by Ellen Mint
Rubbing a hand through his hair, he sighed at how he’d already worked through the best procedure for saving and nursing her back to health. Forget the reporter, just make it through the next few hours without killing her. Or doing anything else. Taking one last glance over the unforgiving mountains, he returned inside.
Ms. Cho was already yanking open her laptop and searching for the Wi-Fi. “What’s the damn password?” she muttered to herself.
“Intransigence,” Tristan said, wiping the snow off his padded shoulders.
She glared at him, the reporter recognizing the word and his cut. With a shrug, he said, “It’s actually Mount Mansfield. Capital Ms and an underscore for the space.”
Clearly not believing him, she entered the password quickly while keeping an eye on the man shaking off the last of the unwanted snow. When it no doubt went through, she blushed and in a quiet voice said, “Thank you.”
His tongue burned with a quip of shock that she was capable of such gratitude, but he swallowed it down. Antagonizing her wouldn’t help as they faced who knew how much of the waning afternoon together. He tugged out his phone and noticed a dozen texts from his manager. No doubt Barry was in fits trying to reschedule over a week’s worth of gigs.
This would be over soon—snows this heavy never lasted long. In theory, a few hours in a rustic cabin by the fire would be a soothing break from the constant ruckus of the road. He caught the edge of the reporter no doubt turning in all the venomous notes she’d taken on him. In theory, indeed.
Staring around the cabin, Tristan tried to take stock of what was available. A small kitchen sat nestled in the back, a stove with two burners and an oven so tiny it looked like it used a light bulb. The fridge was at least five feet tall, but the chances of it being stocked seemed low. Not that it mattered—he’d be out soon anyway.
Ms. Cho was quickly spreading out across the lone sofa in the cabin. Well, less sofa more love seat, given the theme. There was a single armchair perched beside but it looked rickety and uncomfortable, with a set of antlers swooping off the back. Rubbing into the nape of his neck, he dipped his fingers into the back of his collar and accidentally tugged. At the reminder of the suit still strapped to his body, he began to unbutton the vest.
“What… What are you doing?” Ms. Cho snapped from her oasis of extenuating facts.
Tristan paused in tugging the linen shirt out of his waistband, his gaze catching hers. “Freeing myself from looking like the child forced to perform at prom.”
“You—” She pointed a jagged finger at him as he shrugged the coat off onto the hanger beside the door, then the vest. “You can’t be planning on…on stripping.”
He expected to hear horror rolling in those words. And while, yes, her face looked as stricken as if someone had slapped it with a fish, her voice sounded discordant. Impossible to pin down. With a laugh, Tristan plucked up the bag Barry had left for him. “Don’t worry, I’ll finish away from your prying eyes. Or…?” He extended a hand out as if he wanted to invite her to watch him, as if she’d want to accept, as if he cared if she would.
Ms. Cho’s body shuddered and she forced her glare back to the screen. “Do whatever you want. I’ll be out of here soon enough.”
With the bag strung over his back, Tristan made for the unoccupied bedroom. Closing the door, he pulled in a deep breath. She was infuriating, more obstinate than a cat, judgmental and would exit his life in a matter of hours. Still, he couldn’t shake off the picture of her with gentle snowflakes trapped in her eyelashes.
* * * *
This wasn’t good.
Ha. Understatement, Beth. This is a disaster.
She pinged from the open chat window to her email, watching in stomach-knotting anxiety as the little dots bounced. So she was trapped in a cabin with Tristan Harty for who knew how long. Until a damn storm blew over.
Beth used dry words and a calm tone to explain the circumstances to her boss, then turned around and panicked with her friend, Madeline. Refreshing her email only revealed a new chance for her to refinance a mortgage she didn’t have.
Okay, she could survive this, assuming Mr. Teenage Soul-Stealer didn’t literally suck out life force with his icy eyes. Though, given their ethereal radiance, she wouldn’t be surprised. Cold eyes to match a cold heart.
