Page 15 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

And yet…she purrs. Loudly. Like a tiny, broken chainsaw.

“Oh,” I breathe.

Gremlin—because what else could this thing be named—rubs her face against my hand, demanding attention. Hesitantly, I scratch behind her one fully intact ear, and the purring deepens into a full-body vibration.

“I’ll be damned,” Holt says, leaning back in his chair. “Gremlin likes her.”

“Well, that’s new,” Wyatt muses.

I glance up just in time to catch Hank’s expression shift—just a fraction, but enough. The gruff, broody look softens, just a little, before he schools his features into something unreadable.

Holt, of course, doesn’t let it slide. He grins, looking between me and Hank like he’s just found his new favorite form of entertainment.

“Guess that means we’re stuck with you now,” he says, smirking.

Gremlin lets out a deep, satisfied sigh and settles more comfortably in my lap, like she’s already made up her mind.

Looks like I don’t get a say in the matter.

Chapter 7

Ivy

Iwake up to unfamiliar surroundings, the soft glow of early morning light filtering through the curtains. For a moment, I forget where I am. The thick quilt over me is heavier than my usual blankets, the air sharper, colder than it should be. It takes me a moment to orient myself. The cabin. The storm. The fact that I’m stranded here.

With a groan, I roll onto my side and reach for my phone out of habit. The screen lights up, the same useless "No Service" message staring back at me. Right. I have no signal, no Wi-Fi, and no way to check if the outside world still exists.

I toss the phone back onto the nightstand with a sigh and sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The chill in the room has me pulling the quilt tighter around my shoulders. I should’ve known that the designer pajamas I packed wouldn’t be enough for a place like this.

Shivering, I grab the nearest sweater—a thick, oversized knit that at least looks warm—and wrap it around myself before slipping out of bed. My ridiculously fuzzy slippers wait beside the bed, the only thing I brought that seems remotely appropriate for cabin life. I slide them on and shuffle toward thedoor, bracing myself for whatever fresh hell this morning will bring.

The wooden floors creak under my steps as I move into the living area. The scent of coffee lingers in the air, mingling with the faint smokiness of the dying fire.

Holt and Wyatt are standing by the window, staring out at the storm like it personally offended them. Something tells me I’m not going to like what they have to say.

I don’t. We’re snowed in, and it’s still coming down.

I clear my throat. “So, how long before the roads clear?”

Neither of them immediately answers. Not a great sign.

“If we’re lucky,” Wyatt mutters, still staring out at the storm, “it’ll only take five or six?—”

I barely let him finish. “Hours?” That’s not so bad. I can manage that.

Holt snorts, finally turning to face me. “Days.”

The word slams into me like a punch to the gut. “Days?” My voice shoots up an octave. “Five or sixdays?”

“Maybe more, depending on how bad it gets.” Wyatt shrugs like it’s no big deal, already moving toward the kitchen.

My stomach twists. This can’t be happening. Nearly a week? Stuck here?

The walls suddenly feel too close, the heat from the fire too warm. I force in a breath, my fingers tightening around the hem of my sweater.

“There has to be a way down,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “I need to check on my car, find another place to stay.”

Wyatt laughs—actually laughs—like I just told the funniest joke he’s ever heard. “Sweetheart, even if you could dig your car out, you wouldn’t make it a mile before getting stuck again. And that’s if you don’t go sliding off the road first.”

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