Terrible timing.
If he is the serial killer half of my fifty fifty prediction, I am absolutely doomed because apparently my fight or flight response has chosen to flirt.
One big hand grips an axe.
My brain bluescreens again.
Cabin in the woods. Shirtless stranger. Axe.
Excellent choices, Nikki. Truly stellar survival instincts.
I clutch the tin like a shield and stare.
He frowns. It’s unfair how good it looks on him.
His eyes are a piercing icy blue. Not gentle. Not soft. Sharp enough to slice right through my excuses.
Stubble shadows his jaw. He looks like he has not smiled since the early two thousands and he is not planning to start now. Definitely older. Late thirties. Absolutely the kind of man my mother would warn me about while secretly staring.
"What the hell," he says.
The words rumble out of his chest and skim across my skin like low heat. My stomach flips. My neck warms. My body betrays me in every possible way.
I blink at him. My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Then I manage a squeaky, “Um. Hi. Merry Christmas. I believe this is my rental for the holidays.”
His brows lift just enough to show he is questioning my entire existence. His gaze drags down my body, slow and annoyed, taking in my oversized coat, my jeans, the cookie tin I am still clutching like emotional armor, the suitcase with the fuzzy sock still caught in the zipper teeth . His eyes hit my curves and he looks away fast, jaw tightening like he did not mean to look.
"There is no rental here," he says. "Road is closed to strangers."
That voice hits me again.
Deep. Rough. Cold. Hot.
Every contradiction rolled into one man who clearly wishes I had never knocked.
"There is definitely a rental," I insist, hugging the tin tighter. "I booked it this morning. Online. Snowy little cabin in Lovestone Ridge. Green door. Woodpile on the left. A suspiciously low price but I am pretending that part is normal because it is Christmas and I am very emotionally unstable."
His jaw locks. His hand flexes around the axe handle. The veins in his forearm shift under his skin and my brain short circuits all over again.
Focus, Nikki.
"You got scammed," he says.
Blunt. Immediate. No sugar. No apology.
The words hit like a punch.
My throat tightens.
"Of course I did," I say with a brittle laugh. "Why settle for one humiliation during the holidays when I can collect the whole set."
His eyes narrow a fraction. I do not think he is used to people who joke while dying inside.
He looks at the road behind me, draws in a slow breath, and grunts. A deep, resigned sound that feels like it physically hurts him to say what comes next.
“Get inside,” he mutters. “You can't leave now. The storm is too heavy. Road is already gone.”
