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CHAPTER ONE

December 24^th, Christmas Eve

By the time the Uber had turned off the main road and onto the narrow, snow-packed dirt driveway, Cameron’s legs had gone numb from sitting too long. She shifted against the worn upholstery, her thighs tingling with that prickly awakening that came before true circulation returned. The seatbelt had carved a groove across her collarbone, so she pulled it slightly to readjust it.

The compact sedan fishtailed, clearly not meant for mountain roads; she gripped the door handle as if that might help. Her stomach tightened with every skid, but there was a strange spark of exhilaration beneath the nerves. The heater rattled somewhere under the dashboard, working about as hard as the driver’s patience. Every few minutes, he muttered something under his breath about “city people” and “roads that disappear in a storm.”

Cameron didn’t care. Not about the roads, not about the flurries sticking stubbornly to the windshield, not about being lumped together with “city people,” not even about the fact that she hadn’t seen another house in the last ten minutes—although she was certain she’d seen three different Schoolhouse Roads. The snow was steady now, veiling the headlights in a soft blur, but not enough to rattle her. This was exactly what she’d booked—quiet, remote, nothing but trees and the promise of nobody needing her for ten days.

Trueport had felt small when she’d first arrived, but this? This was a whole new meaning of the word. The kind of small where even the silence felt bigger. No traffic hum in the distance, no glow from a neighbor’s window—just a hush so complete it made her chest loosen. The farther they drove, the more Cameron could feel the weight sliding off her shoulders like ice slipping from a rooftop. She hadn’t realized how loud her life had been until now, with a steady to-do list, deadlines, and ideas piling up. Here, even her thoughts seemed to echo softer, freer. This Christmas, she wasn’t the single friend at a holiday gathering. She was Cameron—enjoying the holiday alone in a private winter wonderland.

The driver downshifted for the hill ahead and shot her a look in the rearview mirror. “Last chance to turn back. Once this storm rolls in, you might be stuck a while.”

Cameron smiled faintly and tugged her knit hat down over her ears. “Perfect.” Despite the heater working hard, a chill was nipping at her.

He shook his head, muttering again, but he kept going.

Earlier, she’d swung through a rental agency just outside Albany, where she’d flown in that morning, to sign for the cabin key and switch cars—the first driver from the airport had wanted no part of mountain roads during this weather. Now, nearly three hours later, with a new driver and a dwindling cell signal, she could feel the isolation calling out to her.

About half an hour back, they’d stopped (after Cameron gave the driver a generous up-front tip) at the only supermarket for miles. The squat, cinder block building had smelled faintly of pine cleaner, chicken noodle soup, and stale bread. Now, overstuffed reusable grocery bags crowded the floor at her feet: boxes of pasta, packets of cocoa, the kind of snacks you bought when you planned to ignore the outside world, and bags of other food she could only hope to eat before her trip ended. Her grandmother would’ve called it supplies for hibernation.

She dug through her tote bag for her gloves and caught the faint, warm-spice scent of the Hot Lumberjack candle she’d tucked inside. A gift from one of her best friends, Kinsley; they’d all gathered to celebrate Christmas just a couple of days ago. Cameron thought it smelled like a mountain man who owned a flannel company, making pancakes. But now, just the scent curling up from the jar made her smile. There was something faintly ridiculous about bringing a candle named after a fantasy lumberjack to the middle of nowhere, but she liked the idea of bottling comfort. A pretend presence that was steady, warm, and uncomplicated. Exactly what real men never seemed to be. She’d decided to light it the first night, as her own tiny ceremony to mark the start of this retreat.

The tires crunched over the last stretch of the driveway, if you could call it that, flanked on both sides by pines already heavy with snow. A slight bump in the gravel pressed Cameron’s face against the smudged window as she tried to look out. The cabin emerged slowly from the gray light, like a postcard in wood and stone. Icicles clung to the eaves like crystal teeth, and the porch boards sagged under the weight of snow. It looked rugged and welcoming all at once, the kind of place that belonged on a glossy Christmas card. But perhaps her favorite sight was the stone chimney that stood proudly amongst the wood as a promise of warmth—something she couldn’t wait to feel wrap around her.

By the time the driver had helped haul her bags onto the porch, snow had begun to sift down in fat, lazy flakes. The cold bit at her cheeks, sharp enough to make her eyes water. She inhaled deeply; the scent of crisp air and faint woodsmoke filled her nose. It was sharp enough to sting her lungs, but it carried a purity she craved. Each breath felt like scrubbing her insides clean. It brought a silence so complete it pressed in on her ears.

