“I’m being good,” he huffs.

I nod to myself. “And when is your next appointment?”

“Next Tuesday,” he tells me. “We’re supposed to go over options.”

“You let me know what they say, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckles. “You’re almost as bad as your mother.”

“I just worry about you,” I admit.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got some more good years in me, don’t you worry.”

“Sure, Dad,” I manage. “I’ll call you later?”

“Sounds good, kiddo. Be safe out there.”

“I will. Tell Mom I said hi.”

“Can do.”

The line goes dead, and I stare at the phone in my hand for a few seconds as I think back on the conversation. He sounded…tired. He always sounds tired lately, and that does nothing but worry me. I know from my own research that he does have options besides getting a pacemaker put in, but none of them will give him the same life expectancy. Which is why I need to get back to work.

I glance at the gapping wood in the corner I’ve been working myself into, staring at it like it’s the enemy, and maybe it is at this moment. At the very least, it’s a good outlet for my frustrations. Deciding that this thinking isn’t something I have time for, I pull my goggles back down into place and do what I always do when I’m avoiding my feelings.

I get back to work.

It might be all the nervous energy I’m still carrying after having been told I’ll be alone for the weekend with Hunter in a snowy cabin like some sort of cheesy Hallmark movie—only with a heavy dose of sexual tension—but I’m almost grateful when Hunter keeps busy throughout lunch, getting ready for the storm. I scrounge up a sandwich that I eat in my bedroom as I text back and forth with Ada, doing my best to resist the urge to peek out my window every so often to see if I can catch a glimpse of my quiet innkeeper.

Not my quiet innkeeper, I mentally correct.

Even an hour after lunch, Hunter is still outside doing this and that (how he isn’t freezing to death, I’ll never know), and I decide my energy would be better spent doing something productive rather than sitting around.

It takes me a little while to locate what I’m after, but I find a stash of cleaning supplies in a closet just off the kitchen and then a ladder stored away in another on the opposite side of the house. I get to work in the main entry first, ridding the old elk head of his Santa hats before I start dusting and cleaning all the cobwebs from the walls and ceilings. And there are a lot of both, it turns out. I’d wager no one has done this in years, and it takes me a good hour and a half to finish this room. Granted, I polished and organized the front desk after I finished with the walls, then gave the floors a good mopping and the staircase banister a thorough wipe-down. The room looks like a whole new place by the time I’m done.

I figure if we can clean the main rooms and the best bedroom in the place for pictures, that will be more than enough for Nate and his team to print up in the magazine. We can worry about the rest when the interview is over and we have more time.

I notice I’m definitely still thinking we. Is that weird?

Probably best not to analyze that one too much.

After a few hours of working up a sweat, I notice it’s getting dark outside, the chilled gray of the day deepening into a dusky bluish-black as the sun goes down, and I reckon I could use a shower before dinner. I smile a little to myself as I think about Hunter coming back to a (mostly) clean lodge. I’m smiling at just the thought of Hunter, to be honest.

I peel off my hoodie and sweats and everything else when I’m back in the attached bath off my room, cranking on the shower and sighing in contentment when I feel the hot spray splash across my palm before I step in. My arms are a little sore from reaching to clean the walls for so long, and the hot water feels like heaven against my shoulders, so I stand under the showerhead for a solid minute or two before I finally start lathering shampoo into my hair. The sweet scent of tangerines fills the shower as the steam clouds around me. I close my eyes as I work my fingers through my hair to coat the entire length, spreading the shampoo from roots to ends, taking my time with it.

Which quickly reveals itself to be a massive mistake when all the lights go out.

A lot of things happen all at once when the power is cut. The water keeps running, so that’s a plus, but I let out a scream, and the way I push myself against the back wall somehow causes the thick lather I’ve created in my hair to gloop right into my eyes. Instant burn. And if that’s not enough, I do a panicked little dance, still squealing over the sting as I frantically try to wipe the bubbles from my eyes with already-sudsy hands (reason went out the window with the lights, apparently), which means that my feet aren’t as steady as I’d like them to be, and I’m a little more off-kilter than I should be when standing under an active spray.

So I find myself falling right on my ass.

Well, more accurately, my ankle, I guess. The pain is instant, the scream is delayed, and the water is constant, spraying down somewhere on my thighs as I continue to yelp from the sharp throbbing just above my foot. And I might think that my bad luck would end there—probably, given that there is little else I can imagine could happen in this tiny little window of five minutes or so—but I would be wrong.

“Tess?” Hunter’s slightly panicked voice is in the other room. I can hear it over the shower. “Are you okay? I heard screaming.”

“I’m naked!”

Probably not the most pertinent information, but it feels like it at the moment.

I can hear him right outside the door now. “Power is out. Are you okay in there?”

“I slipped,” I whine, eyes shut tight and still stinging from shampoo. “I think I might have messed up my ankle.”

“Can you move it?”

I give it a try, and I’m able to move it back and forth, but doing so causes a major ache. “Yeah, but it hurts like hell.”

“Probably just sprained then. Can you stand up?”

“About that…”

“Do you…I mean…I can help. I won’t look.”

Oddly enough, I’m more worried about him seeing me in this clumsy state rather than him seeing me naked. Again, that is. But he doesn’t need to know that.

“I can’t see. I have shampoo in my eyes.”

I hear the handle click before the door squeaks open, a bit of cold air creeping into the warm bathroom. “Yeah, it’s pitch-black in here anyway. No worries.”

“Can you get me a towel or something? My eyes are burning.”

I can sense him rummaging around in the cabinets for a second before I hear the rustle of the shower curtain. I reach above until my fingers collide with terry cloth, and I yank down the little hand towel he’s given me and rub the suds from my eyes. Then I reach up again to grab one of the corner shelves to try to hoist myself up afterward, but my ankle throbs sharply, making me yelp.

“I don’t think I can get up by myself,” I groan. There’s a moment of silence on the other side of the shower curtain. “Hunter?”

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Okay. I’m just—Just raise up your arms, okay? I don’t want to…I just want to make sure I get your hands.”

I do as he says, feeling about as mortified as I possibly can at this point, but after a second I feel his hands curl around mine, and he gently starts to tug me upward. It takes a little maneuvering to get me on my feet, and even then I have to sort of stand on one foot while he supports my weight by holding on to my hands. After that we stand there for a bit, neither of us knowing what to do next.

“I have to get this shampoo out of my hair,” I say resignedly. “Before the water goes cold.”

“Okay,” he says a little roughly. “I’ll just—Maybe I can—Okay. I’m going to keep hold of your hands, okay? Hop a little to your…right? I think? Just hold on to my hands and lean back to rinse your hair. I’ve got you.”