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CHAPTER

ONE

SIERRA

This trip was supposed to be an hour… tops. Get in, close the deal, get back to the office—I’m now completely and terrifyingly lost in the mountains. And I’m sweating through my blouse before I’ve even turned off the engine of my car.

The Pines Forest in summer is a furnace. No breeze, no clouds, just heat radiating off the dirt road and the heavy scent of pine needles baking in the sun. I kill the engine and glance down at my phone again.

Still nothing. No bars. No GPS. Tall evergreens stretch high above me, their thick canopies knitting together like nature’s own cathedral ceiling, trapping me in an inferno. It smells like sap and soil and something ancient—clean, untamed.

But I’m not here for the trees or the silence or even the fresh mountain air that fills my lungs with every breath. I’m here for Everest. A little for Martin. And mostly for me and my unwavering desire to finalize the deal on this resort.

If we can pull it off, it’ll be the biggest thing this town’s ever seen—chalets, high-speed lifts, luxury spas.

It’s the kind of thing that can make a developer’s career.

And mine is on the line. I’ve put in two years —weekends, birthdays, relationships—all sacrificed so I could be indispensable .

So I could earn Martin’s trust. So I could finally get a seat at the table instead of pouring the coffee.

And now I’m here. In these woods. On my project.

I pick my briefcase up off of the passenger seat and look over the surveyor's notes, my hands shaking slightly—I’ve got to make this work. Because if it doesn’t, I don’t want to explain it to him.

I work for the biggest developer in the state. Everyone wants to be him—or work for him. I used to be like that too. When I first got hired, I thought Martin was brilliant. Charismatic. Ruthless, but in that alpha male way that made people listen when he walked in a room.

Now I just think he’s disgusting.

I hear his voice in my head at every turn. He laughs at his clients dumb jokes, but there’s an edge to it—like he’s already imagining what he'll say to me when no one else is listening. When it's just us. When he can make his crude and unwanted comments.

He’ll touch me. He always does—an arm around my waist, a palm pressed to my lower back, a hand on my thigh when we’re seated too close together on purpose. It’s always subtle. Always deniable.

I don’t let him because I want to. I let him because I can’t afford not to.

Because rent is expensive, my savings are gone, and if I don’t make it through this, I have nothing to show for the years I’ve given him.

He could blackball me with a single phone call.

He’s done it before. To women who were stronger than me. Louder. Braver.

And even if I walked away now… what then ? I’ve built too much. I’ve come too far. I need the payout from this project. My cut will be enough to finally break away—to start my own firm. Autonomy . Freedom. And most importantly no more roaming hands.

So I breathe in the clean mountain air and pretend I’m just admiring the forest. Pretend the sunlight is warming my skin and not the burn of humiliation that creeps up my neck every time I have to smile through one of his jokes or nod when he “accidentally” brushes against me.

I am stronger than this. And smarter than him.

I just have to make it to the other side. Through the trees. Through this trip. Through Martin . And then I’m free.

I mutter a curse under my breath. The address I got for Everest Smith is useless—there’s no signal out here, and even when there was , the pin on the map kept shifting every time I zoomed in.

Typical. The guy owns the most strategically placed ten-acre plot of land on the entire mountain, and somehow he’s managed to stay completely off the grid.

No phone. No email. Just a damn P.O Box.

I squint through the windshield and think I see it—just beyond the tree line, something square and brown and possibly house-shaped.

Worth a shot.

I open the door of the car, and a wave of heat smacks me in the face like an oven blast. Immediately, my flats sink into soft dirt, and a pebble wedges itself between my heel and the shoe lining. Perfect. I brush off my slacks and start toward the silhouette in the woods.

By the time I reach the structure, I realize it’s not a house. It’s… a shed? No, more like the remains of one. Collapsed roof, rusted tin siding, no sign of life or even a path leading to or from it. I stop and put my hands on my hips, blinking hard against the sting of sweat in my eyes. Shit .

I turn around to head back toward the car—but the trees all look the same. There's no dirt road in sight. No break in the canopy. Just trees. And more trees. Green, endless, disorienting.

“Okay. No big deal,” I say out loud, my voice a little thinner than I’d like.

I pick a direction and start walking.

Twenty minutes later, I’m still walking. And panicking. My shirt is soaked, and my mouth is dry like cotton. I didn’t bring water. Or sunscreen. Or a damn hat. Who gets lost in the forest trying to buy land from a reclusive stranger and forgets water ?

Me, apparently.

I stop under a tree that offers the illusion of shade and sit on a thick root, slipping my shoes off with a groan. My feet are swollen, red, dusty. I lean my head back against the bark and close my eyes for a moment—just a moment—because I’m dizzy now, and the heat is pressing in from every side.

The irony isn’t lost on me. I’m out here trying to build a luxury ski resort, and I can’t even survive the forest for half a day in summer. If this resort ever gets built, the first thing we’re installing is a pool for the summer. And some street signs.

I stand, brush myself off, and keep walking. And if I don’t find Everest Smith or my car before nightfall, I’ll be sleeping out here too.

Every step feels like I’m dragging boulders instead of feet.

My blouse is plastered to my skin, my bra soaked through.

Sweat drips from my forehead into my eyes, stinging like fire.

I can barely see straight. Everything is bright and too loud—cicadas screaming in the trees, the pounding of my own pulse in my ears.

I’m so far past thirsty it doesn’t even feel like thirst anymore—just a deep, hollow ache in my ribs, like my body is folding in on itself. My mouth is dry and coated with dust, my tongue thick like it doesn’t belong to me. My thoughts are sludgy. Slow. Everything feels too slow.

But then—Something.

Just beyond the next line of trees. A sliver of wood.

Angled roof. Pale against the dark greens and browns of the forest. I blink hard, afraid it’s another mirage.

I’ve already chased too many shapes through the trees—rocks that looked like cabins, shadows that looked like chimneys.

But this one stays steady. It grows as I move forward.

A house. A real house.

I don’t feel my feet anymore. Don’t feel anything, really. Just momentum and hope laced with desperation. I push through branches and stumble over roots until I hit the clearing.

And there it is. Weathered wood, deep porch, green tin roof. It’s not fancy—more bunker than bungalow—but it’s real. A door. A porch swing. Windows. I could cry just looking at it.

I drag myself up the steps, one hand clinging to the railing to keep from collapsing. Each stair is a mountain. My vision tunnels in and out—black at the edges, white fuzz in the middle. My knees buckle once, then again, and I drop to them hard on the porch. My palms scrape on splintered wood.

I don’t care. I’m here. I made it .

I lift my hand to knock but I don’t think my fingers work. They’re numb and useless, like dead leaves. I manage to stand up and slump against the doorframe instead, resting my burning cheek against the wood.

My body caves. I melt sideways onto the porch with a choked sound that might be a sob, might be a laugh. Who knows anymore. Everything is too bright. The world spins in wide, slow circles.

“Please,” I whisper, or maybe I just think it. “Please let someone be home…”

And then it’s all too much. The heat. The exhaustion. I let go.

The last thing I hear is the creak of the porch swing swaying. Or maybe it’s the door opening.

God, I hope it’s the door.