Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 33333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
He eyes me. "You’re gonna be a lot."
“Sweetheart, I’m gonna be everything.”
He groans, pushing off the frame. “I need a drink."
“Make it a double. I’m a high-maintenance nightmare.”
He disappears into the kitchen, and I grin to myself. Game on.
Later, I emerge from a steamy shower in a cloud of vanilla body wash and bad decisions.
He’s on the couch, still shirtless, flipping through a beat-up horror novel like he’s ignoring the spark between us. Like I didn’t just toss a pink bath towel over the bannister and hum my way through an Ariana Grande medley loud enough to raise ghosts.
I curl up on the opposite end of the couch. "So what’s your deal? You run a haunted lodge and chop wood shirtless for fun?"
He flips a page. “Used to be Army. Came back. Needed quiet. This place is owned by my best friend’s family–The Warners–they hired me as caretaker for the summer and I never left. They’re spending their retirement years in Florida and I’m the guy they trust to keep this place running."
"And now you terrorize city girls with your grumpy lumberjack schtick?"
He glances at me over the page. "Only the ones who show up with wigs and glitter hairspray."
“Rude. The wigs are part of my aesthetic."
“Is chaos your aesthetic too?”
I smile. "Wouldn’t be the first time someone said that."
He closes the book and sets it aside. “You’re seriously gonna film here this week?”
“Yep, that’s part of the deal. Just need to spruce up the decor a little before I showcase this place on TikTok. My theme? ‘Whimsical Gothic Holiday.’"
He blinks. “What does that even mean?”
“Skeleton carolers. Velvet stockings. A black Christmas tree. You’ll see."
He shakes his head slowly. "Jesus."
"Nope. Just me. And I come bearing bedazzled antlers and enough fake snow to suffocate a small town."
His gaze drags over me again, this time slower.
“Should’ve locked the gate,” he mutters.
“You’re lucky you didn’t. I’m very bendy."
He rubs a hand over his jaw, clearly torn between exasperation and amusement.
"You always like this?"
"Only when I’m trying to distract myself from shirtless mountain men who look like they bench-press moose for fun."
His grin is slow. Dangerous.
"You’re playing with fire, Aspen."
"Good thing I packed marshmallows."
Silence stretches between us, thick with heat. The kind that makes your skin buzz and your stomach flip.
He leans closer. Just a little. Enough to make the air between us crackle.
"You kiss all your boyfriends with that mouth?"
I lick my lips. “Wouldn’t you like to find out?”
His eyes darken. His voice drops.
“Yeah. I would.”
Before I can move, before the spell can break, a loud crack sounds outside. Ice shifting on the roof.
He pulls back, jaw clenched.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
Well then.
Let the haunting begin.
Chapter 2
Thorne
“You’re still here.” A part of me was hoping she’d seen the rustic guest room and bailed. It’s hardly winterized; no fireplace and an old, finicky boiler means the room is hardly cozy, which is why the hunting lodge never hosts guests—it used to rent to crusty old fly fisherman in the summer but it’s just the caretaker’s lodge now. Definitely not what this city girl is used to. This woman has complication written all over her pretty face.
“Oh my God!” She throws her hands up and spins toward the fake tombstones like she needs backup from her plastic undead army. “Why do men always go straight for the dramatic bullshit?” She lowers her voice to mock me: “‘You don’t belong here.’ ‘I’m too dark and broody for human connection.’ ‘Nobody understands me.’”
I glare. “I don’t talk like that.”
She points. “You feel like that.”
“I feel nothing.”
“Liar.”
I close the distance again, getting right in her face. “Sounds like you should pack your shit, city princess.”
“No.”
“You’re leaving.”
“I’m staying.”
“You’re a menace.”
“You’re a coward.”
My jaw locks. “Say that again.”
She does. Slower. Deadlier. “Coward.”
Wind howls through the trees, whipping snow between us. Dead leaves skitter across the iced ground. My pulse slams.
I step forward.
She doesn’t move.
“You don’t know me,” I bite out.
She lifts her chin. Fearless. “Then show me I’m wrong.”
What she doesn’t understand—what she shouldn’t—is that I can’t.
Because she’d be right.
And I’d rather die than let her see everything buried under my ribs.
I exhale slowly. Controlled. Dangerous. Then I pull back.
“Stay out of my way,” I say.
“No,” she fires back.
“We’ll see how long you last.”
“I’ll outlast you.”
“You won’t.”
“Try me.”
She turns and stalks up the steps like she didn’t just declare war. I watch her go because I can’t help it. Because she’s a fucking natural disaster in thigh-high socks.
And maybe I like natural disasters.
Maybe I’m stupid enough to stand in their path.
The wind cuts cold.
But I’m burning now.
And this—whatever the hell this is—I know one thing.
It’s only going to get worse.
Much worse.
Chapter 3
Aspen
The lodge has three rules posted on a chalkboard in the entry like commandments for sinners:
1) No candles near the curtains.
2) No food left out.
3) No fun after 10 p.m.