Page 10 of Holly's Grizzly

I’mnakedin a stranger’s house. My pack is gone, there’s a blizzard outside, and I’m alone with a grizzly shifter somewhere deep in the woods on the side of a mountain with no idea where I am or what I’m going to do now.

All those realizations tighten my throat and spike my heart rate, and not even Irving’s mountain-fresh scent is enough to keep my wildly careening emotions in check.

Irving must be able to see the rising panic on my face, because his eyes widen, and he stands and takes a few steps away. He keeps his own blanket held firmly around his waist, but as he glances down at himself, his cheeks flare with color over the top of his beard.

“Are you okay here for a few minutes if I go get dressed?”

I nod silently, and Irving retreats to a set of stairs at the side of the room leading to a lofted space above. When he disappears from view, I let out a long breath and try to get a handle on myself, looking around the room to get my bearings.

The cabin is beautiful.

Filled with warm wood—from the high-vaulted ceiling to the walls to the wonderfully worn floorboards—the space radiates a cozy mountain charm. A full wall of windows at the front of the living space overlooks a clearing and what must be a great view when it’s not completely whited out by a blizzard. A stone fireplace sits opposite the couch, stretching all the way to theceiling and still burning low with the fire Irving built up when we got here.

All around the living space—which connects to a small but tidy open-concept kitchen—are little touches of color and softness. A woven rug on the floor. Framed photos and art prints on the walls. The low, comfortable couch I’m sitting on, and a pair of mid-century armchairs. All those touches soften the edges of what might have come across as a hyper-rugged, mountain man aesthetic with all the pine and stone.

My inspection of Irving’s cabin is interrupted by a noise from the loft. A door shuts, and footsteps echo across the floorboards as he reappears at the top of the stairs.

Blanket discarded, he’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a red and black plaid shirt. It’s all very lumberjack-chic, and that, combined with the hesitant look on his face, the way he chooses to sit in a chair on the opposite side of the room, and the memory of how gentle he was with me earlier chase away some more of my panic.

Which… maybe I shouldn’t let my guard down so easily.

I don’t know anything about him, after all. I don’t know if he’s some kind of solitary, homicidal maniac, or a genuinely good guy trying to help, and just because he’s handsome as hell and has a scent that makes my head spin doesn’t mean I need to trust him immediately.

It also doesn’t mean I should overstay my welcome.

Irving stays silent as he settles himself in the chair, like he’s waiting for me to speak first, and I clear my throat.

“Thanks again for helping me out,” I start, thoughthanksdoesn’t seem to be nearly enough to acknowledge what he did for me earlier. “But I… I should probably get going. I need to get back to my—”

“Holly,” Irving interrupts, looking at me with a furrowed brow and confusion written all over his face, as if he’s seriouslyquestioning my sanity. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go back out in this weather.”

My stomach sinks as I glance toward the wall of windows at the front of the cabin. The snow has gotten worse in the last few… hours? How long have I been asleep?

“I…” I say, completely at a loss.

I’ve got no gear, no snowshoes, my clothes are in a wet heap on the floor.

Beyond that, all my muscles still feel shaky and weak, my head is aching slightly, and the idea of trekking back out in the cold kicks up that same ache deep in my bones, the memory of the river not far from my mind.

“Holly,” Irving says again, drawing my attention away from the windows and the growing dread that’s lodged itself firmly in the center of my chest. “I think you should stay here and wait out the storm.”

“N-no,” I stammer. “I can’t. I mean—I don’t expect you to—I can probably make it back to—”

“I don’t mind,” he says, sounding so earnest and sincere it stops my babbled protests short. “I don’t think it would be safe to go back out before the storm passes, and I’m not sure trying to drive somewhere would be the best idea, either. The roads up here are dangerous in these conditions.”

I nod slowly.

He makes a lot of good points, but…

“If it’s me you're worried about,” Irving says softly, “I’ve got a small apartment over my shop out back. I can stay there if it would make you feel—”

“No! Oh my gosh, no. I wouldn’t want to put you out of your own house. If anything, I can—”

“Please, you’re my guest.”

For some reason, the wordguestdraws a small, unlikely smile to my lips.

Absurd.

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