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

Chapter 3

3

Cash

Way to go, me.

Good job impulsively chasing a twenty-four-year-old woman out to a mountain cabin when she’s not here because of you at all.

You’re doing a fantastic job of convincing yourself that you’re not a creeper.

And now you’re stuck here at least until morning.

The wind outside is the kind that causes trees to come down. More trees. The temperature’s dropping fast enough that the rain will likely be sheets of ice within the next thirty minutes, which was not in the forecast.

And Aspen’s curled up in the corner of the couch, pretending I’m not here while she scribbles in her journal, occasionally checking her phone and making the they haven’t replied yet noise.

She’s tried calling the after-hours number a few times, but none of her calls went through.

Apparently the internet is strong enough for email, but not strong enough for phone calls.

And now it’s just the two of us.

Sitting out a storm and waiting for an email.

Ever feel like you’re breathing too loudly?

That’s me right now.

I’m breathing too loudly.

The last time I worried I was breathing too loudly was when I was probably eight or nine, hiding in a closet to spy on my sister because she’d been telling everyone she had a secret, and I wanted to know what it was.

Much different situation than being here with Aspen, occasionally hearing her pen scratch across the paper as the storm beats down on the cabin.

She slides a look at me. “Would you rather I go to the other room?”

The bad thing about always being busy is that you don’t know what to do with yourself when you’re not busy.

I’m not busy.

I can’t get a cell signal.

The WiFi’s flaky, which honestly isn’t too surprising given the remoteness here and the weather.

I’d like to have the powers I had in a movie I did a few years ago where I could control the weather so that I can get out of her hair, except that was a fantasy movie, and I’m honestly only human.

And I know exactly how many people would bring me back to life to murder me for dying if I were to try to get back down off this mountain in this weather right now.

If I could get the car around the tree.

Which didn’t look possible during the quick trip I took out to examine it during a short break in the rain a little while ago.

I’m well and truly blocked in here.

I shake my head at Aspen. “No. No, it’s your cabin. I’m sorry I’m bothering you.”

“It’s fine.”

It’s not fine .

I’m way in the wrong here. I shouldn’t have come.

I shove up from the sectional, positioned in the room to face both the fireplace, which is framed by windows, and the wall with the television, and head behind her to the kitchenette and dining nook. Nice little table here.

I can scroll my phone and see if I have enough WiFi power to download the script my agent sent me last week.

And I can hope this storm passes quicker than the few hours of rain that were forecasted.

But rain and ice are two different things.

If I’d known there would be ice, I wouldn’t have?—

No, that’s not true.

If I’d known there would be ice, I would’ve grabbed more food than what I have out in the car, and that I’m now not so sure about bringing in to share with her.

Not with some of the things she’s implied about the holidays.

What did she do last year?

I wouldn’t know. I was here, seeing friends and family in Copper Valley, the way I have every year since the guys and I left home as Bro Code.

She twists to peer at me. “Why are we being awkward and weird?”

Because I thought it was necessary to stalk her to apologize for something that she apparently didn’t even realize happened because she will never look at me as anything other than that old actor dude who rents out his pool house to me .

“I shouldn’t be here.”

“Well, you are , and we can’t change that at this exact moment, so can we just be normal?”

Normal is me hoping she doesn’t realize I sit on the balcony off my bedroom on the rare occasions that we’re both in LA and she’s playing her guitar and testing lyrics.

Normal is me getting excited when something breaks in the pool house so that I have an excuse to go in there and check it out, whether she’s home or not, to see what new element of herself she’s added. A mug with a funny saying here. A digital picture frame featuring mostly nature images mixed with the occasional shot of her performing somewhere.

Normal is the two of us texting late into the night, trading stories of being on the road for a musician’s life, making me realize how much I miss it.

Miss it enough that I’ve started messing around with my old guitar again too.

I nod to her. “Yeah. Normal. This is normal.” This is not anywhere near normal. And I’d appreciate it if the wind would quit howling outside. “You hungry? Want me to make you something?”

“I’m fine. Thanks though.”

Yep.

Awkward as fuck.

I’d say I wish I stayed back at Beck’s place or gone back into the city with my siblings, but I like being around Aspen too much to truly wish that.

“You need more water?” I ask. “Something else to drink? Levi always wanted tea when he was writing songs.”

“Sure. Tea sounds nice. Thank you.”

Aaaawwwwkkkkwwwwaaaarrrd .

I’m the betting type, and I’m betting she’s saying yes for the sake of giving me something to do. Not because she wants tea.

“Lemon? Honey?”

“Don’t have any. Plain is fine. Thank you.”

My stomach grumbles.

She looks at it.

I pretend it didn’t happen and suppress another need to apologize for being here.

Normal days aren’t full of I’m sorry s for me. They’re full of working on a set, calls with my agent or business manager, and being catered to by half the people I come into contact with. I use my manners because, despite my age, my mother would murder me if I didn’t. That will never change, regardless of how old I get or if she’s still living or merely haunting me. But I do recognize that I’m catered to.

Not often my stomach grumbling doesn’t result in someone handing me a sandwich.

Especially not while I’m being as quiet as possible in hunting down a teakettle and a mug.

But it’s not just about this moment.

It’s about me being stupid enough to come up here without taking into account that a couple hundred feet in elevation can be the difference between the rainstorm that the town’s likely getting, as expected, and the ice that’s pelting the cabin up here on the side of the mountain.

And then arrogant enough to wonder how she’d fare by herself if something happened like the power going out.

As though she’s not an adult and this place isn’t stocked with firewood and blankets.

“The tea’s in that black cloth bag by the fridge,” she says. “I brought plenty. Help yourself if you want some too.”

I dig into the bag and find there’s not a lot in it.