Tipping her head back, Cameron watched the flakes drift through the pines. Trueport had been charming enough, but this was another world entirely. Wild, hushed, beautiful. The kind of stillness she hadn’t realized she’d been starving for until this very moment.

Inside, the air was warmer than she expected, scented faintly with cedar and the char of an earlier fire. She set her groceries next to the counter, dropped her tote on a chair, wheeled her luggage into the largest of the two bedrooms, and took a slow circuit of the main room—stone fireplace, plaid armchairs, and a worn leather couch that looked like it had seen its share of flannel-clad occupants.

The place whispered of other winters and holidays, other people huddled close against a storm. For a flicker of a moment, she imagined voices, laughter, someone’s hand reaching to pass her a mug. She shook it off. This year, silence was her only company. She’d chosen it gladly.

Kneeling to stir the embers in the fireplace, Cameron coaxed a few orange sparks into flame before adding another log. The heat brushed against her skin, thawing fingers that still ached from the cold. She shed her coat and boots, put away the groceries, lit her Hot Lumberjack candle, warmed up water, and curled up with a blanket on the worn couch, hot cocoa steaming between her palms. Sweet and rich, it grounded her in a way nothing else had all day. Chocolate and quiet—her kind of heaven.

For a moment, she just…breathed. The only sound was the soft hiss of the fire and the occasional sigh of wind against the eaves. The warmth from the mug soaked into her skin.

Her eyes surveyed the room once more, this time coming to rest on the sad, undecorated Christmas tree in the corner of the room. For a woman who’d been so eager to get away from the hustle and bustle of the holidays, she hadn’t expected the emptiness to sting.

Why didn’t someone decorate it?

She set down her mug and moved closer, her socks whispering against the hardwood. The tree stood bare and unashamed, its branches still green and fresh, waiting. Someone had brought it inside, positioned it carefully in its stand, weighted the base—and then stopped. Left it naked. She cleared her throat as if it could clear the emptiness and walked to the couch, throwing the blanket back over her legs.

She thought about the group text from her friends this morning after she’d left Trueport for her flight—photos of couples in matching pajamas; mugs of cider and hot cocoa; Daxton’s toddler, Olivia, dressed like an elf. She’d sent back a snowflake emoji and a “Have fun!” with the same mix of affection and relief she always did.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love them. She did. But sometimes their happiness pressed against her like glass—close enough to see, never close enough to touch.

Her best friend, Kinsley, had Daegan. Her other best friend, Brienne, had Daxton—and his adorable little girl. And Cameron? She had her independence, her work, her quiet little routines and hobbies that no one interrupted. Most days, that was enough. Hell, her own company was enough.

She’d tried dating—half-heartedly swiping, enduring dinners where men talked over her or flinched when she had opinions stronger than the wine list. It had gotten exhausting, proving she could be soft and self-sufficient. Eventually, she’d stopped trying. Her last date was before she moved to Trueport a handful of months ago.

Still, watching her friends settle into something solid, safe, and seen stirred something in her. She wasn’t exactly lonely. But she was beginning to wonder if she’d mistaken solitude for contentment.

The holidays only made that ache louder. Their gift exchange and celebration together had been more than enough. The next week and a half would be full of more gatherings, more happy couples, and she was ready to step back from it all.

She wouldn’t mind a trip like this every Christmas.

It never used to bug Cameron, but now, it was starting to. She needed a break. This trip was a gift to herself: peace and solitude, with zero compromise and no obligations. Just Cameron, the snow, and the quiet.

Exactly how she planned to keep it.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows in their frames. Cameron pulled the blanket tighter and watched the fire dance. Her shoulders dropped from her ears as she relaxed into the old leather. Whatever waited for her back in Trueport—her work, her friends, and maybe even her future—it could wait. Here, in this cabin with its bare tree and crackling fire, she’d finally found solitude.

The relief of that settled over her like the snow outside: quiet, complete, and covering everything.

#

Half an hour ago, Sean’s driver had merged off the interstate onto a winding two-lane road flanked by towering pines. Sean flexed his fingers against his thigh, working out the stiffness from the flight and the long drive. The snow was already shifting from lazy, halfhearted flurries to a steady, silencing curtain.

Not ideal. He preferred arriving while there was still enough light to take in the view, unload, and have his workspace set before nightfall. Snowstorms didn’t rattle him, but they disrupted him. And disruption was the one thing he never tolerated. His jaw tightened at the thought. Disruption meant variables he couldn’t account for—delays, changes, the kind of chaos that sent his carefully constructed schedule sliding sideways. Chaos was the enemy of output.

After all, a good start to the retreat set the tone for the next ten days. This year, he’d planned to open his laptop within the hour—reread the last three chapters he’d edited and slip seamlessly into the next scene before the outside world even realized he was gone.

