Chapter Two

True to his word, Oskar doesn't take that long, and even though the conditions are terrible, he brings my bag back like it's no big deal. As promised, I've eaten my chocolate, and I feel almost human. Human enough to rifle through my bag and confirm there's no more signal in this hut than out there in the wilderness.

"This is a dead zone," he says, watching me as he removes his hat and his gloves. His blonde hair is long, hanging around his face, the tips coated with rapidly melting snow. Outside, the wind continues to howl.

"Do you have a satellite phone?" I ask hopefully.

He smiles like my question amused him, but nothing about the expression smacks of humour. "No."

"So you came here without any way of contacting anyone if something went wrong? In a storm?"

"I've been here before," he says, crossing to the kitchenette where he opens up the gas on the stove, uses a match to light it, and starts boiling some water. "This is my family's cabin. I'm not exactly unfamiliar with the terrain."

"How did you find me?" I marvel.

He points at the window, although outside is dark now, and all I can see is the internal light glowing against the snow stuck to the glass. "I saw your flashlight. And I thought that if someone was out there in these conditions, they probably needed help."

Well, he wasn't wrong. But it's humbling, somehow, to know how much of this was chance. And to think about what might have happened if he hadn't seen me.

"Thank you," I say.

"You're welcome. Would you like some coffee? You should drink something warm."

Logically, I suppose there should be a limit as to how far I should trust this strange man who's now offering me a beverage in his hunting hut. But despite all my layers, I'm cold, and he probably wouldn't rescue me if he had bad intentions.

Hopefully.

"I don't suppose you have any tea?"

He gives me a long look. "No."

"Okay." I nod meekly. "Coffee would be great."

He has already pulled out two chipped mugs, and I watch in transfixed fascination as he pours freeze-dry coffee granules into each one, along with the boiling water. The wind moans, and I'm reminded not for the first time that if it wasn't for this man, I would still be out there. That could have really, truly been my ending.

Nature isn't pretty. It doesn't make exceptions just because we make stupid choices and we don't want to die.

If Oskar hadn't found me, that little patch of snow would've been the last thing I'd have ever seen. Thomas and the girls would be waiting for me to come home. Waiting and waiting and waiting, and there'd be no call, no one telling them what had happened until it was much, much too late.

Now I'm here, watching a strange man make coffee for me, there's nothing to distract my thoughts from what could have been. The horror is gut-wrenching, and it slams into me with the force of a hurled minibus.

I can't breathe. My chest is too tight.

I can't let Oskar see me have a breakdown.

Twin tears streak down my face as I clamber awkwardly to my feet. There's a bathroom—I'll shut myself in there until all this messiness has worked its way out like a splinter. When you're the emotional support for three grieving people, you get good at hiding your emotions, delaying them for those rare moments you're alone, but this is too much. I just need a moment.

As I pass the table, Oskar puts my coffee on it, but I brush past him and into the tiny bathroom. It's dark, so I can't look at myself in the mirror, but that's probably a good thing. I already know what I would see. My face, pale. Brown hair straggling down my neck. Brown eyes bloodshot and tired.

The darkness is soothing. I can let myself fall apart and don't have to see the mess I make of myself. It's cooler in here, bordering on cold, and the sound of the storm is closer. A curtain drawn between nature and me.

It was so close. So close.

I rest my forehead against the wall and shiver as I wrap my arms around myself. Just a few more moments, then I'll go back into the room and pretend I'm fine. It's an age-old tradition and I'll be good at it as soon as I stop crying.

My cheeks are cold. Everything is cold.

It takes a while for my whispering sobs to ease, but eventually I'm calm again. I wipe my face with my cuffs and sniff a few times. He'll probably know exactly what's happened, but my good leg is wobbly from so long leaning on it, and I don't have it in me to stay hidden away.

When I fumble my way to the door and open it, he's standing in the middle of the room looking at me. His face is every shade of impassive and unreadable, but he crosses to my side. I think maybe he's going to hug me, but he just takes my elbow in silent support.

"Sorry," I say.

