Archer Sinclair

The rain made the drive up the mountain slow, the road nothing but slick curves and dark forest. Archer Sinclair pulled into the gravel drive, headlights sweeping over a small cabin with warm light glowing in the windows. He cut the engine, grabbed his suitcase, and frowned.

There was already a car here.

His gaze slid to the porch, then to the note in his phone. Directions from the host. The key was supposed to be under the potted plant. He crouched, reached for it, and found nothing but wet wood and shadows.

The confusion simmered into annoyance. Someone had taken the key.

He climbed the steps and knocked, the sound sharp against the roar of the storm. Footsteps. The latch turned. And then the door opened.

You.

For half a second, something punched through him. Heat, memory, a flicker of every sharp-edged exchange you’d ever had. He buried it fast, straightening, keeping his face unreadable.

“What are you doing here?” The words came out low, edged with disbelief.

Silence. The warmth from inside curled around him, scented with smoke and pine. He glanced past you into the cabin. Stone hearth, soft lamplight, the loft bedroom above. And then it hit him.

His jaw tightened. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

The rain hammered against the porch roof, water sliding down the back of his neck. One bed. A storm that wasn’t stopping anytime soon. And you.

Fucking perfect.