Alpine Embrace

Chapter 4

There is an intimacy to doing dishes with a stranger that nobody warns you about.

It’s domestic. It’s quiet. It implies a rhythm of life that shouldn't exist between two people who met three hours ago while one was trying to freeze to death and the other was trying to bench press a blizzard.

"I can do them," I said, reaching for the sponge.

"I have a dishwasher," Jaxon said, leaning against the doorframe. He had crossed his arms again, the flannel pulling tight across his biceps. I tried very hard not to stare at the way his forearms flexed. I failed.

"I know," I said, turning on the faucet. The water was hot, steaming instantly in the cool air of the kitchen. "But the pots are copper. You don't put copper in the dishwasher. Even I know that, and my idea of fine dining is takeout eaten directly from the carton."

Jaxon made a noise in his throat, a grunt that might have been agreement or might have been annoyance. He didn't stop me, though. He just stood there, watching.

The weight of his gaze was heavy. It pricked at the back of my neck.

"You're hovering," I said, scrubbing a trace of tomato bisque from the saucepan.

"I'm supervising," he corrected. "I don't trust you not to break my cookware. That pot is French. It’s older than you are."

I rolled my eyes, though he couldn't see it. "I’m a graphic novelist, Jaxon. My hands are my livelihood. I have excellent dexterity."

"Graphic novelist," he repeated, testing the words. "So you draw cartoons?"

"I draw narrative art," I corrected, rinsing the pot. "And yes. Cartoons. Mostly about how the universe is a chaotic void of disappointment."

"Sounds uplifting," he deadpanned.

"It’s niche," I said, placing the pot on the drying rack. "But it pays the rent. Or... it used to."

The reminder of my unemployed, homeless status stung, a sudden sharp needle in the cozy warmth of the kitchen. I turned off the water, drying my hands on a towel.

"All done," I announced, turning around. "No casualties."

Jaxon pushed off the doorframe. He moved with a silent, prowling grace that seemed at odds with his size. He walked over to the island where Mia was currently building a tower out of napkins.

"Bedtime, peanut," he said.

Mia’s head snapped up. "No! I’m not tired. I’m wide awake. I’m nocturnal. Like a bat."

"You are a six-year-old human girl," Jaxon said, scooping her up in one smooth motion. She shrieked with laughter as he tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "And bats don't have ski school in the morning."

"Ski school is cancelled!" Mia argued from her upside-down vantage point. "The mountain is closed!"

"Then we'll have chalet school," Jaxon said, marching toward the hallway. "Math drills. First thing."

"You're a monster!" Mia giggled.

"I’m a dad. Same thing."

He paused at the archway leading to the hall, looking back at me. "You can..." He gestured vaguely to the living room. "Read a book. Watch TV. Don't set anything on fire."

"I'll do my best," I said.

"Can the Snow Queen come say goodnight?" Mia asked, lifting her head. Her dark curls were a mess, her eyes pleading.

Jaxon hesitated. I saw his jaw clench. He didn't want me in their space. He wanted me quarantined in the guest room, a temporary problem to be managed. But he looked at his daughter, and the granite crumbled.

"If she wants to," he muttered.

"I'd love to," I said softly.

I followed them down the hallway. The chalet was shaped like a 'U'. The kitchen and living room were in the center. To the left, the West Wing, I assumed, was the bedrooms. To the right was the forbidden East Wing.

We went left.

Mia’s room was a stark contrast to the rest of the house. Where the chalet was all masculine grays, leather, and wood, this room was an explosion of color. A canopy bed draped in fairy lights, walls covered in framed finger paintings, and shelves overflowing with stuffed animals.

Jaxon deposited her on the bed. "Teeth. Pajamas. Now."

I lingered in the doorway, feeling like an intruder on a sacred ritual. I watched as the giant hockey player helped the tiny girl wrestle into a sleeping bag because she "wanted to camp." I watched him comb out her tangled hair with surprising gentleness.

"Story?" Mia asked, snuggling down.

"One chapter," Jaxon said. He pulled a battered copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe from the nightstand.

He sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. He opened the book, his large hand spanning nearly both pages.

And then, he began to read.

His voice changed. The gravelly, rough edge smoothed out. He did voices. He actually did voices. He did a falsetto for Lucy and a deep, rumbling growl for Aslan.

I stood there, leaning against the doorframe, and felt something in my chest give way. It was a dangerous sensation. It was the feeling of walls coming down.

Don't, I warned myself. Do not look at the hot, single dad reading Narnia to his daughter and get ideas. He is grumpy. He is rude. He is technically your captor.

But God, it was a good look on him.

After ten minutes, Mia’s eyes fluttered shut. Her breathing evened out.

Jaxon closed the book silently. He reached out and brushed a curl off her forehead, his thumb lingering on her cheek for a second. The look on his face was so raw, so filled with love and a strange, terrifying fear, that I had to look away. It felt too private.

He stood up, dimmed the fairy lights, and walked to the door.

"Out," he whispered.

We walked back into the hallway. He pulled the door shut until it was just a crack.

"She’s a good kid," I said, keeping my voice low.

"She is," he said. He looked tired. The firelight from the living room cast deep shadows under his eyes. "She’s resilient."

"She seems... happy," I said. "Despite the storm."

"She loves the snow," he said shortly. "She doesn't know enough to be afraid of it yet."

