by Cate Ashwood
With that, the line went dead, as though firing me had been no more difficult than it would have been if I’d been some junior janitor he’d never met.
What the hell was I going to do now? What the hell? My mind was tripping over itself with how hard it was racing, grappling to catch hold of something—anything—that constituted a plan. My entire childhood, then adulthood, flashed in front of me. Every encounter I’d ever had with Philip Prescott.
So much for family bonds.
I felt like I was going to vomit. Unease rose in my throat, pushing the taste of bile and panic through my esophagus. My hands tightened to fists, my nails digging into the flesh of my palms. I hardly felt it. The thought of never setting foot in my office again, never operating in the Westbridge OR, never seeing my patients… I’d never know the long-term outcome of the surgical trials I’d been working on and that fucking killed me.
I was invested in those procedures, but more than that, I cared about my patients.
I sat, staring at my phone, waiting to wake up and realize it had all been a horrible dream. But when the phone buzzed against the bedside table, it wasn’t an alarm to wake me—it was Frankie.
“He fired me.” Even my voice sounded distant, like someone else was speaking, like this was happening to a stranger and not to me.
“I heard.”
“Wow, bad news sure travels fast.”
“He yelled out his door to notify HR you were no longer an employee.” Frankie sighed. “I’m so sorry, babe. I didn’t think he’d actually do it.”
“Neither did I.”
“You need a place to stay? I’m still crashing at my cousin’s, but my room’s got a queen bed in it. I doubt Gia would mind.”
“I’m thinking Gia would definitely mind, and you and me might kill each other if we had to share a bed, but I’m not going to turn you down quite yet. Lemme see if I can get something else figured out. I appreciate the offer, though.”
“Course. Anything you need.” His voice was so gentle—the usual shit-talking, smart-mouthed quality gone completely. “Don’t worry, Holden. We’re gonna fix this.”
I stood up and straightened my shirt. “You’re goddamn right.”
CHAPTER SIX
The lasagna was in the oven, and the wine was poured. I had hunkered down, ready to ride out the next twenty-four hours. Things were going to get rough—the day before, the weather service had announced a prediction for the worst storm the state had seen in three years, and considering how much snow Alaska got on a good day, it was bound to be harsh.
The last two winters I’d been in Sawyer’s Ferry had been mild. I had yet to see a really bad storm, but the woman on the radio had been incredibly convincing. Logan had gone through the checklist with me: battery backup, emergency kit, flashlights and candles, storm windows installed, and a shovel to dig myself out afterward. I upgraded and bought a plow attachment for the front of my truck. I was all stocked and ready to go, and if I were being honest, there was a part of me that was looking forward to it. The thought of being snowed in was strangely appealing.
Solitude was a welcome change after a long row of shifts in town. Now that my hermitted little heart had time to adjust to life without a million people surrounding me, I was learning that I preferred the privacy over the clamoring chaos of the city. I wasn’t sure why I’d stayed in New York as long as I had.
The sound of someone knocking startled me, and I almost dropped my glass.
“Who the fuck—”
I stopped short when I saw the silhouette through the glass of my front door, the outline of his body barely discernible in the dim light. I momentarily considered not answering, just leaving him out there to freeze, but venting my anger onto him suddenly seemed like a much better option.
“This is going a little fucking far, Prescott,” I said as I hauled the door open and came face-to-face with him, his ears tipped in red and his hair covered in snow. For a fraction of a second, I forgot what an annoying little shit he was. The snowflakes dusting his shoulders and the way he hunched forward as his arms folded tightly against his body made him look almost vulnerable.
And then I remembered who he was and why he was here.
“For Christ’s sake. You’re following me home now?” I stared hard at him. “No, better question is, are you fucking deranged? Stalking is illegal, but stalking in the middle of a fucking blizzard is about the dumbest thing you could do.”
“What the hell else was I supposed to do?”
“Go home!” I yelled, the volume in my voice swallowed by the howling wind.
“I can’t do that.” He shook his head. “Not until you’ve agreed to sign the papers.”
“I hope you enjoy living in Sawyer’s Ferry, then. I don’t know how you found out where I live in the first place, but you need to stay the hell away from me from now on.”
“It’s a small town. Everyone knows where you live.”
“You didn’t,” I pointed out.
“It was in the file I got from Westbridge.”
“One more reason not to entertain the possibility of going back.” I tried to shut the door, but Prescott reached out and put his hand against it. He was shivering and I almost, almost felt bad for him. I was fucking freezing standing in the doorway, but I had the heat from the house behind me.
“Please hear me out. You know my father. He’s not the type to take no for an answer, least of all from me. I’m out of options. I’ve already faced my father, and honestly, you’re a helluva lot less intimidating.”
His words felt like a challenge. I resisted the urge to tower over him. “None of that is my problem, and I understand persistence, but you’ve gotten pretty fucking flexible on your definition of it. I’m guessing this is your first trip to Alaska because if you knew anything, you’d know that 98 percent of the population here has guns. And you showing up on somebody’s property uninvited is likely to get you shot.”
