Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
I grab my phone and pull up the reservation still open on the app. And that’s when I see it—two and a half stars across the top. Oh my god. I can almost hear Jake scolding me.
Really, Emma? Maybe read the damn reviews next time?
“Shut up,” I whisper to no one and tap the description on the page anyway, even though my phone seems frozen and doesn’t want to work. It takes forever to load.
“Don’t open the web page,” I whisper to myself. “Don’t do it.”
Ignorance is bliss?
But no, I open the damn page that I should’ve read before I came here. Instead, I packed a bunch of shit in a bleary-eyed coma and got the hell out of dodge.
Sigh. And here we are.
I cringe, reading the first few lines.
A true retreat! Craving solitude and the time to unplug from the constant demands of the digital age? We’ve got you covered.
There’s little to no cell reception for most of our guests.
Please bring your own food—this is the land of no delivery services, no nearby grocery stores.
Wintertime visitors beware: A snowstorm often means no power, and the heat is also electric.
Enjoy your stay!
My stomach sinks like a stone. Oh god. I really was drunk and bleary-eyed when I booked this.
A text pops up that wasn’t there before, and for all I know, came hours ago.
Jake
Where are you?? Someone said you packed up and left. You can’t do that
It takes every effort I have not to tell him he can’t put his dick in a woman after taking vows to me, and he’s totally lost any right to knowledge of my whereabouts. But I recently read something that said no answer IS an answer, and that makes good sense.
So I give my phone the middle finger and toss it on the counter, because I’m mature like that, and congratulate myself on not responding and taking the higher ground.
Then I stomp my feet and scream. “Arrrrgh! You stupid, useless, piece of shit!”
I’m breathing heavily but feel a bit better.
I look around.
I’m in the middle of nowhere in a cabin, with no food, no car—because I decided it would “keep me focused” and I wouldn’t have a way to distract myself—and now spotty cell service.
Brilliant.
It’s fine, it’s fine.
I was a scout once. I can make a fire, thanks to—no, I won’t go there now. I won’t think of him.
But I always think of Owen when I’m stressed. I can’t help it.
Deep breath. Time to get practical.
I’ve practically been living on nothing for weeks, so what’s one more week? Isn’t fasting… good for you or something?
I stare at my useless cell phone. How am I going to decompress if I can’t mindlessly scroll all day? I bite my lip and look out the window.
Chop wood?
The problem is, this means… I’m kinda screwed.
I force a slow breath.
“All right, Emma. First mission—food.”
I cross to the fridge, bracing for the disappointment of my college days.
Instead, I blink in surprise because… it’s full.
Deli meat. Strawberries. Bottled water. Good cheeses, wrapped in fancy deli papers. Several bottles of wine. Crusty bread. Peanut butter from a farmer’s market. Vegetables. A package of thin-sliced chicken cutlets. There are even a few premade meals, ready to heat, fresh pasta, and more of the foil-wrapped chocolate.
And on the top shelf, a folded piece of paper.
Welcome. I hope you enjoy your stay.
I stare a little too long though.
The handwriting… it tugs at something in my brain. Familiar.
But hunger wins. I grab the pasta container, my mouth already watering. Inside are plump meatballs, rich sauce, and Parmesan curled in delicate shavings.
Oh, thank god.
I find a small but neat stack of mismatched plates in the cabinet, along with a drawer of silverware. The microwave hums to life. While it heats, filling the small interior with the savory smells of garlic and herbs, I wander the place, taking it all in.
This is definitely the kind of cabin built for two. Rough-hewn beams stretch across the ceiling. The armchair by the fire is worn just right, the kind that molds to you the moment you sit. Even the throw rug seems intentionally placed, like every inch of this space is a photograph waiting to happen.
And here I am. Alone.
The pasta is gone before I even realize I’ve been shoveling it into my mouth like a starved woman fresh out of prison. In my defense, though, the sauce was rich and velvety, the kind of flavor that makes you close your eyes and hum like a lunatic. Chef’s kiss.
I wash the plate, set it in the tiny drying rack, and make a plan. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up early, start the fire, brew coffee so strong it could slap me awake, open that laptop, and actually write something.
Not just something, something good. Something amazing. Something that could go toe-to-toe with that pasta sauce and win.