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CHAPTER 1

LARK

I knew I made the right decision moving here.

My dad wasn’t as sure. Overprotective to the nth degree, when I told him I was buying a log cabin in the woods of Vermont, he immediately came up with reasons why it was a bad idea.

It was too far from the company offices in Montpelier. In the winter, the winding roads could be treacherous. Owning a home was so much more work than the neat little condo I’d lived in for years.

And the biggest one, the one Dad really got hung up on— it’s not safe .

It was during one of our weekly dinners when I first broached the topic, telling him my plans for moving out of the city.

Well. City is a generous term for Montpelier. Compared to places like Boston and New York City and even Burlington, it would be considered tiny. But it was still more city than I wanted .

After spending my entire life in Montpelier, except for four years of college at Columbia, I ached for something different. Something quieter. More isolated. A place where I could sit out on my porch and watch nature without any interruptions. Where I could hike into the woods or go cross-country skiing only steps from my front door.

And once the realtor brought me here, to this adorable cabin on two acres of land just south of Morristown, I fell in love.

My dad? Not so much.

As I showed him the listing, he listened to me rattle on about inspections and surveys and all the things I’d do if the seller accepted the offer I was about to make. Knowing he’d be concerned about the financial aspects of it, I outlined the benefits of owning a house with land instead of a condo, and how much the value of the property would go up over the next ten years.

I still remember the way his expression sobered as I went on, and when I finally wound down, he hesitated for several long seconds before saying in that apologetic you’re not going to like what I have to say but I love you, so I’m saying it anyway tone, “Lark, baby, I just don’t know if that’s a good idea. It doesn’t sound safe.”

After thirty-four years of dealing with my dad’s brand of overprotectiveness, I didn’t get mad. Or defensive. I just replied calmly, “I’ve been living on my own for over a decade. And you know I don’t make decisions without thoroughly investigating them first. This is what I want, and I’m confident I can make it work. I hope you’ll support me, but I’m doing this. If not this house, another. I want a different life than I have in Montpelier.”

He might be overprotective, but he’s not unreasonable. So he gradually came around—not exactly happy about my decision, but not unhappy, either.

It probably helped that I had a security system installed as soon as I moved in. And I made sure to show him the chains for my tires, the emergency kit I kept in the trunk, and reassured him that if the weather was really bad, I’d work from home rather than make the forty-minute drive to the office.

In the six months I’ve lived in my little cabin, the commute hasn’t bothered me much. In the morning, I listen to an audiobook or podcast, drink my coffee, and take some time to run through my itinerary for the day. And on the way home, I take my time with it—stopping at farm stands and taking little detours to explore parts of Vermont I still don’t know.

And my dad admitted it is nice here. Surrounded by trees, the nearest neighbor a quarter mile away, there’s a peace I never got back in Montpelier. While we sat out on the porch, watching the sun dip below the treeline, he said, “I can see why you like it here, Lark. I’ll still worry about you, but I get it. And I really hope this place brings you joy.”

It has. It does.

And as I look out the kitchen window at the snowflakes just starting to fall, a delicate crystalline white against the darkening sky, my chest swells with happiness.

This is what I’ve been waiting for. The advent of my favorite season. Less than two weeks until Thanksgiving, snow is late coming this year, but I’m hoping this is just the start of much more to come. I don’t just want a white Christmas; I want snow for the entire holiday season.

I’ve always loved winter in Vermont—the fluffy drifts of snow along the roads, the blankets of shimmering white draped across the trees, and that perfect stillness when you step outside just after a snowstorm.

It’s special. Magical.

And I’m so excited to make the most of it here. To decorate the porch with white twinkle lights and hang cheery red ribbons on the windows, and maybe even buy a set of those sweet birch reindeer to put by the door.

Once the snow is thick enough, I’ll break out the snowshoes I bought in anticipation of the winter. I’ll trek through the woods and hang little homemade bird feeders and bring a batch of fresh-baked cookies to my closest neighbor. And if the weather gets bad enough for the roads to become impassable, I’ll work remotely, like I promised my dad I would, tucked safely in my cabin with the fire going and a mug of hot chocolate beside me.

As I finish washing the dishes from dinner—grilled cheese and tomato soup, my favorite—my phone chimes with an incoming text. Quickly drying my hands, I grab it off the butcher block island and look at the screen, smiling to see Kate’s name splashed across it.

Hey you! Haven’t heard from you in ages. How’s the house? Seen any bears yet? Deer? Moose?