He dropped his hand. “Are you in that 98 percent?”
“Yep.” He didn’t need to know I’d only bought the gun because bears were common and I didn’t much like the idea of getting mauled on my way to the mailbox. “So it would probably be best if you leave.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “If you do have second thoughts, give me a call.” He hesitated, then turned and walked away. I watched him, feeling a pang of something that could have been mistaken for sympathy. He was right. I did know his father, and he would absolutely see this as a failure. And if there was one thing Philip Prescott hated more than anything, it was negative outcomes. The kid would be lucky to keep his job, family or not.
I felt for him, I did. It wasn’t his fault things with Westbridge had gone to shit, but Philip should have known sending his kid to try to change my mind wouldn’t work. And Prescott Junior had stepped over the line more than once trying to get my attention.
I shut the door behind him and let out a deep breath, hoping that was finally the last I saw of him. His presence unnerved me, and not only because he was essentially stalking me. He made me feel off balance and out of breath at the same time. It was difficult to tell if it was a side effect of the animosity I held for his father or if it was some base reaction to him.
I could admit that even though I found his persistence irritating rather than admirable, there was something about him that had my mind tripping over itself. He’d been in my thoughts almost constantly since the night before, and every time I pushed those thoughts away, they came back.
But now he was leaving, and I didn’t need to worry about him—or my reaction to him—again. I double-checked the door was locked and headed for the kitchen.
When I’d stuffed myself full of pasta, meat sauce, and cheese, I wandered to the window to gauge how much snow had already fallen. The flakes had been coming down hard as I’d driven home, making it seem like I was driving warp-speed.
Now, the wind had picked up. I could hear it roaring in the chimney, and the snow that was coming
down sideways had started to pile in drifts. By morning, I was sure it would have erased any sign of the long driveway in from the road.
It was quite beautiful, the wash of white. New York had been beautiful in the winter, but that beauty was always so short-lived. Before long, the pristine snow became slushy and brown, but the view from my window would remain perfectly—
My eyes caught sight of something, tucked away in the trees.
A flash of red that was out of place in the untouched landscape.
I leaned forward, squinting to make it out in the dim of twilight. For a moment, I couldn’t believe he was on my goddamn property.
But apparently, he was. Prescott was still there, parked in his fucking SUV. Between the snow that had piled up around the vehicle and the trees dotting the edges of the driveway, I’d almost missed seeing him completely.
Why the hell was he still there?
Before, he was annoying, and now I was starting to question his mental faculties. I thought about calling the cops and reporting a trespasser, but the chances the police would make it all the way out were slim.
The storm was picking up, even as I stood in my window. No one was going anywhere. And at this point, that probably included Prescott. I hoped he had a full tank of gas because it was going to be a long and very cold night.
I shut the curtains, pulling them tight and putting him out of my mind. I settled in with my wine and flicked on the TV, figuring I might as well binge-watch Sherlock, but the further I got into the episode, the more lost I became. My mind kept wandering back to the idiot in my driveway.
Over and over I shoved him out of my thoughts, only to have him creep back in like the aggravating stalker he was. By the middle of the first episode and my third glass of wine, the mere fact that I was thinking about whether or not he was slowly freezing to death became more irritating than his actual presence on my property.
When I couldn’t take it anymore, I stomped my way to the mudroom and pulled my coat and boots on like they’d personally pissed me off.
I’d had a perfectly relaxing evening planned, and now I was gearing up to trek through knee-deep snow.
Fucking Prescott.
Why the hell hadn’t his parents used a condom?
I yanked open my door and was immediately blasted in the face with a gust of frigid air.
“Fuck,” I growled. “Fucking Prescott.”
The mantra kept up through all thirty feet of subzero night air, the snow like a hundred thousand needles piercing my skin as I walked. I hurried, pushing on even though I wanted desperately to be back inside.
The windows of the SUV were fogged and I couldn’t see inside, but I didn’t hear the engine running. I pounded on the window.
“Jesus Christ,” Prescott said, opening the door. “You scared the shit outta me.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demanded. I felt like I’d been asking him that question over and over, and he’d never given me an answer I was happy with. There’d been a lot of bullshit flying out of this guy’s mouth since he arrived in Sawyer’s Ferry, and I’m not sure why I expected anything different now.
“Car wouldn’t start.”
I looked at him, trying to decide if he was lying. He shoved his key into the ignition and turned it. Sure enough, nothing.
“That’s convenient.”
“It’s not like I’d planned on camping out in your driveway through a snowstorm,” he spat. “Go back inside. I’ll be fine. I’ve already called and left a message with some guy named Lyle.”
“Lyle.” I scoffed. “You’ll be lucky if he calls you back before Thursday.”
“Shit.”
I pulled the door open wider. “Get in the goddamn house.”
“What?” He was looking at me like I’d told him I was a hula dancer.
