I Hid the Fugitive Biker in My Cabin

Chapter 2

Audrey

The silence of my New York apartment had never felt so loud. I stared at the laptop screen, where the cursor blinked rhythmically against the white background, as if mocking my complete inability to string two words together that made any sense. At the top of the document, the word count displayed a depressing number: zero.

I twirled the pen between my fingers, the cold metal contrasting with the heat rising up my neck every time my phone vibrated on the mahogany desk. I didn’t need to look to know who it was. Vivian. My editor. My mentor. The woman who, at that exact moment, held the power to either elevate or bury my career.

I gathered the courage and slid my finger across the phone screen, answering the call before it went to voicemail for the fifth time that day.

“Tell me you have at least three chapters ready, Audrey,” Vivian’s voice came without preamble, sharp as a scalpel. “Bookstores are calling. Marketing needs the final synopsis yesterday. The success of Autumn Stars put you on top, but the public forgets quickly. If we don’t release the next romance by the end of the semester, the market is going to swallow you whole.”

I swallowed hard, feeling a knot tighten in my throat.

“I’m working on it, Vivian. It’s just… the rhythm is a little different this time.”

“Different or nonexistent?” She sighed, her tone softening slightly, though still laced with pragmatic urgency. “Audrey, dear, I know you. You’re stuck. Creative block is a luxury we can’t afford right now. The publisher invested heavily in your image. You need to deliver the same intensity, the same fire that made the world fall in love with your last two books. That raw tension, that surrender that makes the reader sweat. Where is that?”

“It’ll be on the page,” I lied, feeling the weight of guilt crush my shoulders. “I just need some time away from the chaos of the city. No horns, no deadlines flashing in my face every second.”

“Then change scenery fast. You have two weeks to send me the first half of the manuscript. Two weeks, Audrey. Or we’ll have serious contractual problems.”

When the line went silent, I propped my elbows on the desk and buried my face in my hands. Vivian was right. I was completely empty. The roaring success of my first novels had dried up my well. How could I write about overwhelming passions, about skin prickling and hearts racing, if my own life had been reduced to deadlines, cold coffee, and lonely nights? I had forgotten what it felt like to feel.

I stared at the exposed brick wall of the loft until my eyes burned. I needed to escape. Not to a crowded resort or a tourist beach, but somewhere isolation would force me to confront my own creative demons.

I opened a browser tab and typed, without much hope: Isolated cabin rentals. Seasonal.

I scrolled through dozens of glossy, commercial listings until one caught my eye. It was a rustic property on the outskirts of a quiet little town, surrounded by dense forest at the foot of the mountains. The photos showed an old structure of dark wood and stone, with an enormous fireplace and windows that looked out onto nothing but trees and mist. The listing was simple, almost neglected, signed by a man named Arthur.

There was something about that house that seemed to whisper directly to my block. It looked like a place made of secrets.

Without giving myself time to hesitate or call Vivian for advice, I clicked the reservation button and sent a message to the owner. The reply came thirty minutes later, short and formal, confirming that the keys would be waiting for me the next day.

The drive took nearly six hours, and as the tall buildings of Manhattan gave way to secondary highways and, finally, to dirt roads lined with colossal pines, I felt a strange mix of relief and anxiety. The air there was different denser, carrying the scent of damp earth, pine, and something ancient I couldn’t quite name.

The nearest town, which I passed through in a glance, looked like it had stepped out of a postcard from another era. Narrow cobblestone streets, a few local shops with wooden façades, and residents who watched me with restrained curiosity when I slowed down. But I didn’t stop. My destination was a few kilometers farther up the hill.

When the GPS finally indicated I had arrived, I stopped the car in front of a timeworn wooden fence. The cabin was even more imposing and solitary than in the photos. It rose against the gray backdrop of the late-afternoon sky, perfectly integrated into the forest that seemed to be trying to swallow it.

An elderly man with white hair and a worn denim jacket was already waiting for me on the porch, holding a heavy set of keys. It was Mr. Arthur.

“Sorry about the winding road, Miss Audrey,” he said in a hoarse voice, with a mild smile that deepened the wrinkles around his eyes. “Most folks in town don’t like coming up here. They say the forest is too closed in, too quiet.”

“It’s exactly the silence I need,” I replied, getting out of the car and extending my hand to greet him.

He nodded, unlocking the solid wooden front door and leading me inside. The cabin smelled of beeswax and old wood. The living room was spacious, dominated by the massive stone fireplace I had seen in the photos.

Heavy leather furniture, a compact open kitchen, and a wooden staircase leading to the mezzanine, where the double bed was. It was perfect. Rustic, isolated, and completely disconnected from the world that had nearly destroyed me over the past week.

“The heating works well, and I left enough cut firewood for a few days,” Mr. Arthur explained, pointing around the house. He walked over to the back window, which looked out onto a large yard bordered by a dense wall of trees that was already disappearing into the rapidly falling night. “There’s just one thing I need to ask of you.”

I slipped my hands into the pockets of my coat, paying attention to the slightly more serious tone in his voice.

“Go ahead.”

Arthur pointed to a small dark wooden structure, almost camouflaged among the bushes at the edge of the property, about fifty meters from the main house.

“That’s the toolshed and storage. I handle the maintenance myself after guests leave, so I keep it locked. There’s no need for you to go out into the yard there are a lot of tools and it’s a mess out there. If you need any repairs, just call me. Other than that, the whole house is yours.”