I grin at the screen. Kate’s the opposite of me; she loves cities and skyscrapers and wants nothing to do with nature. Her idea of roughing it is a weekend in the Catskills at a luxury resort. Since we met in college, she’s come to visit a few times, but she was more interested in trying the local ice cream and cheese and craft beer than exploring nature.

Heading into the living room, I plop down on the couch and hit the remote for the fireplace, sighing with pleasure as the flames leap to life almost immediately. Changing the fireplace from wood to gas was one of the first changes I made, and I think so far, my favorite.

Glancing back at my phone, I quickly send a reply.

The house is great! Finally feeling like I’m settled in. I haven’t seen any bears or moose yet, but definitely deer. But I’m hoping!

Three dots blink for a second before her response appears.

Eeesh. I was joking! Are there actually moose and bears there?

With a small chuckle, I answer her question.

Yes. But there aren’t many. I’m in the woods, so it’s possible I might see one.

After a few seconds, her next message comes through.

I think I’ll stick with squirrels. That’s enough nature for me!

But you’re happy there? Not lonely?

This time, I hesitate before answering.

Am I lonely? Most of the time, no. I have lots to keep myself busy. Work, taking care of the cabin, making small repairs I can do myself after watching tutorials on YouTube, texting or calling with friends, and there’s always another book to read .

But there are times when I wish I had someone with me. Someone to sit on the couch with in the evenings as we cuddle by the fire. Someone to make dinner for, instead of always eating on my own. Someone to celebrate the holidays with, buying special ornaments and making traditions we’ll continue for years to come.

Sometimes I wish for what my parents had, once upon a time.

As the pang of loss hits me, I try to turn my mind back to happier things. I force my lips into a smile—I read somewhere that just the act of smiling makes you feel happier—and type out a reply.

Not really. I have work, plus with the promotion, I’ve been extra busy. I see my dad and friends in Montpelier. Once I’m home, it’s nice to have some time to myself.

Mostly.

The three dots blink longer this time.

What about that guy? Your neighbor? Have you seen him much?

At the mention of him, my heart does a little flutter.

Knox.

It figures that the only person within a mile of me happens to be the most attractive man I’ve seen in years.

Who am I kidding? I’ve never seen anyone more attractive than him—not in person, or on TV, or in movies.

Knox is just… phew.

Tall, a head higher than my five-foot-five, with muscles all over. And not muscles from hours spent at the gym, but from his decades spent in the Army and his job as a general contractor. I’ve seen Knox lift huge planks of wood and split tree trunks without breaking a sweat, his very sexy biceps bulging as he does it.

And he’s not just sexy, but handsome, too. Bright blue eyes framed with dark lashes, and dark brown hair that looks so thick and soft my fingers itch to touch it. He has a beard, which I’ve never liked on men before, but on him it works. It makes him look outdoorsy. Tough. Like he could be dropped in the middle of the woods without any supplies and be able to handle anything.

But as polite as Knox has been when I’ve spoken to him, he’s given no indication of wanting more than friendship.

Which is fine. After a series of bad relationships, each one worse than the last, being friends with Knox is definitely the best idea.

Realizing Kate is still waiting for my answer, I send back what I hope is a neutral response.

I see him once or twice a week. But he’s just being nice, offering to help around the house since I haven’t been here long. That’s all.

A few seconds go by before Kate replies.

Not everyone is like jerkface, you know. If this guy is nice… could it hurt to see if he’s interested?

Well. Yes. It could hurt. But I don’t want to get into it with Kate, so I settle for something safer.

I really don’t think he is. And that’s okay. My only real neighbor is nice and helpful. I’m happy with that.

Not moments after I hit send, my phone chimes again. But this time, it’s not Kate.

Like I summoned him just by thinking about him, the message is from Knox .

Just wanted to check in. Looks like we’re going to get almost a foot tonight. I was thinking I could stop by in the morning to help clear the snow. I know you’ve got someone to plow the driveway, but I can do the path and check the roof. What do you think?

Oh.

He really is nice.

And while I’m more than capable of doing the shoveling on my own, I’m not offended by his offer. By now, I know he’s just the kind of guy who wants to help people. I saw it firsthand when he stopped by to introduce himself, only to find me struggling to unclog the downspout for one of my gutters. He didn’t hesitate to climb up the ladder and get himself dirty, not just unclogging that gutter, but all of them.

So of course, I had to make some cookies to bring over in thanks. It was only polite.

A pleased smile pulling at my lips, I type out several replies before settling on one.

If you’re sure you have the time. I don’t want to keep you from work.

