two
Aiden
Five minutes to closing. I check the weather radar one more time on the ancient computer behind the counter. The storm's moving in faster than predicted. Blue and white swirls across the screen, bearing down on our little dot on the map like a predator.
Weather doesn't lie. My knee has been aching all day—never fails when pressure drops this fast.
I start my closing routine: counting the register, checking inventory on the winter emergency supplies we'd put on clearance last week. Darkmore winters linger, but nobody expects a blizzard in April.
The bell above the door jingles. Suppressing a sigh, I look up.
And forget how to breathe.
She bursts in like a summer storm—all flushed cheeks and wild eyes. Her chestnut hair tumbles around her shoulders, snowflakes melting against the strands. She's wearing a jacket that might handle a coastal drizzle but will be useless against what's coming.
"You're still open, right?" Her voice has an edge of panic. "Please tell me you're still open."
I glance at the clock. 4:55 PM.
"Five more minutes," I manage, my voice rougher than intended.
Relief floods her face. "Thank God. I need—well, everything, apparently. My cabin is falling apart, and there's a storm coming, and—" She stops abruptly. "Sorry. I'm Phoebe. Phoebe Hartley. I just inherited Max Hartley's place."
Max Hartley. That explains it. Poor girl has no idea what she's walked into. Max's cabin had been abandoned for nearly two years before he died.
"Aiden Calloway," I reply, watching as she tugs off thin leather gloves. City hands. Soft. "Max was a good man. I’m sorry for your loss."
"I barely knew him," she admits, looking around the store with wide eyes. "But he left me his cabin, and I thought... well, I needed a change."
She can't be more than twenty-five. I'm nearly forty. The observation brings an unwelcome tightness to my chest.
"What do you need?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral despite the unfamiliar warmth spreading through me.
She pulls out her phone and shows me a list. It's long. Too long for tonight.
"Top priorities," I say. "Storm's moving in fast."
Something in my tone must register because her shoulders straighten. "Roof repair supplies. The bedroom ceiling is leaking in at least four places. And something for the broken windows. And maybe a space heater? There's a fireplace, but I don't know how to use it, and—"
"Gas or electric?" I interrupt, moving toward the hardware section.
"What?"
"Your stove. Gas or electric?"
She blinks. "Gas, I think? It's ancient."
"Good. Power will go out." I grab a tarp, roofing sealant, and weatherstripping. "How'd you get here?"
"I drove from Vancouver. My Chrysler's outside."
I glance out the window at her little city car. It might as well be made of paper for all the good it'll do in what's coming.
"Not that. How'd you get to the cabin? Road's been washed out since spring melt began."
Her eyes widen. "There was a dirt track? It was rough, but I made it."
Stubborn. And lucky. That track turns to mud soup in any real precipitation.
I grab more supplies: a kerosene heater, matches, batteries, flashlights. She follows, asking questions about each item. Smart questions, actually. Not what I expected.
"Do you know how to use a caulk gun?" I ask, holding one up.
She shakes her head.
"Like this." I demonstrate, and she steps closer. The scent of her—something floral mixed with coffee—hits me like a physical force. My body responds instantly, a rush of heat surging south. Christ. It's been years since a woman affected me this way. Years longer since I've done anything about it.
Her fingers brush mine as she takes the tool, sending electricity up my arm. "Like this?"
Her grip is wrong. Without thinking, I reach around her, adjusting her hands. The contact is brief, but it jolts through me like lightning striking a pine. I step back quickly, my jeans suddenly uncomfortable.
"You'll need these too," I mutter, grabbing a heavy-duty flashlight and extra batteries.
She nods, studying my face. I turn away before she reads too much. Women like her don't look at men like me—not seriously. I've seen it before. City folks come up for adventure, maybe a fling with a mountain man, then return to their real lives.
The radio crackles. "—immediate winter storm warning for Darkmore Mountain and surrounding areas. Heavy snowfall expected to begin within the hour, with accumulations of eight to twelve inches overnight. Temperatures will drop to fifteen degrees Fahrenheit with windchill factors reaching—"
Her face pales. "That can't be right. It's April."
"Mountain weather doesn't follow calendars," I say, adding a double sleeping bag to her pile. "You have food? Water?"
"Some groceries in my car. I was going to unpack, then this—" she gestures at the supplies.
"I'll help you load up." The words surprise me as much as her. I don't offer help. Don't get involved. But the thought of her alone in that broken-down cabin during a spring blizzard...
I ring up her purchases, wincing at the total. She doesn't flinch, just hands over a credit card. As I pass her the receipt, our fingers brush again. This time, I don't imagine the slight tremor in hers, the way her pupils dilate just a fraction.
Stop it, Calloway. She's too young, too different. Too temporary.
Outside, snow falls more heavily now, fat flakes coating the ground. I load her supplies into her trunk while she cranks the engine.
Nothing happens.
She tries again. The car makes a clicking sound, then dies.
"No, no, no," she mutters, pounding the steering wheel. "Not now!"