No dithering. No disruptions.

He’d been coming here for years now. Ten sacred days every winter—just him, the cabin, and the words. No publicists calling, no launch meetings, no well-meaning friends inviting him to holiday parties “just to get him out of the house.” It was the only ten days out of the year where Sean could get away with ignoring his editors and his agent. Just quiet. Just control.

A flicker of an idea surfaced and began unspooling. He thumbed it quickly into the notes app on his phone before it slipped away. Dialogue, sharp and cutting—his protagonist finally confronting the shopkeeper who’d been lying to him for fifty thousand words. Sean’s pulse quickened, the way it always did when a scene clicked into place. His thumbs moved across the screen in rapid bursts. The character’s voice was clear now, furious, betrayed; far better than the dialogue he’d had. He added a note about his body language—hands shaking, or completely still? Which is more devastating?—then tucked the phone back into his pocket before he could second-guess himself.

Against the soft silence of the snow, the wipers swished rhythmically. The air inside the SUV smelled faintly of wool and coffee—the driver’s travel mug was wedged in the cupholder. The heater hummed at a steady, low setting.

Sean’s fingers tapped against the screen of his cell phone, eager to sit down, edit, and write. He was half-tempted to pull out his laptop right here. His knee bounced against the leather seat, fingers twitching like they had a mind of their own.

The man behind the wheel, a square-shouldered local with a weathered face and a battered parka, adjusted the wipers up a notch. The faint smell of tobacco clung to the man’s coat, grounding Sean in the reminder that this was no sleek city chauffeur. Rough around the edges, this was someone used to nor’easters and silence. “Storm’s picking up fast. You picked a hell of a night to come up here.” His voice was rough, edged with annoyance.

Sean registered the criticism beneath the words, the unspoken “city people don’t understand what they’re getting into.” He’d heard variations of it before all over the world. The locals always thought they had some claim on hardship, on weather, on knowing better.

“I always come up here this week,” Sean said, tracking the white-draped forest sliding past. “The storm’s part of the charm.”

The driver grunted, neither in agreement nor argument, just acknowledgment. Sean turned back to the window, satisfied. He didn’t need the man’s approval, just his competence to get him to his destination.

In truth, the storm was heavier than he’d expected, though he was sure the rental company would handle the driveway before his departure; they always did. But it wasn’t as though he’d admit his surprise to a stranger. His trips here were ritual. Controlled variables. The kind of structure that kept the coming year from unraveling into chaos.

Without this—without the cabin, the isolation, the uninterrupted days—Sean knew exactly what would happen. He’d seen it before, felt it creeping in around the edges during the months when deadlines piled up and his editor’s emails multiplied. The words would start to thin out, lose their edge. His focus would fracture. And then the doubt would seep in, that quiet, persistent voice asking if he’d already written his best work, if the well was finally running dry. No. He couldn’t afford that. This trip wasn’t indulgence—it was survival. While most people went away to relax for the holidays, he went away to work.

Sean leaned back against the leather seat, letting his gaze roam the road ahead. This place was as much a part of his process as the tea he steeped at five in the morning, or the playlist he used to block out the rest of the world. His personal assistant had arranged this driver for him, picking up the cabin’s key, and he’d even ordered the groceries they’d picked up. After coming here for years, the property manager knew his little preferences, like how to stack the firewood under the porch roof to make it easy on him, and to always keep the desk in the master bedroom turned toward the picture window overlooking the lake. It was control disguised as comfort, every curated detail accounted for.

The snow deepened as they turned onto an even narrower road. His phone buzzed with a low-battery warning. He glanced to see an array of notifications. Three missed calls from his publicist. A family group text message about Christmas, fresh cookies, and his mother’s overuse of emojis. Sean’s thumb hovered over the notifications, then swiped them away. They could wait. Everything could wait. That was the point. Soon, the signal would vanish altogether.

The driver muttered something about “last turn” and eased the SUV onto a long, winding drive. Sean leaned forward, scanning through the thickening flakes until the familiar silhouette of the cabin took shape: the broad, sheltering roofline, the wraparound porch dusted in white, the stone chimney standing sentry against the gray sky. Oddly enough, smoke was rising lazily from it.

Good. They’d lit the fire ahead of his arrival. It’s about time, he thought to himself. The thought of stepping inside to that cedar-scented warmth, with the fire snapping as he removed his cold layers, sent a pleasant ripple of anticipation.

As they drew closer, he caught the flicker of firelight through the front window. Cozy, inviting—exactly as it should be. Except—it wasn’t. It was different this time. Too much warmth, too much welcome. Sean shook off the thought. If anything, he should be grateful that they’d taken the time to prepare it for him.

