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

Chapter 6

6

Aspen

What do I want to do right now?

To hide in the bedroom and rest or journal or stream a show if the internet will hold up enough for it, which it clearly won’t today. We’re completely internet-less.

But what do I also want to do?

Be near Cash, who has steadfastly refused to take off his wet pants in the time since he got back inside.

I want to fill these containers with water .

Why?

Probably on a well and the power might go out, which will mean no water.

That was definitely not in the listing for this place.

Or in the email from the owners about procedures in case of snow.

And then— why are you going back outside ?

Better to get more wood in to dry now in case the power goes out. No power means no heat.

So he went back outside, in the freezing cold , to get wood to stack just inside the back door.

Shaking off the snow and ice log by log before he set it in the house.

Which brings us to now.

“Why are men so flipping stubborn?” I ask him as he kneels in front of the fireplace, blowing on the embers coming off the burning newspaper that he’s using to try to start the fire now that he’s apparently satisfied that we’re ready for an apocalypse. “I can start a fire. You don’t have to do all of this.”

“I’m not stubborn. I’m efficient. And unlike some people, I know how to start a fire with something other than a blowtorch.”

While I snort like he’s not absolutely right that half the reason I like starting fires at Cooper’s place is that he lets me use his small blowtorch to ignite the wood, Cash blows on the smoldering newspaper again. This time, one of the smaller sticks catches on fire. The embers beneath it glow red, and soon, more sticks are catching, leading to the big log catching too.

He doesn’t leave it alone until the fire’s roaring, then he puts the screen in place on the hearth.

“Can you please get out of your wet pants now?” I ask.

And let me inspect your booboos .

The way he landed on the ground looked like it hurt, and I’ve seen him wince a few times while he’s been running around prepping us for Armageddon.

I don’t care how many of his action movies I’ve seen where his character pushes through the pain. It hurts, and he could probably use—something.

Ice.

Heat.

Painkillers.

A massage.

From me.

While he’s naked in front of the fire.

Stop it, Aspen .

He’s staring at me as I sit wrapped in a quilt on the sectional, but if he knows what I’m thinking about his pants, he doesn’t let on.

Just nods once. “Yeah. Good idea.”

Like I haven’t said it six times already. Like it’s only just now a good idea.

He grabs the top quilt out of the linen closet and heads to the bathroom.

Moments later, he emerges with the quilt wrapped around his waist, looking like he’s Father Christmas from ye olden days, if Father Christmas also wore tight gray shirts over his holiday robes.

His pants get laid out on the floor near the fire, which is making the room warmer—almost too warm—with every passing minute.

I’m glad we’re both safe and sound in here now. Not slipping on ice. Not worrying about wildlife. Not in blinding snow so thick you can barely see ten feet past the door.

It’s time for me to go hide in the bedroom.

Definitely time.

Yep.

This is me, going right now.

Getting up off the couch.

Walking down the short hallway.

Closing myself in?—

Okay, seriously, I’m not doing any of that. I’m tucking my feet under me and wrapping my quilt tighter around myself too. I’m still using the butterfly quilt.

I like it.

I asked before, but I need to ask again. “How long do you think we’ll actually be stuck out here?”

“Few days for sure,” he says. “Maybe not a full week. Not if the owners have someone lined up to plow and clear that tree.”

“Will your family worry?” With the internet out, neither of us has been able to reach anyone we know.

He shakes his head. Then nods. Then sighs. “They know where I was going. Is it weird to say I might get a helicopter lift once the storm blows over?”

“Yes.”

The man smiles.

So damn gorgeous.

“Tell you a secret?” he says.

I nod.

“Ten-year-old me would think that’s fucking awesome.”

“I don’t know many people at any age that would take a helicopter rescue from a snowed-in cabin for granted and not think it’s awesome on some level.”

He huffs out a heh laugh. “Good point.”

“Nice to have friends who can afford a helicopter and still like you enough to come for you.”

He’s smiling as he glances at me. “Who’s worrying about you?”