"Nothing to apologise for." He says the words matter-of-factly and leads me back to the table like nothing happened.

The tension leaves my shoulders. Thomas would have questioned it, probed until he found the source of the problem, even if the problem was nothing he could solve—and so often, it really wasn't anything he could solve. I guess that's what comes from being an older brother. Even though I've been looking after them all for two years, he still wants to feel as though he's taking care of me, too.

Oskar doesn't have the right to ask. It's an unspoken agreement between us, even though I can see from the carefully blank expression on his face that he knows exactly what went down in the bathroom. He was probably listening to the faint sounds of my sobs, and the thought makes me distinctly uncomfortable.

But he doesn't look away from me when I glance up, like even if I'm embarrassed, he's not, and he pushes my coffee closer. "Drink up," he says, accent a little more pronounced. "You'll feel better."

"You know," I say, wrapping my hands around the mug. "I usually make a better impression."

He raises his eyebrows. "Than almost dying on the side of a mountain?"

"Hard to believe, I know, but this is a first for me." I take a sip of the bitter coffee and swallow a wince. Beggars, I suppose, can't be choosers.

"For me, too."

"Yeah?" I glance around the cabin, my gaze lingering on a closed cupboard beside the bathroom. I hadn't noticed it before, mostly because it's made out of wood and seems firmly padlocked. "So, um." My throat still has a frog in it from the crying, and I clear it. "What made you want to live here?"

The corner of his mouth twitches into what might almost be considered a smile. "I don't live here. Like I said before, it belongs to my family."

"So you're here on . . . holiday?"

"Something like that."

Weird, but okay. It's not like I'm exactly the one to judge. Then something occurs to me, and I snap back to him. "You said hunting cabin before." I look back at the locked cupboard. "Does that mean you have guns?"

One eyebrow cocks, like he's trying to figure out if I'm genuinely scared of him. "I don't have the key, don't worry."

"Do you know how to shoot?"

His snort is unamused. "Yes. But like I say, it's locked. I can't get at them."

"Huh." That fits with my image of him as being some kind of burly, nature-loving guy who thinks it's fun to live in the wilderness and hunt his own food. "So why March?"

"Hmm?"

"Your little holiday out here. Why March?"

"I could ask the same about you," he says, finishing his coffee and pushing the mug away. "Why March?"

An excellent question.

I really wish my answer was as good.

"That's kind of a long story."

He waves a hand, gesturing that we have time. He's quiet, but watches me with utter focus, like I'm something new that's entered his orbit, and he isn't entirely sure what to do with me. Meanwhile, I feel like I'm on fire, crashing towards earth.

"I told you I'm a writer, right?" I start.

He nods. "You came here for research."

"Right." I pause, wondering how best to sum up my home situation. "I write thrillers mostly—well, exclusively at this point. And my agent suggested that if I was considering taking a holiday anyway, why not get a feel for the kind of landscape my book is set in. She's big on research."

A line appears down the middle of his forehead. "She suggested you climb a mountain in a storm?"

"No. No, I knew there was going to be a storm next week, but this is the second day of a two-day trip. I was supposed to be back in England by the time the storm hit. And yeah, I know this isn't the best time of year to do this, but it's supposed to be winter for my characters, and—" I take a breath and give him part of the truth. "I was going to come later, but my brother's got a business trip and I'm babysitting his girls. He'll be gone for six weeks and—"

"He's leaving you to look after his kids for six weeks?" Oskar interrupts, an unreadable note in his voice.

"It's not like that. After his wife died, I offered to move in—he has a demanding job and it's important that the girls have some kind of stability. I made the transition to writing full time then, and I figured that made sense."

Oskar looks at me for a long moment. "So you took a potentially dangerous trip in winter because you didn't feel you could wait six weeks."

I drag my hands down my face. "It's complicated."

"Your brother forced you to come now instead of later?"

"No. He didn't want me to come at all. He thought it was a terrible idea, and I guess he was right." I wave a vague hand. "This hasn't exactly been a success."

"Could you not come in the summer?"

"What, during the school holidays? Who would look after the girls then?"

