Chapter Three

Calling the turnoff to Cold Snap Cabin "easy to miss" was like calling Bakers Mine a "small town." In fact, it seemed like an extreme understatement, once I'd driven up and down twenty miles of Route 4 at least three times in what was quickly becoming sleet. I'd come all the way here; I didn't want to give up, but what if I never found the place? A purgatory of hunting a soccer star through a snowstorm?

But at least it wasn't truly snowing yet. I didn't have chains for my car. Actually, I didn't even know what "having chains" meant. I was momentarily sidetracked while I imagined thick chain links encased in resin, shaped like tires. I guess being encased in resin would eliminate any possible traction, so obviously it meant something else. I was still trying to figure out how chains helped with snow when my eye happened to catch—was that a reflector? A tiny reflector?

It was. It was! I turned so fast my poor chain-free back tires slid on the now-slushy road, but I managed the turn, and the second I was on the side road, it did seem obvious. Not wide, but the trees folded over the top and the road itself was all wet gravel and puddles. A cheerful, if weathered, sign reading COLD SNAP CABIN was affixed to one of the oaks. Maybe a legacy from the movie star Tucker.

The drive was sufficiently focusing that I forgot to be as racked with nerves as I'd expected to be—right up until I gratefully brought the car to a slow stop in front of a neat little house with a neat little detached garage. Or rather, a neat little cabin . It wasn't made of Lincoln Logs, but it did otherwise look straight out of one of those creepy Thomas Kinkade paintings, complete with a puff of smoke issuing from the chimney. Or, okay, maybe that was steam or something from a boiler, but whatever, same difference.

Once the engine had died, all my fear and guilt and hope slammed back into me like a semi. This was gonna go well. Yes. I would make it go well. Or at least get it over with quickly. Crap, were those snowflakes? The sleet was now falling a lot more slowly, and I was no meteorologist, but I was pretty sure that made it snow.

I grabbed my phone and zipped up my hoodie. My hand was on the door pull when a man came out on the front porch and briefly waved, smiling with a row of perfect white teeth.

Orion Broderick. In the flesh. The man whose life I'd inadvertently destroyed, but whom I'd never actually seen in person before unless I counted as a tiny speck on a soccer pitch. Please don't hate me, I wished suddenly. In principle I had only done what many journalists had done before, but in human terms it felt so much different. Maybe because it hadn't just been a story to me. It had been more than that. My ... righteousness had been stronger than my desire to get the scoop.

Let that be a lesson to you. Jackass.

But this was my opportunity for if not redemption, at least closure. I'd shake his hand and introduce myself. I would be a perfect professional. I would be respectful and definitely not a self-righteous jackass. I would apologize but not insist on explaining or excusing past-me's actions. If he wanted to shout, I would accept that, apologize again, and disappear.

I would in no way be distracted by the sight of Orion Broderick in tight acid-washed jeans. His hands were now tucked deeply in his pockets as if he was waiting for me to approach, the glimpse of his face I'd caught while definitely not staring revealing a relaxed, pleasant, open expression. Whereas I felt ... stupid? Nervous? I couldn't decide, but I was here now, and it was too late to go back in time, to change the past. It was too late to get lost again and retreat from this quiet little cabin, from Orion's peaceful seclusion. Did I even have a right to intrude?

He stood on his front porch. Watching. His cream-colored cable-knit sweater looked cozy, but somehow also flattering, some miracle of broad shoulders and tight jeans and clinging—

I cut off my own thoughts and forced myself to get out of the car, flipping my hood up and shuddering at the sudden cold. I swung the strap of my messenger bag over my head and sort of huddled over it as I ran for the cabin.

"Hi there!" Orion called.

"Hell—oh, crap!" My greeting was interrupted by my foot slipping on the icy bottom step. I managed to catch myself, but my phone, gripped in my hand like a baby holds on to a security blanket, went flying, skidding across the next step up and disappearing into the gap at the back of it, making a muffled thunk as it landed under the porch.

