Snowed in with Mr. Heartbreaker (Copper Valley Bro Code #5)

Chapter 2

2

Aspen Bowen, aka a rising pop star who’s always been let down by the holidays

Come to Virginia and have Christmas with Cooper and me , my mentor and work bestie Waverly said three weeks ago. It’s low stress. Low expectations. Plus, daily pastries from his brother’s bakery, and if you get tired of us, you can hide in a different part of the house .

She gets not liking the holidays. Has her own reasons for it. Likes them better now that she’s with Cooper.

But for everything Waverly’s done in her career, she’s never had a viral holiday hit about forgetting Christmas that she couldn’t go anywhere without hearing over and over and over again when forgetting Christmas is exactly what she wants to do.

So last night, after my song started playing at the holiday party, I made my excuses about needing my own whole entire house for my holiday trip. Now I’m solo for the rest of the season, all checked in to a vacation rental cabin that feels miles and miles from civilization. There’s another little town no more than ten minutes away down a winding mountain road, but I have everything I need here.

Food. Notebook. Guitar.

I wish I had Commander Crumpet too, but he’s clearly happy with his new family.

And that matters more than what I want.

Especially since I have to move again when I get back to LA.

I know better than to flirt with my landlord.

I do.

I blame the stress of being under the watchful eye of the creepy elves that Beck and Sarah Ryder had on their shelves.

Temporary insanity making me give in to the idea that the movie star I’ve been crushing on for longer than I care to admit would see me as anything more than the hot mess who keeps breaking things in his pool house.

And then when I thought he was going to kiss me under the mistletoe—but no.

Nope.

The universe had other plans, and those plans were to blare my song and ruin the moment.

Which is good.

I can’t buy a house until royalties come in for this dumb song, so I shouldn’t be kissing my landlord until I have a more secure place to go.

But I push all of that out of my brain, settle onto the plush rug in front of the empty fireplace in the little wood cabin, and tune out the world while I fiddle with lyrics and a melody that I’ve been working on for my next album. Soak in the sound of a gentle rain that starts to fall midafternoon. Switch on a lamp that illuminates the log walls in a soft yellow glow. Debate starting a fire in the fireplace for more ambiance.

Get distracted by the idea of ambiance and go back to my journal.

At least, until I hear a car outside near dusk.

I’m at the end of a dirt road. The closest other cabin that I saw on my drive in this morning was much farther down the mountain. There’s no other access to this cabin and nothing else but this cabin at the end of the road.

I angle myself off the floor, grunting as I realize my body’s gotten stiff from sitting so long, and peer out the dirty window.

Maybe it’s a cleaning crew here on the wrong day. Or the owner of the cabin. Possibly even someone like me who got double-booked, because wouldn’t that be exactly how this holiday is supposed to go?

But no. Instead, I’m gaping, convinced my eyes are playing tricks on me.

Am I dreaming?

Did I fall asleep on the floor and this isn’t real?

I push up off my knees, my lower back groaning.

Definitely not a dream.

But what the hell is he doing here?

Cash Rivers has three siblings, two parents, and dozens of besties to spend his holidays with.

Is this his stunt double?

No, I’ve heard his stunt double always wears a prosthetic nose, and why would a stunt double wear that off-hours?

Also, while I’ve never met his stunt double, I doubt a stunt double would make my heart race and send tingles through my chest the way Cash does.

It’s so dumb.

I shouldn’t like him.

I don’t want to like him.

I want to spend a few years diving deeper into my career so I can know that when it all falls apart—and it eventually will, because everything does—I’ve been smart with my money and I can take some time to figure out what my next step in life will be without having to work three jobs to avoid moving into another apartment or rental with questionable landlords.

Cash is heading quickly through the thickening rain toward the cabin door. Eyes down on his phone but moving with that innate grace that comes with staying in shape for all of the action-adventure movies he does.

His light brown hair isn’t as tame as it was last night, like he’s been running his hands through it, and despite the temperatures hovering near freezing outside, his black jacket is unzipped, showing off the gray shirt underneath clinging to his pecs.

All of him getting splattered with raindrops.

I limp to the door like I’m forty years older than I actually am. Waverly keeps telling me that my posture will come back to haunt me before long. She might be right.

She’d be more right if she’d tell me to quit shipping myself with the older guys.

Cash is lifting his hand to knock on the door when I swing it open. A blast of cold air and a smattering of icy mist hits me in the chest.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, glances at me, then down at the ground, then back up at me. “I’m sorry.”

“For being here?”

“No, I came here to say I’m sorry.”

The cold air has nothing on the panic that suddenly floods my veins.