He takes a long breath, and I have the feeling he's holding back on something he wants to say, which only makes me more defensive. I put my elbows firmly on the table as I lock eyes with him. "Thomas is a good guy, and he wants the best for me andthe girls. It's not like he's taking advantage of me. I want to be there for them and make sure they're okay. Layla was only two when her mum died." And now she's an unholy terror at four.

I love her.

Besides, at this rate I'm never going to meet someone and fall in love and have children the traditional way, so I might as well milk raising my brother's kids for as long as possible, right? And if it means I'm a lot busier than I thought I would be, that's just what comes of parenting. It's challenging.

"Okay," Oskar says.

"Okay?"

"If that's what you say." He shrugs. "It's not my problem."

He's making it sound as though it's my problem, but what he doesn't understand is that I signed up for this. And sure, maybe it's not what I thought it would be, necessarily, but I don't regret it for a second.

The coffee has me fizzing with energy now, like someone dropped a Mentos into a Coke. I don't want to sit here. My face is still tight from my little crying session, and the idea of being trapped in this tiny cabin with this man is making me antsy. Even sitting down, he's enormous, hulking, taking up all the space.

"How long do you think it's going to last?" I ask. "The storm, I mean."

He shrugs. "It'll blow itself out in a day or two."

"A day?" I cast a sidelong look at my bag. I brought enough food for my trip plus a bit extra, but I was supposed to have descended by this evening. "Are you not worried?"

"Is worrying going to change anything?"

"You don't choose to worry."

"I came here so I wouldn't have to worry."

Just in case I'm hallucinating and we're actually in a luxurious cabin with electricity and a hot tub and a king-size bed, I glance around. Nothing has changed. The oil lamps, the tiny kitchenette, the single bed in the corner.

I'm doing my best not to think about that.

"This is where you come so you don't worry?" I ask sceptically.

"It's just me." He lifts one shoulder in a surprisingly elegant shrug. "I don't need to be connected, no people, just me and my thoughts."

I lean forward, elbows on the uneven wooden table. "That's why it sounds terrible."

He throws his head back and gives a bark of rusty laughter that is so unexpected I jump. But there's something contagious about it, and when he looks at me again, still chuckling, I'm grinning back.

"He laughs," I say. "It's a midwinter miracle."

He rolls his eyes, but the smile is still lingering, and I'm struck by all the ways it changes his face. Softens the stern lines, creating new (utterly charming) ones by his eyes. It's shockingly, unexpectedly, terrifyingly compelling. I find myself blinking at him, still trying to reconcile the glorious human before me with the serious man who rescued me from the snow.

"Not quite midwinter," he says. "But you still shouldn't have come here even if it's technically spring."

"I have a June deadline," I say. "I couldn't afford to wait until after Thomas's trip."

Oskar frowns. "I thought you said it was only six weeks."

"That would put me at the very end of April. And I haven't even started."

"Oh," he says in a way that tells me he doesn't understand. "Does it take that long to write a book?"

Wow. Ouch. Talk about stabbing me in the heart. "Yes," I say, trying not to sound like I'm being patronising, even though obviously it takes a long bloody time to write a book.

This is exactly why I don't usually talk about writing with non-writing friends.

"The June deadline is tight," I explain, "even if I started writing today. And in case you've forgotten, let me remind you that we're in the middle of nowhere with no electricity. So my chances of getting started are pretty low." And that's even if I had something to write. I lace my fingers together. It feels weird to open up so much to a total stranger, but we're in this suspended bubble here, like anything we do won't have consequences. We could spill all our deepest, darkest secrets and when we leave, we'll never have to confront it.

I had a friend, once, who used to go travelling a lot. Rosalie, her name was. Is, I guess, although we don't talk any more. She always had all these stories about these intense relationships she formed overnight with people in hostels. 3 am conversations about bad breakups and life goals and lifelong insecurities. Then the next day, you say goodbye and never see them again.

This is an unconventional hostel situation, but I'm starting to understand the compulsion. The weird bond that comes from being far from home in the same place.

Although in this case, I am a lot further from home.

