Page 7 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

"Need help?" My voice breaks through the howling wind.

"Got it," she calls back, pulling out a duffel bag. It’s another anomaly. The thing’s top-of-the-line, the kind that costs more than some people’s rent.

For a moment, I stay put, gripping the steering wheel. What's her story? Not my business. But damn if I'm not curious. Why is she here without a proper jacket? Without boots that could handle a single step in this wilderness?

"Hey," I say as she pulls another large bag out of the trunk and drops it to the snow-covered pavement. "You sure you're good?"

"Yeah." Her teeth chatter, and she hugs the bag close, like it's a lifeline.

I huff, shoving open the door. Stubborn thing.

Trudging through the snow, I reach the trunk just as she wrestles with another suitcase.

My eyes flick over the pile. Jesus. How long is she planning to stay? There's a whole lot of them, and none look like they've ever seen a day of rough weather. Does she even have a coat in there? Maybe boots? She's standing there, arms crossed, watching me like I'm about to dropkick her prized poodle.

I grab the nearest suitcase by the handle, testing its weight. Heavy. Probably full of designer crap that won’t do a thing against this cold. With a shake of my head, I haul it up and toss it into the truck bed.

She gasps, predictable as the damn wind. "Hey! Be careful!"

I lift an eyebrow, but she just presses her lips together and looks away, cheeks flushed—not just from the cold. Interesting.

"Sorry, princess," I grumble, not sorry at all. The suitcases keep coming, one after another. They're heavy, but not as heavy as whatever's weighing on her. Her eyes follow each bag, and I can tell she's biting back words with every toss.

The last one lands, and I slam the tailgate shut. "All set?"

She nods, her lips pressed into a thin line, but she doesn't say anything. I guess silence is better than more complaints.

"Come on then." I jerk my head toward the passenger door. "Let's get you warmed up."

She shivers, rubbing her arms as we climb into the cab of my truck. I watch her from the corner of my eye as she digs through her purse—another fancy thing—and pulls out her phone.

"Where to?" I ask, ready to get this over with.

"Um, it's 259 Black Bear Ridge." Her voice is small against the hum of the heater.

I frown. That address sits funny with me. Too far out for comfort, especially with the storm breathing down our necks. "You sure that's right?"

"Yes." She holds out her phone, showing me the listing. A cozy-looking cabin surrounded by snow—it's picturesque, too much so. "It's supposed to be cozy, secluded."

"All right," I say with a shrug, pulling away from the mess of her car buried in the snow. If that's where she wants to go, who am I to argue?

"Thank you," she whispers, her voice almost lost in the roar of the engine.

The truck grumbles up the mountain, wheels biting into the gravel. Trees crowd us in a tight embrace, snowflakes dancing at the edges of the headlights' glow. The girl beside me is silent, lost in thoughts I can't begin to unravel.

By the time we crest the last hill, my gut is already tight. Something’s off.

There aren’t any rentals up here—at least none that look like the glossy photo she’d flashed earlier. I could be wrong, but I know this mountain like the back of my hand.

The truck rolls to a stop, its engine idling rough against the stillness.

"Here we are," I say, though the words feel hollow. The red flags are now slapping me in the face.

The cabin sits hunched against the tree line, dark and lifeless. No lights in the windows. No sign of recent tracks in the snow. Just a sagging porch and a number barely clinging to the wood near the door. I frown, scanning the place.

She doesn't move right away. She just sits there, her breath fogging up the window. Then she grabs her phone, staring at the screen, then at the cabin, then back at the mailbox like she’strying to convince herself this can’t be the place. A gust of wind rocks the truck, rattling the loose shutters on the cabin, and she finally exhales, shoving her phone away.

"Are you sure this is it?" I ask, peering out at the place myself. It's got that abandoned look, the kind that gets under your skin.

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