I just stared. My phone. Gone into some murky, muddy, cobweb-strewn darkness.

"Sorry about that," Orion said, as if he'd been the cause of my clumsiness. He came down to stand beside me, also peering into the dark. "Hmm. Here, hang on." He slipped his own phone out of his back pocket, and it was a measure of how disturbed I was that I barely noticed how very nice the rest of him looked from behind.

He aimed the flashlight of his phone down into the depths, casting the black under-porch into weird, spooky shadows, but it illuminated my phone like a beacon, to my immediate relief.

"There we are." Orion, with the air of a man who had no problem at all reaching into cobweb-strewn darkness, angled his arm through the gap and plucked it out of the muck below. "Bad luck that it's been raining so much; if that happened two months from now, it'd be dry as a bone under there." He swiped my phone over his jeans, clearing away a lot of the mud and smearing the rest. "On second thought, this calls for a paper towel—come on in."

"I'm so sorry," I apologized belatedly, relief at having my phone again kicking my brain back into gear. "I didn't mean to, um, cause such a hassle."

"No hassle really." He glanced over his shoulder at me, smiling. "Are you new in town? I saw you at the café earlier."

I blinked dumbly. "Oh. Yeah. I mean, no. Just passing through." The café? I mentally added a pink apron to his outfit. "Wait, were you doing ballet in the back corner?"

"Guilty. I have some, er, fans who come see me when I stop by there."

Fans? My heart rate quickened. "Fans?" This could be my in. He'd say, BTW, I'm a famous soccer star , and I'd say, Yes, about that ...

"I make snickerdoodle muffins to die for," Orion said lightly as he led me through a small entryway, then into a room that ran the length of the left side of the house, with a kitchen on the front side, and a living room area at the back. "The local kids can't get enough of my mad baking skills."

"So they're fans ... of your muffins, is what you're saying?" I inquired innocently.

He laughed. "And my twirls, to be fair." With a sudden spin, he demonstrated. "Did you have any of my muffins?"

My cheeks felt hot, trapped in my own innuendo. "Um. No. The lady of the café recommended a cheese braid."

"Mmm, one of my guilty pleasures, though all that cheese upsets my stomach. I'm getting old." He set my begrimed phone on the counter and grabbed a paper towel, then ran it under the faucet and wiped at the still-wet mud. "I know this looks bad, but at least it landed at the bottom of the steps. I once lost a screwdriver under there, and I've still never found it. I'm pretty sure there's a squirrel somewhere with a flathead holding up the structure of its den or whatever."

I pictured this in amusement. "Like a circus tent? A canopy of leaves with a found-tools support structure?"

"Exactly!" He patted my phone dry at last and handed it back to me. "I'm Orion, by the way."

"Des," I said, shaking his hand. "Sorry about the phone thing. I'm not usually a klutz."

"My fault. I probably should have de-iced the steps instead of just relying on my superior knowledge of the best spots to walk to get up and down them. I didn't actually plan to go into town today, but Louise at the café had someone call out, and I told her I'd come down to help for a few hours."

"Ohh, so twirling for tiny ballerinas was you working ," I teased, and I could have bitten off my tongue for sounding so flirty. What was I thinking? Professional! Cool and collected!

"Yes, but in my defense, Louise is perfectly happy for my work to be split between baking stuff and entertaining children. Once the midday rush passes, she's totally able to run the shop by herself, which is good because I took off the second I saw the snow coming in."

As if on cue, both of us looked out the window over the sink, which, sure enough, showed a light, soft fall of snowflakes. "God, that's beautiful," I said. "I'm from the coast. Snow always looks a little magical to me."

"Same here. Not the coast—I'm from the Central Valley—but even after a few years, it's still magical to sit here and watch the outside world become a winter wonderland."

"In April, though?"