The SUV rolled to a stop with a crunch of cold snow that wouldn’t be melting anytime soon. Sean stepped out, the cold hitting his lungs in a clean, bracing shock. It stole his breath for a moment, sharp enough to make his eyes water. The temperature had dropped fast; he could feel it in the way the air bit at his exposed skin, in the instant numbness spreading across his cheeks. His breath rose in thick clouds. Even through his gloves, his fingers began to sting. Flakes clung instantly to his coat. Each inhale scraped like ice against his throat, making the warmth waiting for him inside all the more necessary. The only sounds were the muted crunch of his boots breaking through a few inches of the snow’s icy crust and the faint hiss of flakes settling into the drifts.

He shouldered his bag, coat slung over his arm. The driver helped him with the rest. The lights in the windows glowed against the gray, a perfect welcome for his first night. Sean climbed the steps, each one dusted with fresh snow. The metal of the key was ice-cold under his fingers. He slid it into the lock with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this a dozen times before. The mechanism clicked, a satisfying sound of tumblers falling into place, of access granted. His domain. His sanctuary. He turned the handle, already anticipating the rush of warm air, the cedar and woodsmoke scent, the moment when he could finally shed the outside world and sink into his work.

The knob turned. The door opened an inch—

And stopped dead against the taut pull of a chain.

#

The sound was subtle at first—just a faint, metallic scrape—but in the quiet of the cabin, it might as well have been a gunshot.

Cameron’s eyes snapped open, heart thudding so hard it made her ribs ache. It was as if the sound had ricocheted through her chest, sharp and wrong. For a heartbeat, she didn’t know where she was. Then it all came rushing back: the cabin, the snow, the solitude she’d paid for. She sat up too quickly, blanket sliding to the floor with her book and cell phone.

Her head swam for a second, vision spotting at the edges. The cocoa mug sat abandoned on the side table, a thin skin forming on the surface. How long had she been asleep? Minutes? Hours? The fire hadn’t burned down much, so it couldn’t have been too long. Her breath snagged in her throat, the air suddenly too thin. Her mouth had gone dry, tongue thick and clumsy. She snatched her phone from under the coffee table as her eyes darted toward the front door.

The dark green curtains of the nearby window had been pulled shut against the draft, only a small section at the corner showed the outside snow. Through that narrow gap, she could see nothing but white and darkness. The storm had thickened, turning the world beyond the glass into an impenetrable wall. No headlights. No help. Just her and whatever—or whoever—was on the other side of that door.

Another sound followed—the slow turn of the doorknob. Metal scraped like teeth grinding together, too deliberate to mistake for wind. Cameron’s breath stopped entirely. She watched the knob rotate with agonizing slowness. Left, then right, as if to test it. The brass catch glinted in the firelight. Someone was being careful. Methodical. That somehow made it worse than if they’d just tried to force their way in.

No one was supposed to be here. No neighbors, no delivery drivers. No friends making surprise visits. She’d picked this cabin because it was in the middle of nowhere.

The knob turned again. This time, the wood gave a short groan as the door cracked open—only to stop abruptly with a dull, metallic clank.

The chain.

Thank God. Thank God for paranoia, for the habit she’d developed as a child, for always—always—securing every lock. Her knees felt weak with the force of her relief, even as her pulse continued to race. The chain was flimsy and probably wouldn’t hold against real force, but it was something, a barrier for now.

A rush of icy air slid into the room through the narrow gap, carrying with it the scent of snow and something else—a strong cologne. The fragrance was warm, expensive, and utterly out of place here, colliding with the raw bite of winter air. It smelled like boardrooms and first-class lounges—woodsy and something darker, amber maybe, with an edge of spice. The kind of scent that belonged on someone who expected doors to open for him. Her stomach twisted. This wasn’t some random drifter or confused hiker. Whoever this was had come here intentionally.

Cameron was on her feet before she’d fully decided to move. Thick socks shuffled against the worn wood floors as she crossed the space. Her skin prickled, that primal fight-or-flight response surging even as she mentally argued with it. Crawling over her arms, it raised goosebumps beneath her sweater. Her legs felt coiled, ready to bolt, even as her mind scrambled for logic.

There’s no way someone just—No. Not possible.

Every self-defense article she’d ever read screamed at her to stay back, to not engage, to call—who? Her phone had no bars, no signal. The police were probably an hour away in good weather, and this was decidedly not good weather. She was alone. Completely, utterly alone.

Despite her instincts telling her to stay back, Cameron stepped closer. One hand gripped the edge of the door where the chain kept it in place.

