Page 7 of Braving the Storm
Huffing out a breath, I decide to face the day.
Wallowing is not going to solve the fact I allowed myself to be involved with a guy named Antoine Montgomery III. Or, more to the point, that I allowed my asshole family to push me into a relationship with someone on the pretense of connections and business. The Montgomerys are the type of people my father loved to golf with and name-drop into conversation. Somewhere in amongst it all, Antoine was someone who I tried to convince myself I could grow fond of. When you’re gaslit enough times into believing there’s no such thing asloveorsoulmates, it’s only business and connections and the passing on of a legacy built on generational empires, you start to sip the Kool-Aid when you’ve been worn down for long enough.
My sister is the one who typically loves to hit the emotional wounds, and really drive the knife home at every opportunity.It’s a small sacrifice after what you did.
Meanwhile, my father only ever saw dollar signs in the Montgomery media empire, and Antoine’s family saw power in being aligned with Lane Enterprises.
A shudder passes through me, how I managed to go through three years of being under the same roof as that prick. Of pretending to be the perfect ornament to compliment his life. Even his name is enough to make me gag now.
Swinging my feet out from under the covers, the chilly air is less than welcoming. I’ve got double leggings tucked into three pairs of socks and more layers than I can count on my top half.
Blowing on my fingers, I open the bedroom door, and a wall of warm air stuns me, as if I just walked into the path of a hairdryer.
At my back, the bedroom feels like the interior of a walk-in chiller in a restaurant kitchen. Whereas, before me, on the other side of my previously closed door, the rest of the cabin is toasty warm.
Dishes clink in that watery way they do while being hand-washed, and a sizzling sound comes from the kitchen.
Once again, I tread lightly down the short hallway, if you could even call it that, it’s barely more than a couple of short paces, confused as fuck, and realize my uncle’s presence fills the room.
“Uhh. Hi?” Reaching up, I quickly run my fingers over my hair, tucking a few loose strands behind my ears. Do I have sleep drool on my face? I hastily swipe the corners of my mouth with my sleeve. My eyes are trying hard to look anywherebutin the direction of the broad planes of his shoulders.
He’s dressed in a blood-red and charcoal checkered flannel shirt pushed to his elbows as he stands over the sink, and from this angle, all I can see is the outline of muscles rippling below the faded fabric.
“Coffee’s there, if you want it.” He grunts. Not turning around.
Do I ever. My stomach immediately growls as the smell of whatever he’s cooking fully hits my nose. It’s fatty and delicious, and I’m secretly hoping there might be some leftovers once he’s done that I can steal.
I vaguely remember eating a granola bar sometime yesterday afternoon, but I didn’t even stop to buy myself any groceries on my way here; being in such a state of nausea and self-disgust, nothing mattered more to me than arriving at my final mountain-side destination.
As I grab the pot and slosh some desperately needed coffee into the mug with a chipped rim already sitting on the bench, my brain starts functioning properly.
Why is he here, in my cabin, cooking?
Why is he even here at all?
“Thank you.” I take a gulp. Black coffee, bitter and definitely not what my taste buds would prefer, but it’s coffee, and all things considered, I’m grateful for its warmth at the very least.
He continues rinsing off dishes in the sink, placing a few on the tired, worn draining rack. Stony silence is all I get in response.
The fire cracks loudly, and I slip onto a seat tucked under the small wooden table. It’s a nook hardly big enough for two people but offers a breathtaking view over the world waiting for me in the glimmers of morning sunlight.
From the looks of it, I’ve woken up inside a fairytale, or a snow globe. I’m expecting a winter queen to pull up in a chariot pulled by reindeer at any moment to offer me Turkish delight. Dizzyingly tall trees are coated in dustings of white on all the pine needles. Piled snow is heaped in places around the outside of the cabin. Off in the distance, I can see a long spine of reddish-looking rock rising into the sky.
Crimson Ridge.
“It’s beautiful here,” I find myself murmuring out loud, clutching the mug between my fingers. “Do you live nearby?”
When I turn my eyes back toward the man mountain filling the kitchenette, my smile falls. His arms are folded over his chest, piercing blues locked on me, and a snarl pulls at his upper lip.
“Are you shitting me right now?”
I blanch a little at the force of his bark.
“What?”
“I said. Are. You. Shitting. Me.”
Shifting in my seat, my eyes flicker around. What does this man want me to say? “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude or anything… I’m just curious. I mean, I’ve never been here before and don’t want to come across as ungrateful. Thank you for lighting the fire…” I gesture in the direction of the flames and dare a glance back his way.
