Page 76 of Snowbound
I’m sitting up in bed, laptop on my knees, the faint blue glow on my thighs. Then it hits me—this is the perfect chance todo what I’ve been dying to: a little snooping. A little digging into the mystery he refuses to name.
Every time I ask about his job, he dodges. Deflects. His jaw sets, and his voice turns flat. He says being near him puts me in danger. He says he does illegal shit and doesn’t even sugarcoat it. And I believe him.
This isn’t new. It’s always been there since I’ve known him, even when we were kids under the same roof. My mom, his dad. The awkward blended family nobody asked for. Back then, Owen always had cash, more than the other boys. There would be new sneakers and crisp bills folded in his pocket. He told me he worked at a mechanic’s. He told me he mowed lawns. He told me a thousand little lies with that easy grin. But I watched him. I saw him down on Main, leaning against the brick wall outside the coffee shop, talking to older men who passed him packages too small to be sandwiches. Too quick to be innocent.
I hated it. I hated the secrecy. But his father didn’t care. My mother didn’t notice. And me? I wasn’t about to be the little sister who ratted him out. Still, I knew… something was wrong.
And now… the proof is right there, a beat-up little laptop practically begging to be cracked open, sitting careless and dented on the kitchen table.
I push off the bed and cross the floor quiet as a thief. My fingers curl over the lid, clicking it open.
“What are you doing?”
His voice slams into me, deep and raw, booming through the room like a gunshot.
I spin. Jesus Christ. I thought I had at least fifteen minutes. But there he is already. A towel slung low on his hips, damp and dangerous. His skin flushed, slick with beads of water trailing over his chest, down his arms. His hair darkened, dripping. And those eyes—those fucking eyes—narrowed on me in that way that makes my pulse race.
“Why are you on my laptop, Emma?”
My throat locks. I snap the lid shut, my hands trembling just enough for me to notice. His gaze cuts me open.
I go for the truth, the only weapon sharp enough. “Because I don’t like that you’re lying to me.”
His brows draw together, shadowing his face. His brogue thickens, a growl. “When did I fucking lie to you, lass? I’m not lying to you. Even if I were, that doesn’t give you the right to snoop on my damn laptop.”
My heart pounds, but I don’t back down. “If you have nothing to hide…”
“Didn’t say that,” he murmurs. Quiet. Deadly.
The silence stretches as water still drips from him, tapping against the floor. Then he shakes his head. “Some of the clients I have… they’re dangerous. They demand anonymity. If you came near them, if they saw you…” His voice cuts off. He doesn’t need to finish.
My arms fold across my chest, armor against the chill racing through me. “What did you do to Jake?”
His eyes flicker—guilt, a shadow—but no retreat.
“I need answers, Owen,” I push. “The snow’s melting. Our time’s running out. And I can’t go back to pretending I was okay without you. Pretending any other man meant a damnthing. Pretending I wanted to be alone.” My voice cracks, low but steady. “I don’t want anyone else. I want you. But I want the truth.”
His scowl deepens. He steps closer, the towel shifting dangerously, water still dripping from his hair. His bare feet are silent on the tile.
“Had a conversation with him,” he says at last. And I know two things: First, he’s telling the truth, and second, a “conversation” with Jake would’ve been borderline illegal. His gaze doesn’t flinch. His jaw is tight, guilty but steady.
“Heard he wasn’t treating you well. So I went to his workplace.” A pause, then his mouth hardens. “Told him he was never to contact you again unless you initiated it, and it was time to sign those fucking papers.”
My breath catches. “When?”
“The day before I came here,” he whispers.
And that’s it. That explains everything. The sudden silence. Jake’s texts cut off.
“How did you know what he did to me?” My voice is sharper now, demanding.
Owen folds his arms, biceps flexing, chest rising—a wall of muscle and menace. And he stares at me like he already knows the answer I’ll hate.
The cabin’s too warm. Fire snaps in the fireplace as steam curls off his bare shoulders.
We shouldn’t be having this conversation while he’s shirtless. It isn’t fair. I cross my arms, trying to focus.
Not on the way his hair’s still damp from the shower or the way one droplet rolls all the way down his sharp, tight jawline. Not on the veins in his forearms, or the dangerous look or warning.