A deep male voice, edged with irritation, cut through the cold air. “Yeah. You can let me in. This is my cabin.” The certainty in his voice sent a fresh spike of adrenaline through her system. He wasn’t questioning, and he wasn’t tentative.

Her spine went rigid. She did her best to hide her wavering confidence. “I’m sorry—what?” Her voice came out steadier than she felt, which was something. She gripped the door harder, knuckles whitening. If he pushed now, she’d feel it in her shoulder, in her whole body braced against the wood.

“This cabin,” he said, leaning just enough that she caught a clearer glimpse of his face in the dim porch light. Rugged stubble shadowed a strong jaw. Not the patchy, unkempt kind, but the deliberate kind that probably required expensive grooming products. His eyes, intensely blue and far too direct, locked onto hers with an unsettling steadiness. Like he was used to being looked at, assessed, and finding himself more than adequate. Dark brows, straight nose, a mouth set in a firm line. Snow dusted his dark hair, melting into tiny rivulets down the collar of his coat. The coat itself was wool—charcoal gray, well-tailored, the kind that cost more than her car payment. His shoulders filled the doorframe, broad enough to make her acutely aware of how small the gap between them actually was. He looked too solid, too certain. Like the storm outside had risen just to deliver him to her door. “It’s mine.”

Cameron narrowed her gaze. “Not possible. I rented it. You’re at the wrong cabin.”

He let out a dramatic huff that sounded like the start of a two-year-old’s tantrum. Within seconds, he lifted his phone into the gap. The glow from the screen lit the snowflakes drifting between them. She squinted against the sudden brightness, trying to make sense of the tiny text through the gap. How was she supposed to verify anything in the dark, through a three-inch opening, with her pulse hammering so hard she could barely think straight? The screenshot of the booking confirmation looked real enough, though she didn’t bother to read the fine print. What was she supposed to see in the two seconds he held it up? The confirmation number? The address? Anyone could fake a screenshot. She’d seen enough scammer stories to know that. “Here’s the proof. I rented it,” he said. “I rent this cabin every year from Christmas Eve through January second. If it was the wrong cabin, I wouldn’t have the right key.”

The logic was sound, which made it worse. If he had a key, if he had a booking confirmation, then someone had screwed up spectacularly. The rental agency. The property manager. Someone who wasn’t here, who wasn’t standing between her and a strange man who seemed to think his annual tradition trumped her paid reservation. Her pulse pounded in her ears. “Then you need to call the rental office. Because you’re not coming in.”

His mouth curved—not with humor, but with a kind of cool disbelief. As though the idea of someone telling him no was unexpected. “It’s freezing out here.”

It was the arrogance that made her pulse spike. “That’s not my problem.” The words came out sharper than she’d meant, but she didn’t take them back. Couldn’t. Because the alternative was opening the door, letting him in, trusting that his story was true and that he was exactly who he said he was. And she hadn’t come all this way, hadn’t paid for this escape, to hand over her safety to a stranger’s sense of entitlement.

The wind chose that moment to sweep across the porch, sending a spray of fine snow against the doorframe. The flakes hissed through the narrow crack like tiny intruders, needling her skin, as if the storm was conspiring to push him inside. The temperature in the cabin had already dropped. She could feel it creeping across the floor, wrapping around her ankles. The fire behind her crackled weakly, not nearly enough to fight off the cold pouring through the gap. If she kept the door cracked much longer, she’d lose all the warmth she’d built up. But if she closed it, she’d lose her ability to see him, to gauge his intentions. Heart hammering, Cameron kept her grip on the wood, jaw tight as a few flakes stuck on her sweater. They melted almost instantly, leaving dark spots on the fabric. Her sweater was thin—meant for cozy fireside reading, not confrontations in doorways with winter breathing down her neck. She fought the urge to shiver, refused to show any weakness. Not in front of him.

Whoever he was, whatever he thought he was entitled to, she wasn’t letting a stranger walk into her Christmas escape. She’d watched too many of those true crime docuseries to end up starring in the next one. Not here. Not in the cabin she’d rented to escape the noise of everyone else’s perfect Christmas. This was supposed to be hers. Her silence. Her space. Her choice to be alone without having to explain or justify or accommodate anyone else’s needs.

And now here he stood—tall, confident, irritated—acting like she was the inconvenience, like she was the one who’d shown up uninvited and disrupted someone’s perfectly planned retreat. Not a chance in hell. She’d finally carved out a holiday that was hers alone.

She met his eyes through the gap, refusing to look away first. Let him see that she wasn’t budging. Let him stand there in the cold and figure out his own fucking solution.

