Page 3 of Own Me, Outlaw
My eyes dart to the leather jacket hanging on a hook. It looks like it belongs to a man. A very big, veryintimidatingman. My pulse quickens.
Then I hear the slow scrape of a key in the lock. My stomach drops to my toes.
The door swings open, and an enormous man steps inside.
Six and a half feet of storm-soaked menace, filling the doorway like a thundercloud with arms. A shotgun rests casually in one hand, and the look on his face could make a grizzly apologize.
He doesn’t say anything right away. He just stares at me.
And holy hell, what a stare.
I hold up my hands, still clutching the blanket like a toga. “Hi. Okay. Um. Funny story.”
He takes one step inside, dripping rain onto the floor. His presence rolls through the cabin like smoke—pine and sweat and something wilder, something that makes my skin tingle.
He’s wearing a black thermal shirt that fits a little too well, sleeves shoved up to reveal thick forearms. His jeans are worn soft at the knees, and his muddy boots leave prints on the wooden floor. His jaw ticks once. His blue eyes never leave my face.
“Who the hell are you,” he growls, voice like gravel and thunder, “and why are you in my cabin?”
My breath catches. My eyes dart from the shotgun to his chiseled jaw and muscular body.
“I… rented this cabin?” I say, my voice tilting into question territory. “Online. For the weekend. To, um, decompress.”
His gaze flicks to the couch, where my sketchbook sits open, charcoal smudges trailing across creamy paper. It’s the only thing I’ve created in weeks.
“You rentedthiscabin?” he repeats, like he’s humoring me.
“I th-think so,” I stammer.
He raises one brow. “But you broke in?”
I gesture toward the window. “The lockbox code didn’t work. It was raining. I was cold. The window was open.” I take a shaky breath. “Okay, yeah, this sounds really bad.”
He’s silent for a long, awful second. “Sounds criminal.”
“And yet I made tea,” I say brightly, channeling unhinged optimism. “Very polite criminal behavior.”
Nothing.
Just more stone-faced staring.
I shift, painfully aware that under this blanket I’m a mess of wet leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, and unwashed hair. I look less like a wellness-retreat guest and more like a woman who’s about five minutes from a nervous breakdown and probably didn’t bring enough snacks.
“Obviously I was mistaken,” I mutter.
“No shit.”
“I’ll pack up and go,” I add quickly. “Right now.”
He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossing over his broad chest, blocking the exit. His biceps flex, straining the fabric. “Nearest road besides my drive is several miles that way.” He jerks his chin toward the rain-slicked window. “You walk here?”
“No. I drove… until my car hit a ditch about two miles back.” I wince at the memory. “I hiked the rest. In canvas sneakers.”
His jaw ticks again, this time with what might be concern. Or irritation. Or both.
“So,” I say, clearing my throat, “do you always point shotguns at lost women wrapped in throw blankets, or am I just lucky?”
His lips twitch. Just the slightest hint of a smirk.