Why had he made a fuss about keeping her around? Aside from the imaginary soul stealing. Beth was running on little sleep and wound up, but she didn’t believe in the supernatural. Not without proof of him draining a deer in a snowy glen, anyway. He could have stood back, let her try to drive her car down the mountain, crash, and wait for emergency vehicles to rescue her. It’d have gotten her out of his hair. His crispy, twisted-up, early 2010s hair.
That hand was certainly warm. She hadn’t anticipated him guarding her driver’s-side door, and certainly not him failing to slide back when she got out. Even in the frostbite temperatures and with snow piling up in her hair, a surge of heat had zapped off his hand to hers. It had startled her so much she’d begged for him to get out of the way before she said or did something stupid.
It’s the hate. No, hate implied familiarity. She knew nothing about Tristan Harty, which was why she couldn’t stand the man. That raw anger at a near stranger could confuse the senses, convince it that…that… He did look good in that thin white shirt tailored much tighter to his body than most men wear.
What was going to come out of that bedroom? Tristan with tousled hair and his business suit look stripped down to the bare minimum? Dressed like a successful tycoon at leisure? Or would he be naked to try and scare her away?
How much of that wiry body was supported by taut muscle?
A bing out of her laptop’s buggy speakers nearly sent Beth leaping off the couch.
How are you stuck in Vermont? Madeline taunted from the chat screen, then followed it up with a gif of a penguin dancing on an iceberg.
Don’t want to talk about it, Beth responded, meaning it. She wanted to get as far from her current headache as possible, hammer out some tripe to appease the article requirement then start the job hunt.
Uh huh. Just you, all alone in some remote cabin in the mountains. An escape for your book?
Not alone, Beth typed. To her surprise, the ellipsis began to bounce the second her words appeared on screen. She watched it, almost hypnotized by the rapid undulation that showed her friend was typing up a storm. As it passed from thirty seconds to a minute of typing, Beth gritted her teeth. This wasn’t going to go over well.
When the chat refreshed all Madeline’s tag said was, Not alone?
No doubt she’d already worked through a dozen theories before deleting them all and asking for more info.
It’s complicated, Beth responded. Explain later. Or not at all. She suspected she’d fall into the embrace of mother tequila to forget this entire day once safe at home. That emoji with steam coming out of its nose filled the chatbox, then Madeline’s rejoinder.
Later never comes, explain now!
Beth flexed her fingers over the keys, ready to type her reply and get all the venom off her chest in one go. Just before she could begin, the bedroom door opened. He wasn’t naked. While relief swarmed over her at the fact, she frowned at the niggling wonder of his potential nudity.
Every trace of the suit was gone. Instead, he wore a gray-green Henley cut tight to that thin body. The waffle-weave pattern stretched at the chest but folded when reaching his waist. The garment wasn’t tucked into his dark-wash jeans, shaking off some of that patrician aura he’d begun with, though the high chin and rock-solid posture kept a good chunk of it in place.
Tristan rustled a hand through his hair, tugging down the shellacked locks. Some fell into a side part, but just enough remained glued in place to give him a cowlick. Beth pinched her lips tight at the image and focused on her laptop instead.
Forget the man in the cabin. It’s only a few hours. It shouldn’t be hard to do.
As she didn’t make any fuss like falling
at his feet and declaring her unending allegiance, Tristan wandered over toward the kitchen area. Beth ignored him, all her focus upon the chat box asking why she wasn’t explaining.
It’s nothing, quit prying, she wrote back and pressed Send.
Of course, Madeline wouldn’t hear of it. An array of guesses flew across the screen.
A photographer? A fellow writer? An editor? A manager? A sexy park ranger?
She was gonna take a crack at every possible profession before Beth responded.
The rattle of glass bowls from the cupboards caused Beth to suck her teeth. Clinging to her high horse, she turned her back on the shadow thrusting his head into the fridge and prodded out a No.
What do you mean no? No to sexy acrobat or no to all of them?
