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“That confidence is honestly starting to concern me.”

“It’ll concern you less when we don’t slide off the mountain.”

I glare at him while he drives one-handed through what feels like certain death.

Infuriating man.

The cab smells like cedar, leather, and cold air every time the wind sneaks through the vents. His massive hand rests loose against the steering wheel, steady and controlled while mine are practically white-knuckled against the seat.

“You’re enjoying this,” I accuse.

His mouth twitches slightly. “Watching you panic? Little bit.”

“I’m not panicking.”

“You almost grabbed my arm back there.”

“I was bracing for impact.”

“Sure.”

I cross my arms tightly and look back out the windshield.

Cocky asshole.

The truck finally crests another ridge, and then I see it.

The cabin.

Warm golden light glows through the windows against the snowstorm, tucked deep between thick evergreens high above Devil’s Peak like something out of a survivalist fantasy. Smoke curls from the chimney while snow piles along the porch railings.

Isolated.

Completely isolated.

The realization lands hard in my chest.

No neighbors.

No nearby road.

No help for miles.

Rhett parks beside a woodpile half buried in snow and kills the engine.

Silence settles instantly except for the storm hammering outside.

“That look on your face is interesting,” he says calmly.

I glance toward him. “I’m deciding whether this is romantic or the opening scene of a true crime documentary.”

His low laugh does something dangerous to my stomach.

“You coming?” he asks.

I eye the cabin again. “Do I have a choice?”

“No.”