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

Chapter 5

5

Cash

Fuck me, it’s slippery as hell out here.

There’s a layer of ice beneath the rapidly accumulating snow, and I almost wipe out before I get off the two steps leading down to the parking area. A snowflake blows into my eye. Wind cuts through my gloves.

But I’m all in on this mission.

We don’t have enough food, and it’ll only be harder to get back out here later, when there’s more snow.

Need to get to the extra firewood on the side of the cabin and bring more of that in too.

Don’t let Aspen know how precarious this could get if the power goes out.

Which wouldn’t be surprising, given the wind and the snow.

We’re at the end of the grid. Before this is over, I expect there will be many downed trees and houses without power.

The door opens behind me before I get to my car. I turn back and spot Aspen through the thick, blowing snow. She’s only in her oversize hoodie and thick sweatpants.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I got into the original email from when I booked the place,” she replies. “The owners say that in the event of snow, there’s a shovel in the small shed out back, and that they’ll eventually get up here to get us plowed out. They said there’s extra firewood on the side of the house if we need it too.”

“Good job. Get back inside.”

The door clicks shut behind me again.

And then I reach my car.

Fuck me six times over.

My door’s open.

My fucking car door is open.

Which means?—

“Why is your door already open?” Aspen calls behind me.

“Get back in the house.”

“I can’t be inside when I can’t see you through the window. The snow’s too thick. What if you slip? What if a tree falls on you? What if aliens attack?”

I stare at my open car door.

It’s my brother’s Subaru. I could’ve borrowed my other brother’s Porsche, but I wanted something suited for mountain roads.

And now I’m feeling like the biggest dumbass in the history of dumbasses.

Don’t leave food in your car in the mountains .

“Cash?” Aspen says.

“Get back inside,” I repeat. “I think a bear went through the car last night.”

“ A bear ?”

“It’s fine. It’s gone.”

“Are you sure?”

I angle a look inside the back seat, where I had piles of gingerbread house kits and bulk store bags of truffles and hot chocolate and more, and yeah.

Yeah, there was definitely a bear here.

Everything’s scattered and ripped open, chocolate smearing the seats, ripped cardboard and half-pieces of gingerbread houses littering the footwell along with the snow gathering as it blows into the car’s interior. The other door’s open too, like the bear climbed through.

Shit shit shit .

I trudge through the thickening layer of snow to Aspen’s rental.

No bear damage to her car, at least.

But it’s iced over, which means it takes work to get the trunk open because I’m fighting a sheet of frozen water.

Once I’m in though, it takes no more than a few seconds to grab the water jug and her backpack. No extra bags of food in her car. No extra blankets. Not even a roadside emergency kit. It’s the brand-new kind of clean and empty you get with a rental car.

“Aren’t bears supposed to be hibernating?” Aspen calls.

“Would you please get back in the house?”

“Not if a bear’s coming back to eat you.”

“The bear had a feast in my back seat. He’s not coming back to eat anything. Get inside .”

“If the bear’s supposed to be hibernating and went through your car, then a bear could come back to eat you.”

She has her arms wrapped around herself and her hood pulled up and cinched tight around her face so that all I can see are her eyeballs, nose, and half her mouth. And it’s hard to see that much through the swirling snow.

I pick my way back to her and hand her the frozen gallon of water and the bulky backpack. “Please put this inside.”

“Where are you going?”

“See what I can salvage.”

She huffs, sending a puff of white into the air. She’s utterly adorable in this moment. Especially with the way the thick snowflakes are accumulating on her dark brown eyelashes and all over the top of her black hoodie.

“Cash. It’s freezing out here. A bear ate everything. I’m a pop star. We don’t eat. You’re a movie star. You don’t eat. We’re fine. Just get inside too.”

I open the door and gently shove her. “Four more minutes. I’m fine. Please go put this inside.”

“If a bear eats you—one, you deserve it for being stupid, and two, I’ll never forgive you for adding this to my holiday trauma.”

Fuuuuck . “There’s no bear to eat me.”

“There was a bear here in the past twelve hours. How do you know it’s not lying in wait to?—”

I clamp a hand over her mouth, which I should absolutely not do, because now soft Aspen breath is blowing through my gloves and into my palm and prompting me to fantasize about touching her silky skin. Her hazel eyes widen as she locks gazes with me, and dammit , I want to kiss her.

I want to kiss her so badly that my bones ache with it.

And that’s not the cold talking.

It’s not the situation.

It’s her.

It’s always been her.

“There’s no more bear.” My voice is strained from holding back this desperate need to wrap her in my arms, carry her inside, wrap us both together in a blanket, and kiss her until I can’t breathe. “I’m salvaging food. Back in four minutes. Go inside.”

She stares at me with bright, unblinking hazel eyes for an eternity where I don’t feel the cold, don’t see the snow, don’t hear the crack of a tree falling somewhere nearby.

And then she makes another little noise and ducks back into the cabin.

It shouldn’t be possible to have a boner when the weather’s this cold, but here I am, striding back toward my car, my feet slipping, my cock hard as a damn rock.

All because I touched her.

I shouldn’t be here.

And now I’m stuck.

For days.

With the one woman I cannot stop thinking about and absolutely cannot have, with limited food and no way of getting out.

I find two tins of those twirly stick cookies, an entire stollen cake, and one bag of boozy truffles untouched. They go into a bag from the back end, where I find an intact gingerbread house kit too.

If it weren’t snowing so hard that I can barely see the house, I’d clean out the mess so the bear doesn’t get back in the car.

My brother will never let me live this down.

As he shouldn’t.

When I turn toward the house, I spot Aspen on the step outside the door again. “What are you doing?” I call to her.

“Watching you in case you fall,” she replies.

“I’m not going to?—”

I don’t finish the statement.

Why?

Because I’m suddenly flat on my back, the cloth bag whipping around to smack me in the face.

Thanks, ice.

Thank you so much.

“Oh my god,” Aspen gasps.

“ Stay ,” I wheeze out.

My entire body is going to hurt tomorrow.

And I’ll probably have a welt in the middle of my forehead too.

I force myself upright, sitting in the snow in my jeans, and reach for the scattered food.

“Cash—” Aspen starts, but I cut her off.

“ Stay ,” I repeat.

My lungs burn. My ass aches. Shoulders too.

But I make myself rise as Aspen ignores my order and skitters down the steps in those damn purple boots that likely have zero traction.

“It’s icy,” I tell her. “Don’t?—”

“C’mon,” she says, holding out a hand. “Up you go. And then neither one of us is going outside again unless we absolutely have to.”

I glance at the woodpile, barely visible at the side of the house.

We’re going to have to leave. And also hope the extra wood isn’t too wet to burn. Got a feeling we’ll need it.

I don’t want to freak her out, but this situation is going to get worse before it gets better. And I need to get inside and get prepped for it.

“You should’ve stayed in the house,” I grumble as I climb to my feet all on my own.

I don’t want to pull her down.

It’s slick as hell out here.

“You too,” she replies.

We make it the rest of the way inside in silence.

It’s not far.

Maybe ten feet.

But it feels a hundred times longer.

I’m cold. My jeans are wet. I don’t have anything to change into.

If I’d stayed away, she’d be inside, still sleeping. She’d be warm and dry and happy. Having nice dreams and waking up and having her holiday time off her own way.

Instead, we’re both shivering by the time we get inside.

The door’s been opened a half-dozen times, and I don’t think it’s just the effect of the chill outside making the living room feel colder. It’s possible the heater can’t keep up.

We’re in a bad spot.

I need to start a fire.

Get out of my pants and dry them.

And make this even more awkward than it already is.