Cinnamon graham crackers. Three bananas. A bag of mandarins. Another bag of carrots. And a carton of lemon raspberry tea bags. “Is this all of your food for the week?”

“There’s more in the fridge.”

I take a peek.

One block of cheese, a pint-size container of almond milk, and a pack of chicken breasts.

I look at her.

She’s gone back to scribbling in her journal. But she still mutters, “It’ll get me through a few days.”

“No judgment. Eat what you like. Girl dinner, right?” This storm will pass. The cabin’s owners will get the tree cleared away. She’ll be able to get more food.

“I had a bigger list, but they were playing my song at the grocery store.”

“You get recognized?”

She shakes her head.

“Gonna happen pretty soon.”

“I know.”

“Probably need to think about?—”

“Not while I’m in a cabin in the woods.”

Security. A business manager or executive assistant to travel with her. Probably a publicist and stylist too.

People.

That’s what I was going to say, and she knows it.

For the moment, she’s right. Support staff and a security team aren’t necessary in a secluded cabin in the woods. Hell, I didn’t bring any with me myself, and I do tend to have a whole team most places I go.

With the way her career is going, she’ll need them soon too.

“How big is the store?” I ask.

That has her turning around to look at me again. “You are not getting me groceries. You will be recognized.”

“I don’t just play action heroes in the movies. I also have slick skills with navigating small grocery stores too fast for the local gossips to arrive and corner me.”

“Hello, ego.”

I grin. “Well-earned. Even if they try something, look at these guns.” I flex my left biceps.

“Nice padding in that jacket you’ve got on.”

My favorite thing about Aspen?

She gives me shit. Regularly.

It’s like we’ve been friends for half my life, despite the fact that I was practically old enough to have a driver’s license when she was born. By the time she was old enough to get a driver’s license, I’d already had a successful career in a boy band and had moved on to a second career in Hollywood.

“It’s all-natural padding,” I say.

“Wool? Or cotton?”

I’m grinning broader as I fill the teakettle with water out of the sink. “Meat. All meat.”

“Chicken or beef?” She’s smiling too.

“Grade A top sirloin. With a space. Sir. Space. Loin.”

“If you have to explain the joke…”

“You’re still laughing.”

“Pity laugh.”

“Liar.”

“I just don’t want you to feel bad about yourself.”

“You can use that in one of your lyrics. No attribution necessary.”

“ I just don’t want you to feel bad about yourself ,” she sings.

“ I am grade A top sir space loin ,” I sing back.

She blinks at me. “Oh my god. I forgot you can sing.”

“Probably because you were still in diapers when I was hot.”

Fuuuuck .

Her eyes almost cross with the acrobatics her facial muscles are doing, and then the most beautiful but also terrible thing happens.

She busts out laughing.

She has the prettiest laugh. It fuels fantasies I refuse to admit to even myself most of the time.

But also, she’s laughing at me being an old man.

While her giggles peter out and she goes back to her journal, I set the teakettle on the stove and flip on the burner, then dig into the cabinet for the best mug.

The first one I spot says World’s Greatest Grandpa .

Fantastic.

Even the cabin is mocking me.

What I get for talking her address out of Waverly and coming up here in a fucking ice storm to check on a woman who was fine by herself.

I settle on a mug that has a cartoon dog on it, with Don’t bone breaking my heart written on it, then move around the kitchenette, being nosy.

Been a few years since I was in a vacation rental. Or possibly many, many years. Especially one-bedroom, log-walled vacation rental cabins that don’t come with a personal chef and an on-site cleaning crew.

I should come to places like this more often.

It’s cozy.

Quiet.

Smells like cedar and rosewater. Like my grandma’s sitting room.

She was a badass. Left home at sixteen to pursue a career as an actress, lied to everyone about her age, fell in love a decade or so later with my grandpa—who was ten years older than she was—and moved across the country with him to Copper Valley to raise babies and help lead the high school’s drama program.

Lied about her qualifications there as well, but no one cared.

She put on good shows.

I miss her.

Aspen gives me the same vibes. Fearless. Bold. Determined.

I overheard Waverly say once that when her team reached out to Aspen, Aspen’s initial response was basically you can’t fool me, assholes .

My grandmother absolutely would’ve said the same. Why would someone on top of the world want to talk to me? You can’t fool me with your shenanigans, whoever you are.

I finish Aspen’s tea and carry it to her in the living room, then retreat to the kitchen and pretend I’m reading something on my phone.

What I’m really doing is watching her.

She blows on the tea before sipping it. Sets it on the half-barrel end table beside her, then goes back to her journal, occasionally bopping her head or lifting her chin like she’s looking to the ceiling for an answer.

“What rhymes with tomato?” she says suddenly.

I almost drop my phone in a rush to answer. “Space potato.”

“Something not food.”

“Purple Play-Doh.”

“No, something in nature…like…”

“Tornado,” I say at the same time she says, “Volcano.”

She frowns at me. “I might like tornado better.”

“Why are you writing lyrics with tomato in them?”

“That’s for me to know and you to be hella impressed by when my next album drops.”

“Ah. You don’t believe fully in the tomato yet.”

“If that’s what you need to tell yourself…”

“ I believe that you can make the tomato work. I just don’t think you think you can make the tomato work.”

Another gust of wind shakes the cabin, and we look at the front windows.

Full darkness surrounds us, so all there is to see is the two of us staring back at ourselves like the window is a mirror.

But the plink plink plink against the glass tells me what I already knew.

We’re headed into ice storm territory.

If that’s the case, I’m not leaving in the morning. Even if the tree gets cleared away. Which is feeling less and less probable by the moment.

And given all of that, it’s also unlikely that I’m sleeping at all tonight either.