Isn’t that the question? My manager would probably worry. My agent. The producer Waverly introduced me to for my next album who’s been absolutely amazing. And I do have a few friends in LA that I check in with regularly.

But they all have their own traditions with their own families this time of the year, and I told them all I’d be with Waverly. “Anyone who would’ve needed me knew I’d be off-grid through the holidays, so probably no one.”

His brown-eyed gaze doesn’t waver. “Who’d you spend the holidays with last year?”

“Commander Crumpet.”

He watches me, his smile dipping away.

I turn my attention to the fire.

If it weren’t for the slight panic at the possibility that we’ll be trapped here for more days than we have enough food for, this would be nice.

Is there any better place to write out all of your frustrations and fears and hopes and dreams while scribbling lyrics and chords than in front of a fireplace in a snowy mountain cabin?

I could fall asleep here. Wake up, journal some, work some, and take another nap to compensate for not sleeping last night.

Naps have been in short supply in my life this past year. Not that I wanted or needed them before, but I’ve also never been this busy, even when I was working two or three jobs to stay afloat.

There’s more pressure here. More stress. Bigger stakes with more people involved than have ever been involved in my life before. And I like those people. They’ve been incredibly kind.

But I’ll see them again after the holidays.

Not now.

This cabin should’ve been exactly what I needed to rest, recuperate, connect with nature, and get back to my budding career, refreshed and ready in the new year.

Instead, I’m battling a lingering fear that we don’t have what we need to make it through this snowstorm.

And it doesn’t matter how much money either one of us has in our bank accounts.

Not when we can’t even get a text message out.

We really might be at the mercy of his friends and family realizing they can’t reach him and trying to get a helicopter up here when the storm blows over.

That’s beyond fathomable. Especially to ten-year-old me who learned the hard way over and over again that you can’t depend on people and you can’t count on miracles either.

Which suddenly makes me wonder if my career is real. My friendship with Waverly. My music—my escape, my love, my joy—paying my bills.

How long it will last.

What will ruin it.

“Is there any chance the bear will break into the cabin?” I whisper.

Cash scoots closer to me on the couch. Not close enough to touch, but closer. “No.”

“How do you know?”

“Bears avoid humans. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll shove furniture in front of both of the doors.”

“And the windows?”

“They’re too lazy to try to climb through a window. Besides, it got everything it needed last night.”

“You’re an expert on anonymous bears’ eating habits?”

“It wasn’t hungry enough to eat everything in the car.”

Oh.

That makes some kind of logical sense. “Did it get into my rental too?”

“Nope. Yours is fine. Just mine. Probably have to buy my brother a new car now though.”

I stare at him for a moment, fully digest what he’s just said, and then, despite myself, I start laughing.

We’re stranded in a cabin, miles from civilization, in a snowstorm on top of an ice storm, where a bear broke into his car last night, with no idea how long we’ll be unable to get out, and he’s cracking jokes about buying his brother a new car.

“It’s his,” he adds. “And the bear’s worse than some of the kids he’s nannied for. Bigger fingerprints. More capacity to toss shit everywhere.”

It shouldn’t be this funny.

Is this what it feels like when you laugh because you’re panicking? Or is it actually that funny?

“Is it that bad inside the car?”

“Probably worse.”

His deadpan delivery makes me laugh harder.

He drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But that’s not even the worst part.”

“What is?”

I’m anticipating him telling me the bear relieved itself all over the car.

That’s not at all where he goes though.

“The worst part is that all of the food came from Beck’s place. I cleaned him out of every last bag or box of Christmas food that he had stashed to get him through until New Year’s.”

“ Why ?”

“I didn’t know you hated the holidays, thought apology food was necessary and themed apology food was better. Not like I can hit the warehouse store by myself a week before Christmas. I would’ve been mobbed. So I took Beck’s stash. Dude eats like it’s his full-time job. He’s gonna be so pissed.”

