Page 19 of Mountain Men on Ice

On the other end of the line, Thatcher says something I can’t hear. Stevie’s face drains of color.

She covers the mic, hissing, “What the hell, Grady?”

It takes a second for me to realize what I’ve just done—what it sounds like, what it means. My stomach drops through the floor.

She forces a laugh back into her voice. “No, Thatcher, you’re hearing things. He’s just—grumpy. Cabin fever. I’ll call you later.”

She hangs up before he can push.

The silence after is deafening.

“Why would you say that?” she asks finally, voice tight. “He’s one of the few people who knows I have a tattoo and where it is.”

“I—” My throat locks. “It slipped.”

“Slipped?” Her eyes are sharp, hurt under the anger. “You just happened to let my brother know you’ve seen me naked?”

I rake a hand through my hair. “It wasn’t—Christ, Stevie, it wasn’t like that. I wasn’t thinking.”

“No kidding,” she snaps. She crosses her arms, defensive, vulnerable. “You think this is easy for me? That I don’t know how he’ll react if he finds out? That I don’t know what it’ll look like when I’m just—just⁠—”

“His little sister,” I finish, bitter.

Her jaw clenches.

“You’re right.” The guilt curdles. I back up, pace, trying to outrun it. “This shouldn’t be happening.”

Her eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

“This—” I gesture between us, wild, too sharp. “You and me. Thatchers’s sister. My best friend’s baby sister. In the middle of nowhere, storm-drunk, playing house⁠—”

“Stop,” she says, voice cracking.

I do. Only because I see what I’ve done: put that look on her face, the one that says I just confirmed every fear she carries about being invisible, secondary, a fling in secret.

I hate myself for it. I hate that I don’t have the words to fix it.

Instead, I do the cowardly thing. I turn. I limp down the hall. The knee throbs with each step, a punishment. Her silence follows me, heavier than the storm ever was.

In the bedroom I shut the door too hard and brace my hands on the dresser, breathing like I just played overtime. My reflection stares back in the dark window—ink, scars, shadows. A man who just kissed the only girl who’s ever made him feel whole and then told her it was nothing.

I don’t recognize him. I don’t want to.

But I don’t know how to be anyone else.

SEVEN

STEVIE

The cabin is once again too quiet.

I lie on top of the covers staring at the fan that hasn’t moved in days, replaying the kitchen argument until the words blur and the hurt stays sharp.

This shouldn’t be happening.

He didn’t mean it how it sounded—I know that. I know the way he tenses when guilt hits, the barricades he throws up when cornered.

But the ache under my ribs is older. I’m somebody’s little sister first. If this goes public, the headline won’t say STEVIE AND GRADY GO STEADY. It’ll say GRADY CANOODLES THATCHER’S SISTER.