This door was staying chained.

#

This woman didn’t so much as twitch toward the chain. She just stood there in thick socks and stubbornness, one hand white-knuckled on the door, the other out of sight—probably clutching her phone like she was about to call in a SWAT team. Through the gap, he could see the edge of her jaw, set and determined, and the tension in her shoulders. She wasn’t panicking. Wasn’t scrambling. She’d made her decision and planted herself there like a sentry. It was, he had to admit, impressively infuriating.

Sean wasn’t used to this kind of reception. If there were any issues with bookings or travel arrangements—and there rarely were—they would at least talk to him. People usually leaned in, softened, eager to please once they realized who he was. They tended to offer coffee and compensation. Maybe even ask him to sign a book.

This woman? She hadn’t shown the faintest flicker of recognition. Not a widening of the eyes, not a softening of her expression, not even a polite “wait, are you—?” Nothing. She looked at him the way you’d look at a door-to-door salesman, or worse—a mild inconvenience. Sean couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him like he was ordinary. It was disorienting. Almost offensive.

“Look,” Sean said, lowering his voice to something he hoped sounded reasonable. The wind whipped across the porch, tossing loose snow against the back of his neck. “This is a mistake. I’ve been coming here every December for years. I’m supposed to be here.” Unlike you. The words almost slipped out, bitter on his tongue. He swallowed them back. Barely. This was his carefully constructed escape. And this woman—whoever she was—had walked in and claimed it like it was hers.

“That makes one of us,” she shot back.

A hard gust drove more flakes under his collar; the icy wet invaded between his shirt and skin. The shock of it made him flinch. Cold water tracked down his spine and soaked into the fabric. His skin prickled, muscles tensing involuntarily against the chill. He hunched his shoulders, trying to trap what little warmth remained, but it was a losing battle. The wind was biting deeper with every passing second.

Wind howled through the trees, squeezing into every gap in his clothes. Sean’s ears ached, a sharp, throbbing pain that made him want to press his palms against them. His face felt stiff, skin tight and raw from the wind. Even his eyelashes had started to collect snow, tiny ice crystals clinging stubbornly every time he blinked. How long had he been standing here? Three minutes? Five? It felt like an eternity.

He adjusted the strap of his overnight bag on his shoulder. The driver was long gone, his taillights already swallowed by the storm. Turning around wasn’t an option. Where would he even go? Back down the mountain in a blizzard, on foot, with nearly a dozen bags? He’d freeze before he made it a mile. The absurdity of it hit him: Sean Williamson, bestselling author, potentially dying of exposure on a porch because a stranger wouldn’t let him into his own cabin. The headline practically wrote itself.

His breath came out in a visible puff, vanishing almost as soon as it left him. Sean was getting colder by the second, the chill creeping past his scarf and collar, and this…gatekeeper wasn’t budging. Snowflakes melted against his coat, beginning to soak through. The wool was heavy now, waterlogged and useless. He could feel the dampness seeping toward his shoulders, cold and clinging. His pants were crusted white to the knees. Every time he shifted his weight, his boots crunched in the accumulating snow—it was already past his ankles, maybe deeper.

Numbness crept into his fingers despite the gloves, and a sharp ache spread through his ears, each one little reminders that she held all the warmth just a chain away. Sean flexed them experimentally, feeling that distant tingle that meant the cold was winning. His toes were worse; he couldn’t feel them at all anymore, just a vague awareness that his feet existed somewhere below him. It was a damn miracle that his nose wasn’t running. The limited daylight was nearly gone, the last few rays of sun slicing through the trees.

Modulating his tone, Sean tried again. “I’m not here to bother you. We’ll get it sorted tomorrow. Just—” He took a slow breath, tamping down the urge to snap. “Let me in before I freeze to death on the porch.” It wasn’t hyperbole. Not anymore. The cold had gone from uncomfortable to concerning, the kind that made you stupid, made your thoughts slow and sticky.

Her gaze flicked over him, unimpressed. “You look fine to me.” A few flurries swept through the cracked door, landing on her sweater, melting almost instantly against the warmth she was hoarding. She didn’t even seem to notice. Didn’t flinch at the cold he was drowning in. She just stood there, warm and dry and utterly unmoved by his suffering.

Fine. Fine? His coat was soaked through, his face felt like it might crack if he moved it too quickly, and he was pretty sure he’d lost feeling in his extremities, but sure—he looked fine. The dismissiveness of it sparked something like a blade in his chest, cutting through the cold for just a moment. Anger, maybe. Or something close to it. Sean stared at her, caught somewhere between disbelief and a grudging respect he didn’t want to feel. She wasn’t bluffing.