I don’t know if he’s being completely serious or merely acting completely serious, but it’s working.

For a split second, I’m convinced that the very worst part of our situation is that his friend, the rich-as-sin former-boy-bander-turned-underwear-model, will have to send his housekeeper or assistant to the store to get more red-and-green Hershey’s Kisses so he doesn’t starve to death.

And that makes me laugh even harder.

Cash glances at me again, smiles a soft smile, and shakes his head before looking back at the fire while I let myself giggle through the half panic, half gratitude, until I can breathe normally again.

Finally, I suck in a big breath, then let it out while my shoulders sag.

“Better?” he asks.

I squeeze his arm, ignoring his tight muscles and the way my palm tingles from touching him. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“I can build a fire. Even a fire that doesn’t start with a blowtorch. I can figure out how to use a snow shovel. I can live for a week on three chicken breasts and a bag of mandarins, but…I’m glad I’m not alone.”

“You don’t have to say that. Especially since you don’t have much of a choice.”

“I’m a fighter,” I tell him. “I’m a survivor. I’d be okay. I’d figure out what I needed to figure out. And I’m very, very grateful right now that I don’t have to survive on my own. Thank you. For being here. And being my friend.”

He keeps staring at the fire, a muscle in his jaw ticking behind the scruff growing over his chin and cheeks.

“And I’m sorry you got stuck,” I add quietly.

He likes the holidays. He doesn’t see his family often.

He’s missing his time with them, and that feels wrong.

His voice is even softer than mine when he says, “I’m not.”

Hello, Mr. Overprotective.

That kind of sentiment from a man usually makes me twitch. I’ve had to take care of myself for so long that I get triggered at the idea that someone else thinks they need to take care of me. Especially since most of the men who’ve claimed they want to take care of me have let me down one way or another.

But I don’t tense or get irritated when Cash does it.

Probably because we made friends over text before we really got to know each other in person. I’d met him at a party at his Malibu mansion a few months before I needed a new living situation, but it was obvious when I messaged him about renting his pool house that he didn’t remember who I was, so it was like starting over.

Waverly told me later she hadn’t reached out herself the way I thought she had. She’d run into Beck Ryder while she was celebrating the Fireballs’ World Series win with Cooper, and their conversation turned to me, and when Waverly mentioned I’d just had a highly uncomfortable situation with a landlord and had moved into a hotel but needed more stability and better security than a hotel could offer, Beck said he knew a guy with a pool house that was set up like an apartment.

She didn’t realize he was talking about Cash until after I’d moved in.

And then she’d laughed and laughed and said it was a good thing I’d be traveling a lot.

He has parties all the time , she told me. You’d never get any rest if you were both always home regularly .

Not surprising. I met him the first time at one of his parties. The gossip pages call him the Hollywood Heartbreaker. Always hosting or crashing a party. Different model or actress or singer on his arm at every red carpet. Unless he takes his mom or sister.

That’s why they love him so much. Because in addition to always being seen with a new It Girl , he also raves about how much he adores his mom or confesses that he wanted to make his sister’s day by introducing her to some of her favorite people who are definitely not him.

Just like when I’m thinking I’ve ruined his Christmas, he goes all I’m glad I was here for you so you didn’t have to do this alone .

“I would’ve been okay,” I repeat. “I always am.”

He grunts a nonanswer response.

I should go back to the bedroom.

I should.

But I don’t want to.

Even as an awkward silence falls between us, I don’t want to.

However, that’s where my journal is.

And I’m not here to secretly fawn over my landlord.

“So, anyway, I need to get some stuff done.” I untangle myself from the quilt and rise.

He nods.

That’s it.

Just nods.

He doesn’t say sorry I crashed your getaway again, but I can feel the apology hanging in the air between us anyway.

I pause before slipping down the short hallway to the bedroom. “When I come back, can we be normal again?”

His gaze snaps to mine. “Yeah. Of course.”

So not normal.

Not at all.

I stifle a sigh.

This is going to be a long, long storm.