Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
“Ash?” I squeak. My voice cracks on his name. He stares at me for a beat. Not my face. My headlamp. My blanket. My fuzzy socks with tiny embroidered reindeer. His jaw flexes so hard I’m shocked the bones don’t snap.
“What the hell are you wearing?” he finally mutters.
“It’s called survival.”
“It’s called dangerous.”
I blink. “My socks are not dangerous.”
“They’re killing me.”
Heat slams into my cheeks. He shakes snow from his jacket as he steps inside, shutting the door behind him. The cabin plunges into semi-darkness again, lit only by my headlamp. He looks around, assessing everything in seconds—old chimney, powerless heater, drafty window seams.
“Power’s completely out,” he says, voice clipped. “Temperature dropped ten degrees in the last hour. You can’t stay here.”
“I can manage—”
“No.” The word lands like a command.
I bristle. “Ash—”
“You’re not staying here alone, Lucy.”
“I’ve handled power outages before.”
“Not on a mountain. Not in a poorly insulated rental. Not in a blizzard with wind gusts hitting sixty.”
“I can use the fireplace.”
“It’s not safe.” His voice tightens. “The chimney’s cracked. I told you that on your first day here, remember?”
I do remember. I also remember thinking he was a bossy giant who needed a hobby.
He steps closer. Too close.
The headlamp light catches the edge of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes, the melt of snow on his shoulders. He looks huge in the tiny entryway—towering, bracing one hand on the beam above him like he needs something to keep from touching me.
“Why are you here?” I whisper.
His eyes lock onto mine. The answer is immediate. “Because I heard the power went out.”
“That’s… not a reason.”
“It is to me.”
My breath stutters. He studies me, headlamp glow flickering across his features like firelight. There’s something in his expression—hard, fierce, tense as a pulled wire.
“You’re freezing,” he says.
“No, I’m—”
He touches my cheek with the back of his knuckles.
I flinch. Not because it hurts.
Because it doesn’t. Because it feels like heat punching straight through my skin. He pulls back like he didn’t mean to touch me at all.
“Get your boots,” he says. “You’re coming with me.”
“Excuse me?”
“Lucy.” His voice dips low, dangerous. “I’m not leaving you here.”
“I didn’t say you had to leave. I just said I’m fine.”
He stares at me like I’m made of glass and pure trouble. “You are not fine.”
“Stop being overprotective.”
“Stop giving me a reason to be.”
My stomach flips.
“This is ridiculous,” I say, because my brain is losing to my heartbeat. “You don’t have to drag me off to your cabin like some kind of blizzard caveman.”
His mouth twitches. “I didn’t say my cabin.”
I blink. “Then… where?”
“The firehouse.”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Open it again.
“That’s worse.”
His brow lifts. “Worse how?”
“You expect me to stay in a building full of your firefighter friends? The ones who made bets about us last week?”
His jaw clenches. “They were out of line.”
“They were not wrong.”
Silence detonates between us. Ash looks away first—but only for a second. When his gaze returns, it’s darker. Lower. Like he’s fighting something primal.
“Lucy,” he says, quiet now, “I didn’t come here to argue.”
“You always argue.”
“I came here,” he continues, ignoring that, “because the thought of you sitting in a freezing cabin in the dark made me crazy.”
My breath leaves my lungs in a slow, shaky rush.
He steps closer.
I step back.
My heel hits the rug. I stop moving.
He doesn’t. He towers over me, headlamp light casting his features into sharp lines and shadows.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he mutters.
“Then go.”
His eyes flick to my mouth.
“No.”
“Then stop telling me what to do.”
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because every time I look at you,” he growls, “I forget how to do anything else.”
My pulse slams so hard I feel dizzy. He scrubs a hand through his snow-damp hair, frustrated. “Lucy, please. Just—just put on your coat. Get in the truck. I can’t—” He breaks off, jaw grinding. “I can’t leave you here.”
The wind screams against the cabin, rattling the windows.
I swallow. “Ash…”
His name on my lips makes him go still. Then he steps even closer, slow and deliberate, until his boots touch mine.
“Say yes,” he murmurs.
“Ash…”
“Say it.”
I inhale sharply. “Fine.”
Relief washes through his expression so raw it hurts to look at. But then, he leans in, bracing one arm against the wall beside my head, breath brushing the top of my cheek.
“Next time,” he murmurs, “don’t make me beg.”
Heat shoots through me so fast I almost choke.
“I didn’t make you beg,” I manage.
“You came damn close.”
“That’s your fault.”
“No,” he whispers, voice sliding down my spine. “It’s yours.”
I glare. “You are impossible.”
He smirks faintly. “Good. Now get your coat.”
Ten minutes later, I’m zipped into my puffy jacket, boots on, scarf tangled wrong. Ash watches me while pretending not to, jaw set like he’s preparing for war.
“You ready?” he asks.
“No.”
“Too bad.”
He grabs my duffel bag, slings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing, and guides me out into the storm with a hand at my back so hot it might as well be a brand. The snow pelts my face. I squint against the wind.