Knox replies right away.

I definitely have the time. Do you think you’ll drive into Montpelier tomorrow? Or will you work from home?

Hmm. If a foot comes down, depending on when it stops, driving could be tricky. And I do have the option to work from home when I want, a perk of my new role as CFO of the company.

I’m not sure. But if I do, I’ll go in later. Let the plows get a chance to clear some of the roads.

Pausing, I hold a quick inner debate before sending another message .

Is it too much? But we’re friends, right? Friends share meals. Unless… he thinks it’s too pushy? But it’s morning, and he’s here…

Ugh.

Just ask him.

Do you want breakfast while you’re here? I could cook up some eggs and bacon.

On a held breath, I wait for his answer.

Yes. That would be great. Does seven work?

Remember. We’re just friends.

But my smile as I reply says otherwise.

Seven sounds great!

I guess it’s a good thing I’m going in to work late tomorrow.

Partly because of the snow that’s still falling steadily, and according to the weather reports, not predicted to stop until mid-morning. I already emailed my assistant to let her know I’ll be working remotely until at least noon, and depending on road conditions, possibly the rest of the day.

But the bigger reason is because of my own lack of willpower.

I blame my favorite author, really.

She really shouldn’t write books that are so hard to put down. There should be a break at some point—the I know you need to get some sleep so the intensity of the plot will ease up for a bit part of the book.

Nope. Instead, this new release is a runaway train speeding toward a heart-pounding conclusion, and the idea of putting my Kindle away is unthinkable. Not until I know if Marco, the wrongly-accused narcotics officer, will discover who framed him. Is it the partner who has a thing for his wife? The drug-addicted brother? Or are both of those red herrings and the real culprit is a total surprise?

I’ve tried going to sleep at least half-a-dozen times, telling myself the story will still be there in the morning.

But I need to know . I probably won’t be able to sleep well if I don’t. I’ll toss and turn and I’ll end up getting as much sleep as I would if I just finish the book now.

So here I am, laying in bed in my darkened bedroom, reading by the glow of my Kindle and trying to ignore the clock silently reminding me that I’m up two hours past my bedtime.

But at least I have a little extra time to sleep in tomorrow morning.

Or this morning, actually, since it’s half past midnight.

Rather than getting up at five-thirty so I can be on the road by seven, I can snooze my alarm a few times. I can wake up at six-thirty, take a quick shower, and still have time to spare before Knox gets here at seven.

Although. That doesn’t give me much time to get ready. And while I know we’re just friends, new ones at that, I’d still like to look somewhat presentable when Knox gets here.

So I’ll get up at six-fifteen. That still gives me almost?—

Yikes. Less than six hours. I should really put away this addictive story and go to sleep .

Decision made—for now, at least—I reluctantly snooze my Kindle and set it on the nightstand. The lock screen taunts me as I lie back down, and I have a fleeting thought of getting up to put it in the living room so I won’t be tempted. But it’s so cozy in my bedroom, all snuggled under my down comforter, with the nearly full moon casting a soft glow outside. Large flakes of snow drift down beyond the window, glinting in the moonlight, adding a magical feel to the night.

This is why I moved here. To have these quiet moments, unspoiled by traffic and light pollution and neighbors leaving their TV on all night. Out here, I can’t even see Knox’s house. All I can hear is the soft hum of the furnace kicking on and the faint clink of ice cubes dropping in the freezer.

It’s almost too quiet, now that I’m thinking about it.

Maybe I should get a cat. So he or she can sleep next to me, their soft purr lulling me to sleep. That would be nice. I could put a cat condo in the living room, right by the front window so the cat could look outside. For Christmas, I could get a little stocking and fill it with catnip treats and toys. And?—

Wait.

Did I just hear something else?

A creak?

My stomach lurches into my throat.

No. Calm down.

This is a log cabin. It’s literally all wood. Of course it creaks.

And I have a security system. A good one, with video doorbells and sensors on the windows and motion- activated lights that turn on as soon as anyone comes to the door.

It’s just the house settling, whatever that means. Something about the change in temperature, and maybe with the snow collecting on the roof?—

I hear it again.

Just a whisper of a sound.

For a second, I think, just ignore it. This is just one of those sounds houses make. I haven’t lived here that long, so I’m not used to it yet.

Except I’ll never be able to sleep until I know for sure. I’ll just lie here, my ears pricked for the slightest sound, losing more sleep than I have already.

Okay. Decision made.

