He could have sworn he heard her mumble something along the lines of “fuck you, asshole, it was an accident” as she slammed the door shut in his face. He definitely heard the lock being turned. He couldn’t blame her. The whole situation was a mess. First thing tomorrow, he’d find another cabin to sit and drink scotch in and growl at anyone who dared to cross his path. Hell, he’d rather go find a frozen hedge maze to wander until he turned into an icicle than to stay here with her.

Glancing at the window, he saw the snow piling up fast on the drive. As long as it stopped by dawn, he’d be out of here before breakfast.

…

It was a great plan, and when he woke up the next morning to bright sunshine spilling in through the huge window looking out onto the front drive, he let out a contented sigh. This was what he’d wanted, fucking serenity. Then he made the mistake of getting up from bed, walking over to the window, and glancing out.

There wasn’t a driveway anymore.

The road back down the mountain to the highway was gone. Everything was covered in enough snow to obliterate any hope of an escape.

The unmistakable pitch of Shelby’s voice forced its way past his closed door. “Have you seen all the stupid snow? Neither of us is going anywhere.”

The sound jabbed him right in the eardrum and he winced.

His life was so fucked right now that he couldn’t even manage to be alone so he could contemplate the dark pit of his existence while nursing a scotch and his misery. Instead, he was trapped here—with the woman who’d turned his life into a hellscape.

Things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Three Weeks Earlier…

Two floors below the frozen surface where the Ice Knights battled for victory eight months out of the year, Shelby stood alone in the hallway halfway between the locker room and the coach’s office, trying not to hyperventilate or throw up on the scuffed pumps she’d pulled from the back of her messy closet.

Her palms hadn’t been this damp since she’d checked into rehab six years ago, and it hadn’t been nerves that morning—it had been because she was still sweating out the vodka from one last monumental bender. This morning, her sobriety chip slipped easily through her fingers as she moved it like a magician doing a coin trick, sliding it from between one finger to the other as she stared at the closed door. Her future, the one she’d been working toward since she’d gotten clean, was on the other side of the unassuming gray door with the push-up bar running its width and a silver placard reading Media Room next to it.