And that was the thing, wasn’t it? Most people bluffed. They put on a show, threatened, and ultimately backed down when pushed. She wasn’t pretending. There was no performance in her stance, no theatrical outrage. Just calm, implacable refusal. It was almost…refreshing? No. Not refreshing. Infuriating. Definitely infuriating. But also—somewhere beneath the fury and the cold and the growing certainty that he might actually die here—a little bit impressive.

From this close, he could make out the delicate flush of her cheeks from the fire’s heat, the faint sheen in her auburn hair from the glow inside, and the clean, homey scent of something sweet—syrup, maybe—wafting past the cold air between them. It was as if the heat clung to her like a secret he couldn’t know, while he stood outside, slowly turning into an ice sculpture. He could picture it: the fire behind her, crackling and generous. The couch he knew was there, worn leather that had molded to his shape over years of visits. His desk by the bedroom window. His writing retreat. All of it happening inside that cabin while he stood out here like he was in exile, like he’d never had any claim to it at all.

She shifted, tightening her grip on the door, with the faintest glint of defiance in her eyes.

Who the hell was she? Or, better yet, who the hell did she think she was—treating him like he was nobody. Snow crusted his shoulders. She wasn’t budging, wasn’t reaching to undo the chain. He should’ve been furious. Instead, some reckless part of him admired the nerve it took to leave him there. He’d dealt with critics, editors, and deadlines, but never this. Convincing strangers had never been part of the job. He convinced with words on a page, with carefully constructed arguments and plot twists that left readers breathless. Face to face, in real time? He was floundering. And he hated it. An autograph wouldn’t melt her resolve, and he wasn’t sure charm alone would cut it. That unsettled him most of all. Because if charm wouldn’t work, he wasn’t sure what would—and he hated not knowing the ending to a story.

Especially his own.

#

The blast of cold air from the narrow gap had long since seeped through the thick knit of her sweater, but Cameron didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Though her toes were starting to protest, curling against the chill creeping across the floorboards. The heat from the fire couldn’t compete with the cold pouring through that three-inch gap. It was like standing at the edge of winter itself, feeling it reach for her. Even then, her stillness only sharpened the tension between them.

Her breath feathered white in the air, vanishing almost as quickly as her patience. She could see his, too, thicker clouds that spoke to deeper breaths, maybe frustration, maybe cold working its way into his lungs.

Up close, he was maddening—towering over her in the doorway, all broad shoulders and that particular brand of male confidence that suggested the world generally stepped aside for him.

And maybe it did.

But this wasn’t his world. This was her rental. And her world didn’t revolve around some cocky, arrogant stranger.

She’d come for ten days of silence, and no matter how intense his blue eyes or how ridiculously good his cologne smelled—warm spice with a woodsy bite—she wasn’t handing him a key to her Christmas retreat.

Her fingers tightened on the door. She shifted her weight, letting the chain jangle just enough to punctuate the point. The metallic rattle sounded louder than it should have. “Enjoy your evening,” she said coolly, and pushed the door closed until the latch clicked home with a satisfying snap. The sound resonated through her palm, up her arm, settling somewhere in her chest. Done. Decided. Final. She’d stood her ground, and it felt—God, it felt good. Powerful. The final gust of cold air dissipated. A few stray snowflakes caught on the nearby curtain before quickly melting away, leaving tiny dark spots on the fabric. She watched them disappear one by one. The snowflakes melted, but she wouldn’t.

Slow and reluctant, the muffled scrape of boots on the porch boards followed. For a heartbeat, she thought he might knock again, try another argument. But the sound stopped. Cameron stood there, hand still on the doorknob, with only the hush of snow pressing in.

She should walk away. Instead, she crept to the nearest window and nudged the edge of the curtain just enough to peek out. She told herself she was just checking, making sure he was actually leaving, that he wasn’t trying to find another way in.

Sure enough, he was still there. A dark silhouette against the swirling white, he sat on the bench beside the door, luggage and bags at his feet. Cameron watched as he shoved his cell phone into a small pocket in his bag. The wind blew snow across the porch, speckling his dark coat with tiny white crystals. He hunched into the collar, but otherwise…he just sat there. Something about the stillness unsettled her. Most people would pace, knock, argue. He simply endured, shoulders squared against the storm, as if waiting her out was inevitable.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Cameron muttered, letting the chilled curtain fabric fall back into place.

The fire still crackled softly behind her; its heat licked at the backs of her legs. Wrapping her arms around herself, she rubbed away the chill his brief intrusion had left behind. But it didn’t work. The cold had gotten inside somehow—not just temperature, but awareness. Knowledge. The fact of him sitting out there in the storm, because of her. Because she’d made a choice that kept her warm and left him in the cold.