Quietly—I’m not sure why, but I do it anyway—I slip out from under the covers and put my feet on the floor. Then I stand, still listening carefully, shivering a little as the cool air hits me.

After several seconds of silence, I almost change my mind. Almost dive back under the blanket and give in to the call of the Kindle, this time as a way to distract me.

Then I hear another creak.

Crap.

There’s no way I’m sleeping now.

Feeling a bit foolish at my paranoia—look at me, a grown woman jumping at undoubtedly normal sounds—I take a step away from the bed. As my bare feet leave the soft shag rug beside it, I shiver again, wondering distractedly why I decided to set the thermostat so low.

So I could save money. That’s right. And because I thought it would be cozier, tucked under my comforter with a bit of chill in the air around me .

Now, my goosebumps just add to the unsettled feeling I’m battling.

Just as I’m about to head out out of the bedroom, I stop as a memory strikes me.

My dad, almost eight years ago, when I bought my condo, giving me an unexpected gift.

“I know it seems excessive,” he explained as he handed over the gun—a Sig P365, I now know. “But living on your own, I think it’s better to be prepared than wish you were later. Hopefully, you’ll never have to use it.”

I never have, except for training. But I still keep it in my nightstand, just in case. Because, while my dad worries to excess, he’s also a very smart guy. And honestly, it has made me feel better.

So I grab it, knowing full-well I won’t need it, but having the weight in my hand gives me a sense of reassurance.

As I leave the bedroom, I hear another creak from the front of the house, and another thought hits me. Could I have a raccoon in the attic? Some other animal trying to take cover from the storm? I had a squirrel in my attic at the condo and the little guy made way more noise than I would have expected.

I won’t put poison up there. No way. I’ll buy some of those traps and release whatever animal it is back into the woods. Maybe I can ask Knox to help me.

The gun is held loosely by my side as I move silently down the hall, still listening intently. As I pass by the bathroom, I glance in, finding everything just as it should be. The same goes for the guest room I use as my office, the screensaver on my computer still lazily spinning.

So I just need to check the living room and kitchen. Then I’ll know this was all in my head.

Except.

A figure steps into the doorway.

Tall. All in black. A mask over his face.

Oh my God .

My heart stops.

The person—the man, it has to be, given his size—stops, too.

The whites of his eyes are terrifyingly bright in the darkness.

I can’t move. My muscles are frozen.

Then.

He chuckles.

Takes a step toward me.

And—oh, God, no—something glints dully.

Not something. A gun.

A panicked voice in my head shouts, move, move, move!

My heart kickstarts. My muscles unlock.

Logic takes over, ordering, don’t run straight. Duck. Dodge. A moving target is harder to hit than a standing one.

That’s what I do.

I turn and leap forward, to the side and down.

There’s a sharp crack.

Pain flares in my arm. Burning. Agonizing.

My heart nearly bursts from fear.

“You can’t get away,” the man says, his voice low and slithery, like a snake. “There’s no point in trying.”

No .

I refuse.

This is my house. My life .

Anger chases away everything else. And after it, a laser-sharp focus.

Instead of running, I release the safety. Cock the trigger. Then I spin around and aim, just like I’ve done hundreds of times in practice. Because one benefit of being a perfectionist is I made sure I’m an excellent shot.

And I fire.

Another crack.

Then, a howl of pain.

He shouts, “You bitch!”

But the hand with the gun is down. Instead he’s hunched over, clutching his chest.

God. I shot him. I shot him .

Did that really just happen?

Then, through the shock, a flash of clarity.

Get outside. To the woods. Now.

Without questioning my instincts, I turn and run.

Back down the hallway, to the laundry room, where there’s another door to outside.

Once I get in there, I slam the door shut and flick the lock, but I know it’s far too flimsy.

Get out.

I can hear the man cursing. Groaning. Spitting out horrible threats.

Still clutching the gun, I burst outside. Leaping off the step, I land in a thick layer of snow, and my feet go numb almost immediately.

But it doesn’t matter.

I only have seconds to get to cover .

Adrenaline gives me an incredible boost of speed as I dash through the snow. I veer over to the shed and circle around it, trying to stay in the shadows.

But where next?

I don’t have my phone. My car keys.

Oh.

Knox.

I can run through the woods. Stay in the dark.

As I dart into the thick of the trees, I can hear the faint splintering of wood behind me.

And I run even faster.

Pain is a forgotten thing.

All I can think is, Knox.

He said he was Special Forces. Aside from his construction business, he also works for a private security company.

Knox will help me.

I just have to get there.