Page 3 of Snowbound
I was a scout once. I can make a fire, thanks to—no, I won’t gotherenow. I won’t think ofhim.
But I always think of Owen when I’m stressed. I can’t help it.
Deep breath.Time to get practical.
I’ve practically been living on nothing for weeks, so what’s one more week? Isn’t fasting… good for you or something?
I stare at my useless cell phone. How am I going to decompress if I can’t mindlessly scroll all day? I bite my lip and look out the window.
Chop wood?
The problem is, this means… I’m kinda screwed.
I force a slow breath.
“All right, Emma. First mission—food.”
I cross to the fridge, bracing for the disappointment of my college days.
Instead, I blink in surprise because… it’sfull.
Deli meat. Strawberries. Bottled water. Good cheeses, wrapped in fancy deli papers. Several bottles of wine. Crusty bread. Peanut butter from a farmer’s market. Vegetables. A package of thin-sliced chicken cutlets. There are even a few premade meals, ready to heat, fresh pasta, and more of the foil-wrapped chocolate.
And on the top shelf, a folded piece of paper.
Welcome. I hope you enjoy your stay.
I stare a little too long though.
The handwriting… it tugs at something in my brain.Familiar.
But hunger wins. I grab the pasta container, my mouth already watering. Inside are plump meatballs, rich sauce, and Parmesan curled in delicate shavings.
Oh, thank god.
I find a small but neat stack of mismatched plates in the cabinet, along with a drawer of silverware. The microwave hums to life. While it heats, filling the small interior with the savory smells of garlic and herbs, I wander the place, taking it all in.
This is definitely the kind of cabin built for two. Rough-hewn beams stretch across the ceiling. The armchair by the fire is worn just right, the kind that molds to you the moment you sit. Even the throw rug seems intentionally placed, like every inch of this space is a photograph waiting to happen.
And here I am. Alone.
The pasta is gonebefore I even realize I’ve been shoveling it into my mouth like a starved woman fresh out of prison. In my defense, though, the sauce was rich and velvety, the kind of flavor that makes you close your eyes and hum like a lunatic. Chef’s kiss.
I wash the plate, set it in the tiny drying rack, and make a plan. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up early, start the fire, brew coffee so strong it could slap me awake, open that laptop, and actuallywritesomething.
Not just something, somethinggood. Somethingamazing. Something that could go toe-to-toe with that pasta sauce and win.
And most importantly, something that will prove to the world, or maybe to myself, that I am not just the woman whose ex cheated on her with someone who wears questionable pink panties.
Maybe I’m not… a failure.
CHAPTER TWO
Owen
The snow muffles everything.
Until she starts to cry.