Maybe she should tell Madeline, just in case things took a bad turn. Sure, her boss knew she was here. There was a paper trail a mile long, but didn’t rich and powerful men buy off their ‘transgressions’ all the time? Why would Mr. Harty be any different? Not to mention all those dark rumors about his previous live-in girlfriend. Who was to say he didn’t have a basement hole for lowering a bucket with lotion into? And you’re sounding a little paranoid there, Beth.
Mads, I’m with a client.
Accurate enough to be true, and it might get her to shut up.
OMG!
Or not.
Is it a celebrity? Are you in a snowy mountaintop cabin with a celebrity? A-list? B?
Beth risked glancing over her shoulder to the celeb in question to see Tristan scooting his denim-covered ass onto the counter while digging a spoon into a bowl.
No, was all she typed.
Try a washed-up singer-songwriter who’s eating a bowl of Cheerios with complimentary cartons of half and half for milk. When he tried to hoover up the cereal with his lips, a splash of the cream-milk splattered his cheek. Unable to help herself, Beth snickered at the childish sight of the haughty man with milk on his face.
Blue depths pierced into her and she gulped at the focus burning in them. You’re trapped alone in a cabin with some unknown hostile man for who knows how long. Do not laugh at him! Slowly, Tristan released the plastic spoon to the watery bowl and with the back of his hand wiped the spot off. His glare never left Beth’s. Years of experience wandering through untamed wilderness with her father kicked in, and despite wanting to turn away fast, she maintained eye contact. Never break that with the prowling tiger or bear. Make them feel just as small as they try to make you feel.
With a shrug as if they hadn’t waged a pointless battle over a milk stain, Tristan resumed chomping on his cereal. He stared out of the kitchen window, watching the fall of snow blotting away the last of the green pines. A shiver curled up Beth’s spine, her fingers digging into her shoulder as if she needed to warm her whole body. She wanted to say it was fear, but that wasn’t accurate. Her heart slammed and her breath quickened, but…
Fear. No. It had to be fear.
A reality star?
Madeline was laying it on thick. Beth sighed at the imagined horror of being trapped in a cabin with someone whose claim to fame was the depth of their spray tan. The unending ‘bros’ would cause her to suffer a brain aneurysm. Somehow, Tristan didn’t seem quite so bad compared to that.
Will you stop? Don’t you have something more important to do? What about the furballs?
Beth typed quickly, trying to silence both her friend and a disquieting feeling in her gut. When did I last eat?
“Do you mind?” He glared down at her things spread mindlessly across the couch. Blushing at her slovenly ways, Beth gathered up her stacks of spilled research before wondering why he cared.
Just as the notebooks landed in her lap, Tristan plummeted onto the couch beside her. He clung to the armrest, his half-finished bowl of bachelor dinner resting upon it. But the couch was so small his knee nearly brushed against hers, his shoulder swiping against the edge of her blazer. Gulping, she struggled to maneuver her mess while the man kept on consuming without a care in the world.
A ding out of her laptop speakers snagged her attention. She woke it up to find Madeline quickly responding.
Got one right here in my lap. See.
What followed was a picture of a tiny kitten the size of a palm resting safely between Madeline’s thighs. It was at most a few weeks old, the eyes barely open and bright blue. Mads was one of the official foster moms for most of the borough’s kittens, Beth often helping since she couldn’t adopt a cat of her own.
“Adorable,” the form beside her cooed.
Beth swiveled her head fast, an uncomfortable warmth blossoming in her as she fell directly into the full wattage of his gaze. “Wh…” Beth gulped, her brain buzzing like a downed wire. All it could make out through the hiss was that word repeating endlessly. Adorable. “What?”
“The kitten.” Tristan pointed to her laptop and her private screen, which he carelessly invaded without a second thought.
“Excuse me? Did you—” Beth slapped a hand over the chat box, her blush transforming into a fire of rage. “Did you stare at my private conversation?”
“Private?” Tristan snickered as if making her angry was hilarious to him. “You’re having it out here in the open. Right beside me.”
