Page 16 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

Panic turns to frustration, and frustration finds a target. I spin on my heel, eyes locking onto the biggest, grumpiestpresence in the room—Hank, who’s leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, watching me with that unreadable expression of his.

“This is your fault,” I snap. “Why the hell did you bring me up the mountain instead of down?”

His eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” I say, arms flailing, my composure unraveling by the second. “If you had just taken me down, I wouldn’t be trapped up here in a cabin with three strangers for a week!”

Hank pushes off the wall, posture radiating irritation. “You think I planned this, princess?” His voice is rough, biting. “I stopped to help you. If I’d tried to drive you down that mountain, I wouldn’t’ve made it back up before the storm made the roads impassable.”

I open my mouth, then close it.

Wyatt, ever the peacemaker, clears his throat. “We’ve got enough food to last the whole winter. You’ll be fine.”

Fine. Right. Sure. Because being stranded in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by snow and mountains and men who make me feel equal parts flustered and infuriated is totally fine.

I storm off to my room, slamming the door behind me. But no matter how much I huff and stew, the snow keeps falling, and the situation doesn’t magically change.

The days crawl by. Snow. So much snow. Every time I look out the window, it’s just endless white, stretching in every direction. I never thought I’d miss the honking horns and flashing billboards of the city, but I’d give anything for a traffic jam right now.

To make matters worse, I am wildly unprepared for any of this. I packed for a luxury ski lodge, not a survivalist’s dreamscape. The sweaters I have are cashmere—warm, but delicate. My leggings do nothing against the chill. My coat is more for fashion than function. And my boots—fluffy and ridiculous—are already proving useless against the sheer amount of snow outside.

This isn’t the escape I had planned for.

I wanted solitude. A quiet, cozy retreat where I could disappear from the headlines, sip overpriced lattes, and maybe—just maybe—figure out who I am without a camera in my face. What I got instead was a snowstorm, a cabin full of strangers, and no way back down the mountain.

Typical. Even when I try to leave the chaos behind, it finds me.

With a sigh, I lean against the doorframe, taking in the rustic warmth of the cabin. The fire crackles softly, its glow casting flickering shadows across the wooden walls. The scent of fresh coffee drifts through the air, tempting me toward the kitchen, but I hesitate. I can hear them talking—Holt and Wyatt, their low voices carrying from the window.

For a second, I consider turning around and retreating back to my room. I don’t belong here. And as nice as they’re being to me, they don’t want me here. But hiding won’t change anything, and besides, I’m already freezing.

Tugging my sweater tighter around me, I step forward. The floor creaks under my slippers, and both men glance up as I approach.

Wyatt gives me an easy, lopsided grin. “Morning, sunshine.”

Holt, on the other hand, just looks me up and down—his expression unreadable, as usual—before turning back to the window.

I cross my arms, trying to ignore the nerves curling in my stomach. “What’s the verdict? Roads clear yet?”

Wyatt’s grin fades, and Holt lets out a scoff that tells me everything I need to know.

I sigh. “Of course not.”

I should be panicking. Back home, the media will be in a frenzy trying to track me down. My parents will be furious that I disappeared without a press release. My ex will probably spin this into another self-serving headline.

But standing here, staring out at the endless white, I realize something else.

For the first time in my life…no one knows where I am.

And for the first time in my life…I might actually be free.

I turn toward the kitchen, determined to do something normal. Coffee. That should be easy enough.

Except, when I reach the counter, I’m met with a machine that looks like it belongs in a laboratory rather than a cabin. Knobs, buttons, a little screen that blinks at me like it’s judging my every move. I frown at it, searching for anything remotely familiar, but there’s no simple "brew" button like I’d hoped.

I press buttons at random. The machine beeps. Then hisses. Then, ominously, does nothing.

“Need some help, CG?”

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