The Cabin

The text from Lily comes through just as I'm pulling into the driveway of the Shaw family cabin.

Maren, I'm SO sorry. Jake surprised me with tickets to Cabo. I'm literally at the airport right now. Dad's already there—he'll let you in. Rain check on girls' week? Love you!

I stare at my phone, the engine still running, heat blasting against the December cold. Five days. I drove four hours through winding mountain roads for five days of wine, gossip, and avoiding my mother's questions about why I'm still single at twenty-one. And now Lily's abandoned me for her on-again, off-again boyfriend and a beach vacation.

The cabin sits nestled among snow-laden pines, smoke curling from the chimney. Warm light glows from the windows. And inside is David Shaw.

Lily's father.

Forty-four years old. Recently divorced. The man I've been carefully not looking at since I was nineteen and came home from my freshman year of college to find him standing in Lily's kitchen, sleeves rolled up, graying at the temples, looking at me like he'd never really seen me before.

I'd felt it then—that electric awareness. The way his eyes had traveled down my body for just a second too long before he'd caught himself, cleared his throat, and asked about my classes.

I should leave. I should turn this car around and drive back to my mother's house and spend the break fielding questions about my love life and pretending I don't think about her best friend's husband—ex-husband now—when I'm alone at night.

But my fingers are already turning off the ignition. My legs are already carrying me to the front door.

It opens before I can knock.

David Shaw stands in the doorway, and God, it's unfair how good he looks. Dark hair shot through with silver. A fitted sweater that shows he still runs every morning. Those steel-gray eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles—like he's smiling now, though there's something uncertain in it.

"Maren." His voice is deeper than I remember. Rougher. "Lily told me about Cabo. I'm sorry she left you stranded."

"It's fine." It's not fine. Or maybe it is. "I can go—"

"Don't be ridiculous. You drove all this way." He steps aside, gesturing me in. "I was just about to make dinner. There's plenty."

The cabin smells like wood smoke and something savory—garlic, wine, herbs. It's warm after the bitter cold outside, and I shrug off my coat as David takes my bag.

"The guest room's made up," he says, not quite meeting my eyes. "Lily's room, I mean. She keeps it ready for when she visits."

"Thank you, Mr. Shaw."

He pauses. Turns. "David. You're twenty-one now, Maren. I think we're past formalities."

Twenty-one...