"Anyway," I say, "that's enough about me. Time for you to overshare."

He raises a brow. "That's not really my thing."

"Tough titties. I want to know why you're really here. Are you on the run?" I lean forward, captivated by my own theory. "Are you a fugitive? By being here with you, am I an accomplice?"

"Your brain must be a fascinating place," he says, but the corner of his mouth twitches. "I'm not a criminal."

"That's something a criminal would say."

"You seem to know a lot about criminals."

I wave a dismissive hand. "Thriller writer. So is Oskar your real name?"

He shakes his head in a way that tells me he thinks I'm deranged. "Yes."

"Good. Because I gave you my real name like an idiot. If this was a horror movie, I'd be dead."

"You'd be dead even if this wasn't a horror movie."

I scowl at him, and a dimple pops in his cheek. A man this tall and imposing shouldn't be able to look this adorable. I'm pretty sure it's against the laws of physics.

"So, you're not on the run. I'm going to assume you're not a serial killer who's going to feed me to the fire or murder me with an axe." I count off my points as I make them. "You don't live here like some hermit who's allergic to human contact."

"Correct on all points."

"But you've clearly been here a lot."

"Yes."

"So I'll ask again. Why are you here?"

He heaves a breath. "It's a long story."

I do the same gesture he gave me, the indication that we have nothing but time, and he chews on his cheek, getting up and feeding the fire as he plays for time. Without looking at me, he says, "In Norway, applying for military service is mandatory."

That was . . . really not where I was expecting him to go with that. Although I guess it explains his physique.

"Not everyone is drafted," he says, crouching on one knee on the wooden floor, his forearm resting on his other knee. His gaze is fixed on the flames, but somehow I can sense that his attention is on me. "Only the ones who are motivated to join."

"Let me guess. You were motivated?"

"All my family are associated with the army in some way. It was always expected that I'd follow in their path." His tone is utterly expressionless, no bitterness, no anger, no resentment. "I figured it was as good a choice as any, and I signed up. Training is a year and a half, and after that, they ask if you want to apply for an extended stay. Or you can leave. I chose to stay."

"So you're a soldier?"

He shoots a glance at me, and although we're not close, I can feel the weight of his gaze like it's a tangible, physical thing. "I was," he says finally. There's a world of meaning in those words, but he straightens abruptly, reminding me once again how very tall he is, and how much space he takes up. Too much. It strips the oxygen from the room.

"Then—"

"We should go to bed." He takes my mug, and I do my best not to notice the way he is very careful not to touch me on his way past.

Ah yes, the subject we've both very determinedly been ignoring. I send a covert glance at the bed, which doesn't even look like it's wide enough for Oskar's shoulders.

"Where would you like me to sleep?" I ask. "I draw the line at outside."

"The bed," he says, extending the words like he thinks I'm stupid. "Where it's warm."

I blink at him. Maybe I am stupid. "But it's your bed."

"I know. That's why I'm offering it to you."

I'm not sure why I think it's so necessary to keep pushing back on this, but he's already ventured into a storm to save me, shared his coffee and chocolate supplies, and generally admitted me, a stranger, into his space. There's no way I'm going to allow him to give up his bed too.

"Honestly, it's fine," I say. "I don't mind sleeping on the floor."

He turns from where he's washing up our mugs. "Are you used to it? Sleeping on the floor?"

"No?" Obviously not. I'm a spoilt, spoilt girl who likes blankets and warm cups of tea and possibly hot water bottles on cold nights. I do not like draughty floors.

But what must be done must be done, and I've never been one to shirk from duty.

"After sharing beds with my nieces, the floor will be a dream," I tell him. "One time, Layla peed on me. Melody kicks like she's learning how to swim. The floor will be fine."

"And you won't be cold?"

There is absolutely no chance I will not be cold. "Definitely not! I'm practically cold-resistant. There's probably a mutant gene in there somewhere. Maybe lizard-skin."

"I don't think lizards are resistant to the cold," he points out.

Of course he knows that. "Trust me," I say, giving him a wide smile. "I'm going to be just fine."