Years of bad living situations are the only explanation for the next words out of my mouth. “You’re kicking me out?”

“What? No. How could I—no.” The utter confusion making his forehead wrinkle and his eyes squint would be cute if I were in a position to let myself actively think of him as cute.

Oh.

Right.

Who drives an hour out of their way just to tell someone she’s getting evicted?

No one.

Probably.

My life is weird sometimes.

Cash scuffs his boot on the top step, his brown eyes darting over my face. “I won’t ever kick you out. Promise.”

Half of me swoons with this ridiculous crush.

The other half is focused on the weirdness of him being here. “You came to say sorry for what then?”

His lips part as he stares at me.

Apparently what he’s here for should be obvious.

“Oh my god, did something happen to Commander Crumpet?”

“No.”

“Waverly. Is Waverly okay?”

“No. Yes. Yes, Waverly’s fine.”

I’m baffled.

He’s apparently baffled that I’m baffled.

We’re a baffle sandwich, except we’re the bread in the sandwich and the doorway between us is the filling.

“So you’re sorry because…?” I prompt.

Also, why are men more attractive to me when they’re bewildered and confused?

“I—I came to apologize.” There’s a level of uncertainty in his voice that does nothing to combat how adorable I think he is.

“I got that part. For what?”

“For…” He lifts his eyes to mine. Visibly swallows. “For scaring you away from the party.”

His answer filters through my brain like it has to get through the outer layers of sludge and lyrics before it can hit the parts that understand what he’s talking about.

But finally?—

The kiss .

He’s apologizing for looking like he was going to kiss me under the mistletoe.

Heat flashes across my face as the first drops of a freezing rain splatter the dead leaves littering the forest floor around the cabin behind him.

I wanted him to kiss me.

I was ready for him to kiss me.

Even knowing that he’s a massive playboy, that the gossip pages are always one step away from labeling him a manwhore , that kissing him would mean I’d once again have to move, there were multiple parts of me ready for him to kiss me.

I assumed he was willing to do it because it was expected when you’re standing under the mistletoe, and that he didn’t give it another thought.

The fact that he did—my stomach dips.

And then I take back control of myself. “You didn’t scare me away.”

“I—the mistletoe—and the rules—and I—when you bolted, I thought I’d crossed a line and ruined your vacation. Your Christmas.”

Not I wanted to kiss you .

Nope.

I thought I ruined your Christmas because there was a rule about mistletoe .

I swallow hard against disappointment that has no right to be there. He kisses women all the time, Aspen. You’re not special .

But he does care about me on some level. We’re friends. Basically since the first minute we started texting about his pool house, I’ve felt we were friends.

And he’s just reminded me that that’s all we’ll ever be.

“You weren’t inappropriate last night,” I tell him. “But stalking me out to a cabin in the woods…”

He looks up at the sky, up at the falling rain that’s hitting him on the head, then blinks and winces, rubbing his eye like Mother Nature nailed him as he looks back at me. “I just didn’t want you to think you had to run away instead of enjoying your holiday with Waverly. I tried to text you, but it bounced. So I tried to call you, and it wouldn’t go through. I thought—I thought you blocked me.”

I shake my head. “Glitchy cell signal here.”

“Yeah, I—” He cuts himself off as another blast of wind blows the fat, cold drops of rain onto both of us.

I shiver.

He shivers.

Something beyond him creaks and groans.

His brows furrow together as he turns to look behind him.

I glance the same direction as the sound intensifies, and then I watch in disbelief as a large pine tree crashes to the ground just beyond where our cars are parked.

No.

No no no.

That didn’t just happen.

The pine branches wave in the wind as the tree settles itself more firmly across the edge of the driveway, blocking the road.

“Oh, fuck,” Cash whispers.

I look at his car.

It’s a hatchback. No monster truck wheels that’ll go climbing over a downed tree.

My rental is a Kia coupe.

It’s not climbing a downed tree either.

The wind blows again, sending another blast of ice droplets at my face and chest.

Making a decision I’ll likely regret, I open the door wider. Like I have a choice now. “Come in. Get out of the weather. I’ll see if I can reach the owners.”

He studies me warily. “You’re not mad?”

“About anything that happened at the party? No.” Conflicted about having him here right now? Yes.

I like Cash.

Cannot deny it.

I also know better for so many reasons, and I won’t let being attracted to him derail any of my life plans.

Been there, done that. My hormones don’t control my life. I control my hormones.

“But you’re mad that I’m here,” he says.

“If you’re not going to come inside, you should leave, though I have no idea how. Pick one. I’m closing the door in ten seconds.”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

“Nine…eight…”

“Which do you want me to do?”

I want him to come in.