I know that sound. Battery's dead, probably from the cold. Could jump it, but that's just delaying the inevitable. That car won't make it up the mountain tonight.
"I can take you," I hear myself say. "My truck can handle it."
She looks at me. Measuring, assessing. I know what she sees. Tall, bearded, rough-edged. Fifteen years her senior at least. A stranger offering a ride up a mountain as a blizzard rolls in.
"I don't have much choice, do I?" she finally says.
"You could stay in town. Darkmore Lodge has rooms."
"I can't afford that. Not after this—" she gestures toward her purchases. "And everything I own is in my car."
I nod. "We'll transfer your stuff to my truck. Lock your car. I'll have my brother tow it to the garage tomorrow."
"Your brother?"
"Search and rescue. Apprenticing at the town garage on the side." I start unloading her groceries, trying not to notice the box of fancy tea, the organic vegetables. City tastes.
"Thank you," she says, helping me transfer her bags. "I don't know what I would've done."
The gratitude in her voice makes something twist inside me. I grunt in response, not trusting myself to speak.
My truck starts with a rumble, heat blasting from the vents. She climbs in, looking small against the worn leather seat. This close, in the confined space, her scent is even stronger. My hands tighten on the steering wheel as my body reacts. Down, boy. Been so long since I've been with a woman that my cock's forgotten its manners.
"Nice truck," she offers as we pull away from the shop.
"Never let me down."
"Unlike my traitor Chrysler," she sighs.
The snow falls harder now, the windshield wipers barely keeping up. Visibility shrinks with each passing minute. I drive slowly, carefully, knowing every curve of this road like my own palm.
"Have you lived here long?" she asks, breaking the silence.
"All my life. Except four years of college."
"What did you study?"
"Business. Forestry minor."
She waits for more, but I don't elaborate. Don't tell her how I fled back to these mountains after graduation, how cities made me feel like I couldn't breathe. Don't mention that I took over the store when my father's heart gave out eight years ago, or that I haven't regretted it once.
"I worked in marketing," she volunteers. "Digital stuff. Until they laid everyone off three weeks ago."
That explains it. Not just a vacation, then. She's running from something, or toward something. Both, maybe.
"Sorry to hear that."
"Best thing that ever happened to me," she says with forced brightness. "Otherwise I'd never have had the guts to do this."
I nod, respecting the lie. We all tell ourselves what we need to hear during hard times.
The truck's tires slip slightly as we begin the steeper ascent. Snow blankets everything now, transforming the familiar landscape into something alien and treacherous. The road to Max's cabin is barely visible.
"Is it much farther?" she asks, tension threading her voice.
"About a mile. Road, or mud trail, really, gets rough from here."
Her phone pings with a message, surprising us both. She checks it. "Last gasp of service, I guess. My friend Priya thinks I'm crazy for coming here."
"She might be right."
That earns me a sharp look. "I'm not afraid of a little snow."
"Should be," I mutter, but she hears me.
"Look, I know I'm a city girl, but I'm not helpless. I can learn."
The determination in her voice catches me off guard. Maybe there's more to Phoebe Hartley than I thought.
A sudden gust of wind rocks the truck. The snow thickens, becoming a white wall before us. I slow even further, straining to see the road.
Then it happens. A patch of black ice, invisible beneath the fresh snow. The truck slides sideways, tires finding no purchase. I counter-steer, but momentum carries us toward the ditch.
"Hold on!" I bark, throwing my arm instinctively across her chest as we slide off the road. The truck tilts, then settles with a bone-jarring thud.
When I look over, my arm is still pressed against her. Her heart hammers beneath my forearm. Our faces are inches apart, her eyes wide with fear and something else—something that makes my breath catch.
"You okay?" I manage, my voice rough.
She nods, not moving away from my touch. "What now?"
I force myself to pull back, to assess our situation professionally. The truck's front wheel is buried in snow, tilted at an angle that means we're not driving out.
"We walk," I say, reaching behind the seat for my emergency pack. "Your cabin's about half a mile from here."
"Walk? In this?" She gestures at the whiteout conditions outside.
"Only getting worse." I pull out two headlamps. "Put on everything warm you have. We move now or we don't move at all."
She swallows hard, then nods. I watch as she layers a sweater under her raincoat, pulls a knit hat from her bag.
Not enough. Not nearly enough.
I shrug out of my heavy flannel jacket and hold it out to her.
"I can't take your coat," she protests.
"Not a debate." I'm already pulling on my waterproof shell from behind the seat. "Layer up. Now."
To my surprise, she doesn't argue further. Just slips into my jacket, the sleeves hanging well past her fingertips. Something primal stirs in me at the sight of her wrapped in my clothing.
Focus, Calloway. Getting her safely to shelter is all that matters. Whatever this impossible attraction is, it doesn't change the facts. She's young. She's temporary. And men like me don't get chances with women like her.
But as we prepare to step into the storm, I can't help wondering what it would be like if we did.