He walked past me, back toward the living room. "I have to check the generator. Make sure the fuel line isn't freezing. There are extra blankets in the chest by the sofa if you get cold."

"Okay," I said. "Jaxon?"

He stopped, his back to me. "Yeah?"

"Thank you. For... not leaving me out there."

He stood still for a moment, the tension in his shoulders visible even through the flannel. "Don't thank me yet. We still have to survive the night."

With that, he grabbed a heavy flashlight from the side table and headed for the mudroom door. I heard the heavy thud of the exterior door closing, and then the lock engaging.

I was alone.

The silence of the house was different without his presence. It felt bigger. Emptier.

The wind was still battering the walls, a constant, low-level assault. The timbers of the chalet creaked and groaned under the pressure. It sounded like the house was talking to itself.

I walked over to the fireplace. The flames were dying down. I threw another log on, watching the sparks fly up the chimney.

I should go to sleep. I was exhausted. My body was still aching from the cold.

But my mind was wired. Adrenaline, caffeine, and the strange, electric tension of the evening were buzzing in my veins.

I wandered around the living room. I looked at the books on the shelves. Hockey Strategy. Advanced Kinesiology. The History of the Alps. And then, tucked in the corner, a row of poetry books. Neruda. Rilke.

I pulled one out. It opened easily, the spine cracked, as if it had been read a thousand times.

Inside the front cover, there was an inscription in elegant, looping handwriting.

For J,

Who hides his heart but gives it freely to those who know where to look.

Love,

E.

E.

His wife?

I closed the book quickly, feeling like I’d touched a live wire. I shoved it back onto the shelf.

I needed water. The wine had left me parched.

I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of tap water, and drank it standing by the sink.

That was when I heard it.

A sound.

Not the wind. Not the house settling.

Music.

It was faint, barely a whisper. A piano. Melancholy, slow notes drifting through the air.

I frowned. Jaxon was outside checking the generator. Mia was asleep.

I set the glass down. The sound was coming from the hallway. But not the left side.

The right side.

The East Wing.

Stay away from the East Wing, he had said. Because I said so.

Curiosity is a fatal flaw in horror movies. In romance novels, it’s a plot device. I knew I should turn around. I knew I should go to the guest room and lock the door.

But the music was pulling me. It was beautiful and haunting. Clair de Lune.

I walked to the hallway. I stood at the junction. Left was safety. Right was the forbidden zone.

I took a step to the right.

The air was cooler here. The floorboards were bare wood, no rugs to dampen the sound of my socks. The hallway was dark, lit only by the spillover light from the living room.

I walked slowly, my hand trailing along the wall. The walls here were empty. No art. No photos. Just smooth, cold plaster.

The music got louder. It was coming from a set of double doors at the end of the hall. One of the doors was slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness against the darkness.

I reached the door. My heart was hammering against my ribs.

I peered through the crack.

The room inside was dark, but the curtains were open, and the white reflection of the snowstorm outside illuminated the space in a ghostly blue glow.

It was a studio. An art studio.

There were easels covered in sheets. Tables cluttered with jars of dried paint, brushes, and canvases turned against the wall. It looked like the occupants had just stepped out for a moment and never came back.

In the center of the room, there was a grand piano.

And sitting at the piano was Jaxon.

He wasn't outside. He was here.

He hadn't turned on a light. He was playing in the dark, his large hands moving over the keys with a tenderness that broke my heart just looking at it. He was still wearing his flannel shirt, but he looked smaller somehow. Hunched over the keys as if the music was the only thing holding him upright.

He stopped playing abruptly. His hands hovered over the keys.

He didn't turn around.

"I told you," his voice came out low, dangerous, and laced with a pain so sharp it cut the air. "To stay away."

I froze. "I... I heard the music. I thought..."

"You thought what?"

He stood up. The bench scraped loudly against the floor.

He turned to face me. In the blue light of the storm, his face was a mask of shadows. The softness I had seen in Mia’s room was gone. The protector from the storm was gone.

This was something else. This was a man haunted.

"I thought you were outside," I whispered.

"I lied," he said. He walked toward me. He didn't stop until he was standing in the doorway, forcing me to take a step back into the hall. "I come here when I don't want to be seen."

"Jaxon, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"This room," he gestured to the dusty studio behind him, "is dead. Just like everything else in it."

He reached out and grabbed the handle of the door.

"Go to bed, Kelsea," he said, his voice rough. "Before you see something you wish you hadn't."

"What would I see?" I asked, a spark of boldness returning.

He looked down at me, his gray eyes looking almost black in the shadows.

"Ghosts," he said.

And then he slammed the door in my face.

The sound echoed through the hallway like a gunshot. I stood there in the dark, staring at the wood, listening to the silence rush back in. The music was gone.

But the image of him, sitting alone in the dark, playing for a ghost, was burned into my retinas.

I turned and walked back to the living room, my legs shaking.

I went to the guest room, closed the door, and crawled into the cold bed. I pulled the duvet up to my chin, shivering.

I had come here to escape my own problems. To escape the "Cynic’s Curse."

But as I lay there, listening to the wind howl, I realized I had walked straight into a tragedy. And the scariest part wasn't the storm, or the isolation, or the grumpy hockey player.

The scariest part was that I wanted to go back and open that door again.