And I want him to leave so I can keep hiding from the world in peace.

Hence I’m making him decide what to do. “Five…four…”

He makes a soft noise somewhere between a growl and a grunt, and then he steps into the doorway. “If you want me to leave?—”

And make him hike down off the mountain? There’s no way his car is fitting between the trees along the side of the road, and it’s certainly not going over the tree now blocking the road. “I’ll say so.”

I shut the door behind him and shiver again.

It’s cold out there, and the rain is coming harder, ping ping ping -ing against the roof.

Everything about the cabin feels warm and secure.

I don’t think we’re in danger of roof leaks.

I hope.

Buildings and I don’t always have the best luck.

But lately, Cash has always been around to fix what’s broken.

Not that I couldn’t figure it out if I had to. I’ve just been so busy with touring, writing, recording, avoiding the sound of my own voice singing about wanting to forget Christmas but falling in love over the holidays instead…

And I like it when he comes over.

It’s dumb. I know he looks at me like a young performer to mentor. He’s been in a band. He’s an actor now. He knows more about my life than I probably do, so helping me out is paying it forward.

Plus, in the time I’ve lived in his pool house, he’s been publicly linked to at least four different girlfriends. And that’s only what I’ve noticed when I’ve looked at the gossip pages.

There have been weeks at a time when I couldn’t be bothered.

“Cozy,” Cash says as he glances around, pausing in the middle of the room, hands still in his pockets.

It is cozy. The log walls, the art prints of forest scenes, the jade-and-amber patterned rug, the brown faux leather sectional separating the living room from the small kitchen area, the stone fireplace and mantle, the windows framing the fireplace that look out over the pine forest up here, with the brown curtains featuring cute little bears—it’s perfect.

For a solo get back to center retreat.

I pick up my phone and settle into the deep cushions of the L-shaped couch opposite the fireplace. “I got lucky.”

“Just booked it today?”

“Yeah.”

“Staying long?”

“Ten days.”

“By yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“If I didn’t scare you away?—”

“You didn’t.”

“I thought you were staying with Waverly for the holidays.”

“Plans changed.”

“You two have a fight?”

“What? No. Absolutely not.”

“I’ll be in the city for the holidays. Won’t bother you a bit if you wanted to keep your original plans.”

I lift my head from the email I’m typing out to the owners about how to clear a tree from the driveway. “Oh my god, it wasn’t about you .”

He stares at me.

I stare right back.

He hasn’t shaved. He has light brown scruff coating his chin and jaw and upper lip, and he looks like he belongs in a movie where he’s the reluctant hero who has to save us all from an alien invasion.

I would watch the crap out of that movie.

“So why did you leave the party yesterday?” he asks.

Because nice holidays and I don’t get along, and being by myself is safer. “I do weird things sometimes.”

He gives me the eyebrow tilt of I don’t believe you .

And here’s the thing.

This could be Cash Rivers’s ego— of course you leaving was about me —or it could be observant friend Cash Rivers —you can trust me. Haven’t all of our text message conversations this past year taught you anything?

Either way, all he’s getting is what I’m telling him now.

“I felt like writing songs, and I do it best when I don’t have distractions.”

Yeah, that’s a total lie.

The part about feeling like writing songs, anyway.

What’s weird though, is that I think he knows I’m feeding him a line.

He shouldn’t.

We don’t know each other that well.

Correction: we shouldn’t know each other that well.

But between the mountains of texts we send each other and the vibe when we’re in the same place, it feels like we know each other that well.

And that’s what sucks about being his tenant.

If I were any other up-and-coming entertainer, I could absolutely bang this out with him.

But he’s my landlord.

And he’s also my friend.

I don’t want to mess up either.

“You just suddenly needed to be alone and write songs?” he says.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Release a Christmas album , my manager said. It’ll remind people you’re here while we work on your next album .

Twelve songs.

Eleven written by other artists and licensed.

One written by me in a moment of weakness early this year when holiday decorations were still up everywhere and I’d just surrendered my pet to a better home and broken up with a guy who was using me for my connections to Waverly.

And that’s the one song I can’t stop hearing.

The one where I wrote myself a happy ending to the holidays.

Which has never happened in my twenty-four years on this earth.

A heavy gust of wind rattles the windows and throws thick raindrops against the glass.

We both look outside.

“Did you check the weather before you came up here?” I ask him.

“Light rain predicted. It should pass.”

“Soon?”

“Couple hours at most.”

I picked up enough food at the store to get me through two or three days, but when my song came on the grocery store speakers, I noped out of grabbing anything else.

