the middle of nowhere just before Christmas with two men… then I'll take all the alcohol I can get.

"Lana MacDonald," Trevor says in an appreciative voice. "Didn't think you had it in you."

I take a second giant gulp before handing him the bottle.

"Well, while my brother whips us up some canned dinner, I'm going to go chop us up some wood for the fire," I say.

Both guys look at me like I just lost my mind.

"You're not going out there," Vance says. "Trust me, the wind alone will blow you down the mountain we just rode up."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'll be fine. I've been in worse." I zip Trevor's coat up to my neck and pull on the hoodie.

Trevor stares at me for a second before taking another pull of vodka, setting it on the counter, and turning to Vance.

"Give me your coat." He holds a hand out, waiting for him.

"My coat? As in the one I'm currently wearing so as not to die of frostbite?"

"Yes, that coat. I'm going with her."

"No, you're not," I protest.

Vance looks at him but ultimately gives in and shrugs out of his giant coat. Trevor slips it on, zips it up, and turns to me. "The lady wants firewood, so let's chop some firewood."

"I don't need your help," I say to him, turning to exit the back of the house.

"Well, if the winds are going to blow you down the mountain, I'd at least like to watch. Make sure they finish the job."

I glower at him, and he grins at me.

I pull the coat hoodie closer around my face and brace for the cold wind before turning back to Trevor.

“Just try to keep up."