No, not my problem.

The cabin smelled of cedar and cocoa and her Hot Lumberjack candle, but beneath it clung a trace of him. Warm spice and wood, it threaded through the room like an uninvited thought she couldn’t shake. Her logical side piped up first: expensive cologne wasn’t the mark of a serial killer. More likely, he was precisely what he claimed—an inconvenienced guest caught in the same mess she was. He seemed human at least, not some faceless intruder. She shoved the thought away. Mistakes didn’t obligate her to fix them. Especially not when fixing them meant compromising her safety.

Only then did the rest of her betray her. She didn’t want to like it, but the thought of the cologne tugged at something in her, conjuring an image of snowy mornings and pancakes dripping in syrup as she was handed a mug. Of flannel and heat and…

Cameron scowled and shook her head. Nope. Not going there.

This was supposed to be her gift to herself. Ten days of peace. Ten days of doing whatever she wanted, when she wanted, without compromise. She’d picked the most remote cabin on the list precisely because it was miles from anyone who might wander over uninvited.

Letting him in—letting anyone in—would ruin it.

She moved to the hearth and poked at the logs until sparks snapped and popped, rising through the air. Each jab felt good, like a physical outlet for the frustration tightening in her chest.

Not. My. Problem.

The fire burned brighter, higher, but she still couldn’t shake the image of him sitting out there. He looked…solid. Like the kind of man who’d stand in a storm because he’d decided to, because moving meant losing some silent battle.

Her friends wouldn’t understand why Cameron was so determined to keep that door closed. They were blissfully wrapped up in their own happily-ever-afters—Kinsley with Daegan, Brienne with Daxton and little Olivia. She could picture them now, probably curled up on couches in matching pajamas, sipping something hot while snow fell outside their windows, too. But their snow was picturesque and romantic. Their holidays were hashtag-perfect. Cameron rolled her eyes because she was…here. Arguing with herself about whether to let a stranger freeze.

She loved her friends; she really did. But spending the holidays as the only single one in the group came with its own kind of fatigue. Every gathering, every toast, every cozy couple’s moment had a way of underlining the fact that she was…solo.

And right now, that solitude came with another reality: she was a woman alone in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. There was no one to call if things went sideways, no neighbor within shouting distance. The thought pinched low in her gut, a reminder of how vulnerable this all really was. The silence that had felt like a gift an hour ago now pressed like a weight, reminding her there was no backup, no safety net—just her and the wool-coat man outside. She’d endured an uncomfortable plane ride and a stuffy car trek for the promise of peace, only to find it threatened before she’d even unpacked her bag.

Opening the door to a strange man—no matter how annoyingly handsome—wouldn’t just wreck her holiday; it could compromise her safety. The sheer unfairness of it made her jaw tighten. She wanted hot cocoa, a crackling fire, and ten days without anyone else’s needs pressing in. Instead, Cameron was stuck here negotiating with the universe, running on travel fatigue and a frayed patience she couldn’t spare.

This trip was supposed to be her reprieve from all of that. No plus-ones. No subtle matchmaking attempts. No reminders of what she didn’t have. And no taking unnecessary risks. Just her, the snow, and the peace she’d promised herself.

She went back to the window, anyway. She hated herself a little for it. For caring. For checking. For letting him become her problem even though she’d explicitly decided he wasn’t.

The snow was coming down harder now, tiny needles stinging the air. He’d turned toward the glow spilling from the cabin window, his profile catching in the light: strong jaw shadowed with stubble, hair damp from melting flakes, expression carved from pure resolve.

It stirred something low in her chest—something dangerously close to sympathy. She clenched her arms tighter around herself. The storm was worsening by the minute, and as much as she hated to admit it, no storm lasted forever. If she let him in, just for tonight, they could sort things out with the rental company in the morning. Then he’d be gone, off to whatever cabin he was actually supposed to occupy, and her solitude would be restored. Temporary inconvenience, nothing more.

But she shoved it down.

Not my problem.

He was a stranger. A tall, unfairly good-looking stranger, who clearly thought she’d fold the second he flashed that booking confirmation. He probably spent most of his life expecting people to make room for him. Well, Cameron wasn’t most people.

Her pulse thudded. Logic said she should at least consider it; ten minutes on a freezing porch could turn dangerous fast. But another voice pushed back, sharp and stubborn: she’d come here for quiet, for peace, for control over her own space.

With a decisive tug, Cameron closed the curtain. The snow outside could bury the porch and swallow him whole for all she cared.

Absolutely, no way, was that man coming into her place of solitude.