By the time the GPS tells me to turn onto a smaller lane, my shoulders are stiff from gripping the wheel. The path narrows, dipping and rising in a way that makes my stomach wobble.
Snow wraps around the car like a curtain. I shut off the radio so I can hear the engine and try to pretend I am not mildly panicking.
Focus.
Another few minutes crawl by before the GPS chirps in that way too cheerful voice. "You have arrived."
I slow to a crawl.
There is a cabin up ahead, but it is not exactly what I expected.
The pictures online looked cute. Cozy. There were fairy lights on the railing. A wreath on the door. A little bench with plaid cushions.
This cabin is larger. Darker. The logs are thick and rough. The porch is deep and shaded. The green door is there, yes, and the woodpile to the left, just like in the listing.
But there are no lights.
No wreath.
No cute little bench.
No sign of anything festive at all.
I pull into the cleared space next to the cabin and kill the engine. The sudden silence rings in my ears. Snowflakes hit the windshield and melt in tiny rivulets. The sky is a solid gray sheet.
My heart beats too fast.
"Okay," I whisper to myself. "Maybe they just did not turn on the lights yet. Maybe they are inside with cocoa and a blanket, and you are about to have an adorable meet cute with a sweet retired couple who rent cabins to city girls who get abandoned on Christmas."
That image is so comforting I almost believe it. But my gut knows better.
I tug my hood up, grab my suitcase handle, and scoop the cookie tin into my arms. My boots sink into the snow when I step out. The cold slaps me instantly, stealing my breath.
By the time I drag my suitcase up the short path, my nose is numb. The wheels keep sticking. The cookie tin is heavy in my arms. Snow sneaks into the gap at my neck and chills my spine.
I climb the steps onto the porch. The boards creak. The cabin looms over me, solid and quiet, like it has been here forever and does not particularly care about my existence.
My breath clouds the air as I shift my grip on my things and raise my hand to knock.
The door swings open before my knuckles even touch it.
I jolt back with a startled yelp and the cookie tin slips right out of my hands. It hits the porch with a loud clang that echoes through the storm. I dive for it on instinct, scooping it up so fast I almost face plant into the snow.
My fingers wrap around the cold metal just in time and I mutter a frantic, “Sorry. Sorry. You are fine. You survived,” which is probably not something a mentally stable person says to cookies.
I straighten slowly.
And that is when I seehim.
A man fills the doorway.
And I meanfills.
He is taller than he has any right to be. Bare chest on full display. Broad shoulders. Muscles carved like someone sculpted him out of stubborn pine and bad decisions. His skin is warm toned and firm, the kind that should be illegal this far into the mountains.
A few snowflakes settle into his dark hair like they are choosing him on purpose.
Heat floods straight through my body. Warm. Melting.