He smiled, looking epically handsome and homey in his thick knitted sweater with the snow in the background. "I just had my snow tires taken off last week, so I definitely jinxed the weather. Never fails. But if you leave them on, you tear up the roads! There's no winning."

"Snow tires? Is that like chains? I'm legit picturing an army tank rolling-tread situation, but in tire form."

"Chains are a total nightmare. I guess they're no big deal if you're used to them? But I can't be bothered, so I bought a big purple truck with four-wheel drive and get snow tires on every December just for good measure."

I nodded along like I was totally following this. "So not a tank, then?"

"Nah. Just tires with little studs in them to better grip the road."

"Tire studs. Aww. I bet your truck feels super goth next to all the trucks without studs."

"I like to think so." He gestured at the outside world. "And then this happens. She'll be so disappointed in me! She'll have to show her grille in public without her snow tires."

I giggled slightly madly, the edge of a conversation having gone out of control making everything seem more funny than it was. "Maybe you can get her a studded license plate holder or something."

"I already have a license plate holder. It's pink and says ‘Princess' on it. That's her name. My truck. Princess."

"Okay, but, counter offer, what if you add studs to the pink princess license plate holder? Do they make pink studs? Because they definitely should."

He grinned, his eyes crinkling attractively. "That would be amazing. I should look into it—she'd love that. Not that I've totally and completely anthropomorphized my truck or anything, except I have. She's a princess, and she deserves the best."

"That sounds totally fair," I agreed. Okay, I was officially not being at all professional or detached or anything. Time to do what I'd come here to do, dammit. Before I totally lost my nerve. "Ummm, so," I began, then panicked and said, way too quickly, "Um-can-I-use-your-bathroom?"

"Sure, go for it. First door on the right. You can't really miss it." He gestured me toward the little hallway, where a darkened bedroom ( Orion Broderick's bedroom, where he sleeps ) lay quiescently across from a small bathroom.

I had to get myself together. This was not my rom-com meet-cute. This was a twisted world in which I wasn't worthy of a meet-cute. I fumbled my phone out and sent a quick text to Vix that only read, So far so good! with a smiley face because she liked smiley faces.

Now I just had to ... make that text more real than it currently was. Got it. I could definitely do this. He liked me. I just had to remain likable once he, you know, realized who I was. Which shouldn't be that hard, right?

I washed my hands and went back out to the kitchen, where he greeted me with another one of those smiles, with his bright-white, perfectly aligned teeth. My tongue traced my own more jagged teeth, and I fought a tide of self-consciousness I thought I'd left behind in grade school.

"So are you lost or something?" he asked, twinkling in my direction. "I assume you aren't stalking me for my muffins, though for the record, it would be understandable if you were, because my muffins bring all the boys to the yard."

Oh, unfair, unfair that Orion Broderick was twinkling at me against a wonderland backdrop, and I had to be a professional and very definitely not flirt or twinkle back. "Um, yeah, actually I am not a stalker? But I was trying to find you. In a nonstalker capacity. I'm actually hoping I can recruit you for a project I'm working on."

The twinkle blinked out, and wariness stole over his face. "A project about bakers who can twirl like ballerinas?"

"Not, um, exactly." I shoved my hands into my pockets to keep from wringing them together. "You're Orion Broderick, right? From the Conquistos FC?"

"Not anymore," he said flatly. "Now I'm Orion Broderick who picks up shifts at the Wash and Brew. Big difference there."

I swallowed and regrouped. "I'm not trying to put you on the spot." Except it'd be great if you'd just sign this handy little letter of commitment I've brought with me so I can go home and tell my boss I just scored Orion Broderick for this campaign, thanks. Good for you, good for me, everybody wins. "I'm working with a group that wants to launch a serious nationwide effort to get LGBTQI+ kids into sports, and it would be great if we had a genuine sports star to lead the charge."

"I'm not a sports star."

"You were , though," I persisted, hoping I didn't sound too persist-y. "You're recognizable to anyone who follows soccer." And everyone else who follows media stories that shame celebrities, oh god .