“You sat down second!” Beth sneered, snapping her laptop shut.
“Oh, for the love of…” Tristan’s eyes rolled so far back it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck. “I saw movement, my eyes went to it, I thought the cat was cute. This is hardly KGB espionage.”
“The KGB was disbanded in ’91,” fell out of her mouth before she shook off the stupid thought. Who cares?
“Then that’s…” His cheap spoon flitted through the air as he sank back into the couch. “That’s my point.”
Without a thought, Beth launched to her feet. She leaped so far she nearly smacked into the out-of-place Christmas tree. Spinning back to the lackadaisical man stretching out on the small couch, she ordered, “Keep your…your everything to yourself!”
“Shall I stab my eyes out first chance I get?” the smart tongue replied with.
Don’t tempt me.
With her laptop, notebooks and purse crammed tight to her chest, Beth stomped away from the man left alone beside the fireplace. She needed to do work away from the subject of said work before she wrote nothing but a trash article. On instinct, she headed to the bedroom. She struggled to flip on the light, all her work nearly crashing to the floor.
At first, it seemed a good idea. There was a desk of sorts, a chair to sit in while typing. But her gaze zoomed straight to the suit laid out across the welcoming bed. The shades were drawn, turning a cozy image intimate and secretive, almost as if she’d dashed away to a man’s bedroom right before or after a gala. The suit was waiting for him to fill it, for a woman to adjust the bowtie and button up the vest. Then, when they stumbled home inebriated and happy, unwrap the whole thing.
The uncomfortable burn in her gut returned at her cursed imagination leaping to such heights. With a sigh, Beth snapped off the light as she made plans to strangle her libido later. This was hardly the setting or person to trip off to such romantic heights with. And she was faced with a dilemma.
Said person of tooth-grinding interest was resting upon the only comfortable seating. Not to mention how easily he could slip off to the kitchen to read her screen over her shoulder. The bedroom was…not happening.
She could feel him attempting to unravel her thoughts, to understand why she’d walked into and out of the only other room in the cabin. Not today.
With her head held high, Beth stomped to the last door left to her, the bathroom. The second the door shut behind her, her back shuddered against it. She was hiding in the bathroom like some terrified child who hated holidays with the relatives.
Great going, Beth. Way to really show him your teeth.
Cursing at herself for being so soft, she trudged to the toilet and sat on the closed seat. Opening up the laptop, she was inundated by th
e piles of adorable kitten pictures Madeline had taken in three minutes. The abject cuteness soothed her most rattled nerves, but a dark one lingered deep inside. Why had she run from his suit on the bed?
Chapter Five
What is she doing in there?
At first, he ignored the woman rushing off to the bathroom to hide. Tristan busied himself with the mountain of emails that Barry kept forwarding to him. Isn’t the point of a manager to manage my correspondence? Check this date, match with this appearance, circle in on yet another interview that’d lead to nowhere.
He pursed his lips tight at the one set for a moderate-sized local news crew on the East Coast. After that it was back to the West, Barry slotting him in as entertainment during a bowl-game parade. Walking in the chilly air, pretending to slap around his guitar while his pre-recorded voice sang out of the speakers before the bandstand? Tristan had no qualms with that pretense. But the thought of yet another reporter digging into his private life and his past set his teeth on edge.
At that thought, he risked a glance to the slammed bathroom door. No sounds came out, bodily or otherwise. If she was watching anything on her laptop, she must have headphones on. Could be a movie. Or some funny cat videos. Dread sloshed in his cereal-crammed guts as old press footage raced through his memory. One of a young man, red-eyed and distraught, yanking the camera out of the hands of one of a dozen paps around him. How it flew through the air to the inhuman shrieks of the crowd before splattering on the ground.
The reason Barry was so tetchy about leaving him alone with reporters. The reason reporters were cautious but also salivating about sinking their fangs into him. How many more small cuts would it take for another disaster like that to happen?
