Page 17 of The Route to You

“—a flashlight. I’m lost.”

What the fuck?

Kyle went completely still. “Lost where?”

“—I’m—” The connection stuttered. “Kyle, please⁠—”

“Are you here?” he snapped.

The line went dead.

“Fuck.” Swinging toward his camping bag, he crouched. He grabbed a flashlight and sprinted out the door, dialing the number back. Cold punched him in the face. Snow fell harder now, the flakes thick and relentless, the wind swallowing the sound.

How had she remembered his number when he’d deleted hers off his phone years ago?

The call went straight to voicemail. Of course. Service out here was about as reliable as Fort Paradise’s definition of “fully stocked.” That left him with no option but to flip the flashlight on. The light illuminated the snowflakes. “Sloan?” he called out.

He swung the light in the darkness, peering through the trees. “This is insane,” he muttered. He hoped to God this was just her idea of a bad joke or something. She wouldn’t really have come out here, right?

And if she had, what in the hell had gotten into her?

His boots sank deep into the snow as he trudged from the safety of the porch to the small gravel car pad he’d shoveled out earlier. He followed that toward the main road.

Nothing.

“Sloan?” he shouted, feeling like a madman.

Only the wind answered him.

The muscles of his jaw went taut as he let out a short growl and started trekking up the road. If this all turned out to be nothing more than her crazy idea of a drunken, night-before-the-wedding⁠—

“Kyle!”

Her voice was distant, swallowed and muffled by snow, but it was real. He turned toward the direction he thought he’d heard it, swinging the light. There she was, running toward him. Snow had crusted her golden hair and snow cap. No coat. A fancy bag bounced against her hip.

He went rigid as she came closer. “Oh my God,” she gasped breathlessly, setting her hand over her heart. “You scared the shit out of me when you hung up.”

“ I scared the shit out of you ?” Kyle repeated back, blinking hard at her.

“I—” She sniffed hard, nose red, eyes bright with panic. “Your phone died.”

“My phone didn’t die,” he said flatly. “ Your phone did.”

She glanced past him. “Is that your cabin?” She gestured back the way he’d come from.

No shit, Sherlock. Nothing else was in sight. He didn’t quite know why he was irritated with her, though, other than the fact that it was crazy that she was even here and he was freezing. “Nope. Random luxury chalet you’re hallucinating as a mirage in this heat.”

“Can I come in?” she asked, teeth chattering.

Did he have any other option? She’d clearly come all this way to talk to him. Without a coat. “Sure. Before your eyelashes freeze and fall off.”

She didn’t hesitate, grabbing her bag and bolting past him, straight inside.

He followed, still trying to compute what the hell was going on.

Once they were inside, he shut the door, warmth sinking into his skin. Shrugging his coat off, he moved toward her. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “You look like you could use this. Feel free to sit over by the stove where it’s warmer.”

“Thanks.” She took the coat from him and slipped it over her shoulders, then crouched by the stove like she was worshipping it.