Page 13 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

My cheeks flush warm, and I tug at the sweater.

Even without the ridiculous boots—which I’d decided were a bit much—I must still look out of place in this cabin. It’s not just the clothes—it’s me. I don’t belong in a place like this, with its rugged wooden beams, its dim lighting, its complete and total lack of modern convenience.

I fold my arms. “You always greet guests with insults, or am I just special?”

His grin widens. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re definitely special.”

I narrow my eyes, but before I can fire back, Holt—at least, I think that’s his name—steps in from the kitchen.

“She giving you a hard time already, Wyatt?” he asks, slapping the lumberjack on the shoulder as he passes.

Wyatt. So that’s his name.

“City girl’s adjusting,” Wyatt replies, his tone dripping with amusement.

I scowl. Adjusting is putting it mildly.

I glance down at my phone, praying for a miracle. Nothing. No bars, no signal—just the cruel emptiness of digital isolation. With a sigh, I lift my head.

“Is there at least Wi-Fi?”

Wyatt lets out a deep chuckle from where he's stoking the wood-burning stove, the flames casting dancing shadows across his forearms. He doesn’t even look up as he answers.

“Oh, we’ve got it,” he says, shoving another log into the fire. “But it’s spottier than the Dalmatian down at Hotshot’s firehouse.” He gestures to Holt, who I assume is Hotshot. Huh, firefighter suits him.

Then his words sink in: the Wi-Fi’s spotty. Of course it is.

I resist the urge to groan, tucking my phone into my pocket like that’ll somehow make it hurt less. No Wi-Fi. No cell service. No escape.

"Feels like stepping back a hundred years," I say, more to myself than anyone else. But they hear, and Holt's smirk widens.

Wyatt pushes to his feet, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “Don’t worry, city girl. You’ll get used to it.”

I highly doubt that.

Holt hands me an old-school cordless phone, the kind I haven’t seen since childhood. “Landline still works,” he says. “For now, anyway.”

For now? Great. I clutch the phone and retreat to the guest room, dialing number after number, trying to untanglethis mess. The rental company? A dead end—the number is disconnected. My bank? They’ll open a fraud case, but it could take weeks to resolve. Hotels nearby—and by nearby, I mean two hours away. All booked, thanks to ski season.

I pour out my story to anyone who'll listen on the other end, but each call ends the same—with apologies and no solutions. The scam rental has me trapped, a bird in a cage with bars made of fine print and non-existent Wi-Fi.

By the time I hang up, my throat is tight, my eyes burning with frustration. I blink hard, willing myself not to cry. I am not going to fall apart over this. It’s just—everything. The exhaustion, the cold, the absolute absurdity of my current situation.

Not to mention everything I’ve been running from. That’s the only good thing about this nightmare I’ve found myself in. My phone is blissfully silent.

I wander back into the living area, where Wyatt is lounging near the fire, one boot propped against the hearth. He glances up as I slump onto the couch. “Any luck?”

I shake my head. “No. There’s nothing anyone can do.”

He shrugs, like none of this is even a little surprising. “I’ll take you into town once the snow clears.”

That shouldn’t be comforting, but somehow, it is.

"Thanks," I say. There's a tremble in my words, but I hope he doesn't notice. He just nods back, his brown eyes steady on mine.

I'm stranded, but not alone. Not yet.

Wyatt moves from the fire to the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves as he grabs a cutting board and a handful of vegetables. Holt follows. Wyatt starts slicing into an onion with practiced ease while Holt pulls a pack of meat from the fridge, inspecting the handwritten label before tossing it onto the counter. Theymove around the kitchen like a well-oiled machine, trading utensils and ingredients without so much as a glance.

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