—It’s not the Ritz, but it’ll do until the storm passes, I say, closing the door behind us, cutting off the howl of the wind.
Jane is soaked, her hair plastered to her face, her clothes clinging to her in a way that forces me to look away. I’m not in much better shape myself.
—I didn’t expect to relive Titanic today, she says, wringing out her hair. Though the cabin’s slightly less luxurious than the ship.
—Let’s hope it floats better—and that I don’t share poor Jack’s fate, I reply, trying to get my lighter to work as I reach for the candle on the table.
—Not a chance, she shoots back. I would’ve made room for you on that door…
I laugh under my breath.
The flame flickers, then catches, casting a soft glow into the growing dimness. Jane looks around the cabin, curious.
—Did you come here often?
—As a teenager, yes. It was my refuge when I wanted to escape my father’s expectations or my mother’s lectures.
—A secret hideout, she smiles. I wish I’d had something like that.
—You didn’t have one in Los Angeles?
—In a standard California house with a mother who barely understood the concept of privacy? she laughs. My refuge was my closet. I’d lock myself in there to rehearse my lines.
I picture a younger Jane curled up in a closet, whispering dialogue into the dark, and the image stirs something unexpectedly tender in me.
—There’s wood by the fireplace, I note. I should be able to get a fire going. You’ll freeze otherwise.
—Always so practical, she says, rubbing her arms. It’s a quality I’ve come to appreciate since knowing you.
I focus on building the fire, grateful for something concrete to do. Outside, the storm intensifies—the wind howling like a living thing, lightning flashing through the single window.
—Do you think it’ll last long? Jane asks, moving closer to the growing fire, her arms still wrapped around herself.
—Summer storms here are usually violent but brief. An hour, maybe two.
—Stranded together in an isolated cabin during a storm, she says with a small smile. Just like those romantic TV movies I used to watch as a teenager.
—With the irresistible attraction and deep emotional revelations? I tease, even as my heart picks up at the thought.
—Exactly, she agrees, her eyes glinting in the firelight. We’re supposed to share our deepest secrets and realize we’re meant for each other.
She says it lightly, like a joke—but there’s something in her gaze that tells me she’s not entirely kidding.
—Well, I begin, feeding the fire as it starts to catch, you could explain how an actress who’s never held a bow suddenly becomes a champion.
Jane settles onto the wooden bench, pulling her knees to her chest.
—I have no idea. It’s like everything aligned—my body, my mind, the bow. Like I’ve always known how to do it… and just forgot.
—A natural talent, then.
—Or divine intervention, she suggests with a crooked smile. Maybe your grandmother made a deal with Scottish gods to help me humiliate Heather?
I laugh.
—I wouldn’t be surprised. Maggie has always had… mysterious methods.
The fire crackles, shadows dancing along the walls. I sit beside Jane, keeping a respectful distance despite the inexplicable pull to be closer.
