Page 16 of Pucking the Single Dad
The storm hit like a living thing with teeth and claws.
I'd thought the weather people were exaggerating—they always did in San Antonio, promising hurricanes that turned into drizzle. But as I huddled in my cabin at 2 AM, listening to the wind scream through the mountains like something from a horror movie, I understood why Brad hoarded emergency supplies.
The power had died hours ago, taking with it my heat and any illusion of safety. I'd lit my single flashlight (why hadn't I bought more when Brad suggested it?) and wrapped myself in every blanket I owned, laptop battery dying as I tried to finish school reports that seemed impossibly trivial with nature raging outside.
Then came the crack.
It started as a groan, like the earth itself was in pain. Then a splitting sound that reminded me of thunder, if thunder could last for ten seconds and get progressively louder. I looked up from my laptop just in time to see my bedroom ceiling explode.
The pine tree I'd admired that morning—massive, majestic, probably older than the town itself—crashed through my roof like God's own fist. The trunk punched through the ceiling, sending drywall and insulation flying, while branches reached into my space like skeletal fingers.
I screamed, scrambling backward as snow poured through the hole, driven horizontal by the wind. My bedroom was gone, replaced by a portal to the storm. The cabin groanedominously, walls creaking with sounds that suggested the whole structure might follow the roof's example.
Get out. Get out now.
I grabbed essentials—phone (dead), jacket (inadequate), boots (thank God I'd worn them to bed, another Brad suggestion I'd followed). The hundred yards to Brad's house looked like a hundred miles through the whirling white. But staying meant freezing to death or being crushed when the rest of the cabin gave up.
The snow was thigh-deep already, each step a battle. The wind hit like a physical force, stealing my breath, driving ice crystals into every exposed bit of skin. I couldn't see more than three feet ahead, navigating by memory and desperation. Texas had not prepared me for this. Nothing had prepared me for this.
By the time I reached Brad's door, I couldn't feel my hands. I pounded on the wood with frozen fists, my teeth chattering so hard I bit my tongue. The taste of blood was warm, the only warm thing left.
The door flew open, and Brad stood there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his expression shifting from annoyance to alarm in a heartbeat.
"Serena? Jesus, you're—" He pulled me inside without finishing, his hands shockingly warm against my frozen arms.
The heat of his house hit me like a physical blow. My legs buckled, but Brad caught me, held me upright with an arm around my waist.
"Tree," I managed through chattering teeth. "Through roof. Cabin's—"
"Okay, okay, you're safe now." His voice was calm, controlled, but I could feel tension in his body. "We need to get you warm. Slowly."
"Miss Serena?" Finn appeared on the stairs, dinosaur pajamas and bed head making him look younger than seven. "What happened?"
"Tree fell on her cabin," Brad said, already moving into crisis management mode. "Finn, can you get the guest room ready? Extra blankets from the hall closet."
"On it!" Finn raced upstairs with the energy only children possess at ungodly hours.
Brad guided me to the living room, settling me on the couch before disappearing. He returned with an armful of supplies—blankets, towels, and clothes that had to be his given the size.
"You need to get out of those wet things," he said, then immediately flushed. "I mean—I'll leave. The bathroom's—"
"I know where it is," I said, managing a smile despite my frozen face. "Thank you."
His clothes swallowed me—sweatpants I had to roll four times, anAvalanchehoodie that hit mid-thigh. But they were warm and dry and smelled like him, like safety and home. When I emerged from the bathroom, Brad had hot tea waiting and a space heater pointed at the couch.
"Better?" he asked, studying me with those intense blue eyes.
"Much." I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my bones. "I'm sorry for barging in—"
"Don't." His voice was firm. "Don't apologize for needing help. That's what neighbors do."
"Is that what we are? Neighbors?"
The question hung between us, weighted with everything we hadn't said. Before he could answer, Finn bounded back down the stairs.
"Guest room's ready! I put three blankets on the bed and turned on the heated mattress pad and there's water on the nightstand and tissues in case you cry because sometimes people cry when trees fall on their houses."
My heart cracked a little. "Thanks, Finn. That's very thoughtful."