I’m in that weird space where my career is taking off, but I can still go to the grocery store and not get recognized. Waverly flips out occasionally when I tell her some of the things I’ve done and places I’ve gone solo, but I like it.

And I know the next few months—or possibly even the next couple days—will determine if I’m ever able to go to the grocery store on my own again. On top of not wanting to hear my own song, I don’t want to get recognized.

“Great,” I say. “Once the owners get up here with a chainsaw, the weather will have passed, and you can spend your holidays guilt-free, knowing that you did nothing wrong.”

Cash looks at my guitar, then at the fireplace, ignoring my comment about not feeling guilty. “You know how to build a fire?”

“Cooper showed me how at their house once last winter, and I’m apparently a pyromaniac at heart because I beg to do it anytime we’re together somewhere with a fireplace.”

“Got enough food and everything?”

“There’s a shop about ten or fifteen minutes away.”

Another massive gust of wind rattles the window, and the raindrops hitting the glass take on a new sound.

An icy sound.

Crap.

Crap crap crap .

If this is a light rain , I don’t want to know what a heavy rain or an icy rain is.

“You’re really okay here?” he says.

“Totally fine. I am a fully grown adult. It’s a thing that happens with time.”

“You lived near LA your whole life?”

“Mostly.”

He glances at the window beside the fireplace again.

Wind howls over the chimney.

Dammmmmmittttt . I hit send on the message, then put my phone down again. “Owners have been notified. They were quick to respond when I couldn’t get the key code to work earlier, so I’m sure they’ll be quick again, and we can get you on your way home first thing in the morning.”

He nods. Glances at the empty fireplace again. “You really want to be alone for the holidays?”

“The holidays and I have a toxic relationship.”

That gets his attention. “What kind of toxic relationship?”

“Family members dying, breakups, years with no presents.” I shrug like I don’t hate this time of year to the depths of my soul. And like that’s all it is. I might be fudging some of this. “The usual.”

He takes a seat on the other part of the sofa, hands dangling over his knees, watching me. “So no Christmas decorations out here for you, huh?”

I shake my head as images of broken glass ornaments and a toppled tree and mashed potatoes dripping down the rose-wallpapered dining room wall at my grandmother’s house filter through my brain.

That’s the part I never talk to anyone about.

I probably should, but I don’t currently want to.

There’s a quilt that I found in the small linen closet with faded spring colors and a butterfly pattern. Looks homemade, but also like it’s been washed a million times.

Like someone made it with love, and it’s safe and cozy and won’t bring up old memories that I’d rather forget. Unlike one of the other quilts with a Christmas pattern.

I grab the butterfly quilt and drape it over my lap, then reach for my journal too.

“You’re really good out here?” Cash asks.

I nod.

“And you’re not mad at me?”

I shake my head.

After a long moment of studying me, he nods too. “Okay. Sorry to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me.”

He grins that stupid handsome grin that could win him every last movie role in the entire world. “But you don’t want me here.”

“I mean…”

“It’s okay. I get it.”

Both of us look at the windows as another gust of wind hits the cabin.

Honestly?

Not my favorite weather.

I like being safe and warm in the cabin, but I don’t like the way the wind and the rain sound.

It’s ominous.

Or possibly I’m merely prepared for something to always go wrong during the holidays.

He eyes me, opens his mouth, then shakes his head and looks down at his hands.

His question about me growing up in LA was pointed. Pointed in the you’re not used to weather in colder climates way.

“Sorry. Again,” he says quietly. “For—misunderstanding.”

“No worries.” I tuck my feet tighter under the quilt. “It’s kind of you to worry.”

This isn’t how we behave together.

We usually give each other crap. Him about me breaking his pool house, me about how he can’t fix anything with his shirt on. Sometimes me about him looking cheesy in one of his movies, or him asking if I wrote a specific song as an homage to the traffic in LA.

Ever since the first text I sent him to ask if I could rent his pool house, we’ve kept in regular communication.

Like we’re friends.

Or old entertainment industry insider and newbie learning the ropes.

We definitely talk more about our jobs than we ever do about who we might be dating or when we’re seeing our family members next.

Or not seeing them.

But I wanted to be alone for the holidays. With the wind howling harder, the rain incessantly pelting the cabin, the temperatures so cold, and night falling quickly, I know there’s very little chance that, even when the owners respond, they’ll be getting up here to clear that tree off the road soon.

Cash will be spending the entire night.

It’s fine though.

Totally fine.

He can have the couch. I’ll take the bedroom. Tomorrow morning, the owners will show up, clear the tree off the driveway, and he’ll leave.

And then I have another week and a half before I have to head back to the real world.

Hopefully by then, my life will be back to normal.

Hopefully.