“I told you to get in the house. Hurry up before I change my mind.”
He scrambled out of the vehicle and slammed the door behind him, but I was already halfway back to the house before he caught up. I stopped and turned toward him.
“You can come in, but there are some conditions.”
“Anything,” he promised.
“Absolutely no mention of Philip.”
“Yes. Sure. Fine.”
“No talking about Westbridge.”
“You got it.”
“No talking about New York as a backhanded… you know what? No talking at all. You can come in, but you’re to remain absolutely silent.”
He opened his mouth to accept my conditions but then seemed to think better of it and nodded silently instead.
“Let’s go, then.” I turned back toward the house and he fell in line behind me, sticking closer than I would have liked. I stopped short, causing him to run into me. “And no watching me sleep.”
“What?” he asked, confused.
“I’m locking my bedroom door because I don’t trust you not to sneak in and watch me sleep like a total psychopath.”
He looked sort of offended, but that wasn’t my problem. His feelings were not my problem. His engine trouble shouldn’t have been my problem, but, well, here we were.
We made it into the house without either one of us falling victim to the elements, and he exhaled audibly when I closed the door behind us. Looking at him now, I had to admit his lips were a little blue. If I’d doubted bringing him inside was the right thing to do, in that moment I knew that it was, no matter how grating the thought of him spending the night in my home was.
CHAPTER SEVEN
My nose hurt. My ears hurt. My fingers hurt.
Everything fucking hurt.
It somewhat diminished the relief I felt stepping into the warmth of Emerson’s house. Lord knows I would have frozen into a solid brick had I been forced to stay out there all night, but the blood returning to my extremities was like God’s little fuck-you for driving out here in the first place.
“Dr. Emerson?”
He took a long breath. “What?”
“Thank you. You know, for not letting me freeze to death.”
He frowned and I wondered if he was already regretting the offer. “Since you’re spending the night, we might as well move to a first-name basis.”
I nodded and took off my boots, then wiggled my toes, trying to regain some feeling in them. He turned and watched me with an expression of solid irritation. It wasn’t something I was used to. People liked me. They just did. I’d been told more than once that there was something about me that made people feel at ease.
I waited for Gage to move, but he stood there, his eyes glued to me.
“What?” I said finally, breaking the first condition within a minute.
“You had a maid, didn’t you? Or a housekeeper, or whatever the term is that makes rich people like you feel better about paying someone to clean up your messes.”
I opened my mouth to argue, the comment he’d made sounding so much like an insult that I’d become instantly defensive. But we had. We’d had several housekeepers, not that I’d been home enough to learn any of their names.
He was staring behind me, and I turned to see what he was looking at. My boots were sitting in the middle of the entrance, the snow melting off them and leaving a puddle of water beneath them.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, turning around and tucking them away under the bench where Gage had put his. I felt the tips of my ears burn, and I wasn’t totally sure if it was from being outside or being scolded.
He affected me, though I couldn’t explain why. Not too many people did. I was accustomed to walking through life, letting any negativity roll off my back. Gage was different, though. Maybe it was the halo effect—he was tall and mountain-manny, exactly my type… the kind of guy you knew could throw you around in bed, manhandle you to exactly where they wanted you.
I shivered a little, just thinking about it.
Instead of waiting for an invitation, I followed him inside. He couldn’t expect me to stay at the front entrance all night.
I followed him into the living room where he sat himself down on the couch, leaning back and spreading out, his large body taking up most of the space. I lowered myself into an armchair to the left of him, in between the sofa and the large fireplace, but still in view of the TV. He clicked the remote and the show began to play.
I relaxed against the soft fabric, feeling strangely comfortable for the first time since I’d arrived in town. Maybe it was the fire blazing in the fireplace. Maybe it was the dim, calm lighting of the room. Maybe it was the fact that I’d finished binge-watching this exact series a few weeks earlier back in New York. Whatever it was, I was going to try not to question it.
“God, I love Benedict Cumberbatch. The things I would let that man do to my bod—”
“Jesus Christ, Prescott. You’ve been in my house all of two fucking minutes and you’ve already broken your promise to keep your goddamn mouth shut.”
“To be fair, though, I think we both knew that wasn’t actually going to happen,” I pointed out. “And my name’s Holden, not ‘Prescott,’” I said, mimicking the way he always seemed to snap out my last name.
Gage growled—actually growled—and a little shiver went through me for the second time in as many minutes. I’d found him attractive before, at the bar in his dark-wash jeans and black Henley, at the hospital in his navy blue scrubs, but somehow here, in soft gray sweats and a tight white tee, he was nearly irresistible. Why the hell were sweatpants so fucking sexy on this guy?
“I thought we’d make it more than eighteen seconds before you started yapping.”
“Well, clearly you thought wrong.” I winked at him, trying to play up the charm a bit. I hadn’t planned to end up stranded in his house overnight, but now that I was here, I didn’t want to spend all night with this biting hostility between us.
