Page 12 of Snowed in with the Mountain Man

Iwakeupsurroundedby warmth, cocooned in a bubble of heat that seems impossible given the icy cabin. For a moment, I keep my eyes closed, savoring the sensation of Aiden's body pressed against mine, his arm heavy across my waist, his soft chest hair on my back, his breath warm against my neck.

Last night rushes back in vivid detail. The way he touched me. The things he said. The way he looked at me like I was something precious and wild all at once.

He's still asleep, his face relaxed in a way it never is when he's awake. Without the constant furrow between his brows, he looks younger. Still rugged, still undeniably masculine, but softer somehow.

I should probably feel awkward. We went from strangers to lovers in less than twenty-four hours. Some feminist part of my brain is wagging a finger at me for falling into bed with the first mountain man who crossed my path. But honestly? I regret nothing.

Carefully, I extract myself from his embrace and peer over the edge of the loft. The fire has died completely, and the cold air hits me like a slap. I grab my clothes from where they landed during our frantic undressing and pull them on quickly.

Downstairs, I head for the window, curious about what the morning has brought. I wipe away the layer of frost from the inside of the glass and gasp.

"Holy shit."

The world outside has disappeared. Snow covers the window almost completely, just the top few inches revealing the still-falling flakes. I move to the front door and crack it open—or try to. It doesn't budge.

"Problem?" Aiden's sleep-roughened voice comes from behind me. He's descended from the loft, pulling a sweater over his head, hair mussed in a way that makes my stomach flip.

"We're snowed in," I say. "Like, literally snowed in. The door won't open."

He joins me, muscling the door with his shoulder. It gives an inch, revealing a solid wall of white.

"Snow drift," he explains, letting the door close. "Wind pushed it against the cabin. Back door might be clearer."

It isn't. We're completely entombed in snow.

"So what now?" I ask, unable to keep the nervous edge from my voice. "Are we trapped?"

"Not trapped," he corrects, finger-combing his beard straight. Well, straight-ish. "Just need to dig out. There's a shovel in the shed."

"Which is buried under four feet of snow."

He considers this. "We'll improvise."

And improvise we do. For the next hour, Aiden uses a cookie sheet from the kitchen as a makeshift shovel, carving a narrow path from the back door. I follow behind with a pasta pot, widening the channel. It's exhausting, frigid work, but there's something oddly satisfying about it too.

"Do you live like this all winter?" I ask, dumping another pot-full of snow. This can’t be good for my back.

He glances back at me. "Not usually this bad. April storms are rare."

"But does it snow this much regularly?"

"Sometimes more." He pauses, assessing our progress. "You get used to it."

I try to imagine getting used to this—to being so completely at the mercy of nature. In Vancouver, weather is an inconvenience, something to check on your phone before deciding which jacket to wear. Here, it's life or death.

We finally reach the shed, which takes another thirty minutes to unbury enough to wrench the door open. Inside, Aiden retrieves a proper snow shovel and some other tools.

"We need to clear the roof, too," he says, eyes tracking the snow load above us. "Too heavy. Could collapse."

The thought of Uncle Max's cabin caving in on us is enough to spur me to action. Together, we work through the morning, Aiden showing me how to use a roof rake to pull snow down in manageable sections.

By noon, we've cleared essential pathways and reduced the roof load. We're both sweating despite the cold, our breath coming in visible puffs.

"Break time," Aiden announces, leaning the shovel against the porch. "Need to hydrate."

Inside, I boil snow on the stove while Aiden builds a new fire. The cabin gradually warms, and with it, my outlook improves. We're not going to freeze or be crushed by snow. That's something.

"So," I say, handing him a mug of hot chocolate made from powder I'd packed, "you seem to know what you're doing. Have you always lived in Darkmore?"

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