"I'm retired," he said shortly. "Did you really stalk me to my house for this? Because that's creepy, man. Seriously creepy."

Was it me, or was there a subtext of Also, did you flirt with me to soften me up for your pitch? Because that's CREEPIER, man, seriously CREEPIER. I brushed it aside. "I didn't stalk you! I didn't even recognize you. I mean, I saw you, because you're—um—well, anyway, I didn't know that was you back at the café."

"Uh-huh. You just happened to be at a café where I sometimes work in a town no one more than thirty miles away has ever heard of, and now you're inside my house. Some coincidence."

"No! That's not—I didn't mean to—"

He stared at me, crossing his arms over his quite nicely developed chest, waiting for me to flounder more.

I stopped. Took a breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be creepy. I asked at the gas station where I could find you and sorta took advantage of a teenager working there, which was wrong, I admit, but I thought ... I really wanted to offer you this opportunity, and I didn't know how to get in touch with you otherwise."

"That was by design. If I wanted people to be able to access me, I'd be more accessible."

"Yes. Okay. That is completely fair." I dug into my bag and pulled out the folder I'd assembled with all the relevant details in it. I'd hoped I would be walking through it with him, but it was sufficiently informative without me. "Here. This is the plan for the campaign. Look it over. My contact info is there too." I forced myself to add, "And if you don't want to talk to me, you can talk to anyone at the company. I swear it's a really good cause." I held it out.

For a long second I didn't think he was going to take the folder. Would I have to leave it on the counter and walk away? Would that be wrong? Had I just sabotaged the whole thing because I'd dropped my phone and lost track of my rehearsed speech and flirted with him when I'd meant to be wholly professional?

Then, as if in slow motion, he reached for it.

"Thank you," I said. "And I'm sorry."

He ignored me as he flipped open the folder, his more-brown-than-hazel eyes scanning down the page. Hope! There was hope. He was at least intrigued, or he'd have just thrown the whole thing away.

"Anyone there can help you," I repeated. "They would be thrilled to help you! It's such a great campaign."

Suddenly he went rigid. Not just still, but stiff , unblinking, unbreathing, eyes unmoving. "What did you say your name was?" Orion asked, his voice deathly, as in, coming from the grave .

"Des. Des Cleary."

"Desmond Cleary. You ." The stillness evaporated and was replaced by hot rage, his face going dark, brows drawing down. "You're him. You're the one who fucked up my life."

I winced. "Yes. Sorry. Really sorry about that, I didn't mean to—"

"Get out of my house. Right now."

I held up both my hands and began walking backward, slowly, toward the door, which was awfully close in such a small cabin. "I never meant for any of that to happen, I swear to you, it got all out of control, I only wanted—"

"Get. Out ."

Dammit, I needed more time to explain, to make him understand, because I was here, and he was here, and this would be the only chance I'd ever get.

But then my back was to the door and I was blubbering about really really trying to do something good, except Orion was way too near, his arm reaching around me in something like a parody of intimacy as he grabbed the doorknob and pulled. I shuffled as quickly as I could out of the way, but the force was enough to temporarily propel me into him.

He was solid. Strong and solid and also somehow soft. He smelled good.

He smells good? For fuck's sake, get yourself together, Cleary, you fool.

"Sorry," I mumbled again, crumpling out of his way and edging around the door. "I'm so, so—"

Slam.

"—sorry."

Hell. Here we were. His footsteps stomped away from the door, and I stood in a state of pure, full-body cringe for a long moment, my past self overlaying my current self with a translucent shame slime. I was seriously beginning to think I'd never be free of it.

I'd secretly wanted absolution. Forgiveness. Redemption. I'd gotten kicked out instead. Fantastic. Reality: 2; Cleary: nil.

I would have to die of shame later, when I was down out of the mountains, away from the storm, in the safety of my car with a fresh triple mocha in hand. Right now what I had to do was leave.