Beau's truck handles the forested, dirt roads with less protest than my car. Though there's the occasional lurch as the road dips, Beau is unfazed, comfortable even. I've never really been the type of girl who had a thing for guys who drive trucks, but his easy confidence as we maneuver through the backcountry has a certain appeal to it.

His rugged, gentlemanly manner also, surprisingly, appeals. Even though I protested—the space blanket was fine—he wrapped me in a heavy jacket and got the heat blasting as soon as I vaulted into his truck. I try to tell him that I don't need anything more than the blanket that he'd already given me, but the fleece-lined jacket is a thousand times warmer. And it smells amazing.

With the sound of quiet country music filling the cab, Beau cuts through a number of unpaved roads until we pull up to the clearing. The last light of the sun bleeds from the sky, leaving only a deep and velvety blue overhead, as he drives beyond the main cluster of cabins until he reaches the one blanketed in darkness.

Something about the place makes my chest ache. The little cabin doesn't look as rustic or summer camp-like as the others: it has clean lines and large glass windows that are dark in the dying light. As we pull up, I realize that it's perched over a black, glassy lake that reflects the awakening stars, looks out to the forest. A little home on the edge of the wild, where the air is clean and thick with pine, where the world is somehow both untamed and safe at all once.

Beau parks the truck and steps out, moving around to the back to grab the bags. As I slide out of the passenger seat, I linger a moment, taking it in. The cabin is almost modern in design. Instead of rough-hewn, it's all clean edges and sharp lines. The type of artful design that belongs in an architecture magazine about Scandinavian design and not in the Wyoming wilderness. And yet, it's so carefully built—the wood matches the colors of the forest, the windows reflect the rippling surface of the lake—it's like it is meant to be here. Like it belongs.

For a second, I picture myself living in a place like this. Waking up to mist curling over the water, breathing in the scent of sap, drinking coffee on the deck as the sun peaks over the horizon. The thought is absurd, but it sinks its claws into me. My mom and I had never lived in place like this, but it calls it me with a familiarity that I can't place.

"You coming?" Beau calls. His voice pulls me back to reality. "Or are you planning on sleeping in my truck?"

I clear my throat. "Yeah," I say, watching the reflection of the moon in the water's surface. "I'm coming."

He doesn't say anything, but waits for me to make my way over the unsteady ground. Pushing open the door, Beau flips on a light and the cabin glows with warmth.

The inside is just as surprising as the outside. A blend of rustic and modern. Warm wooden beams, sleek steel fixtures, a stone fireplace with a dark leather couch. There's a stack of books on the coffee table, a half-finished mug sitting beside the sink. Though it's clearly lived in, there aren't any keepsakes or photographs. It's entirely masculine, unsentimental.

Beau kicks off his boots by the door, so I follow to do the same.

"It's not much," he says with a shrug. "But it's got a great view."

He gestures to the windows, the glass door that opens onto a deck that overlooks the lake, the mountains. Even in the fading twilight, it's almost heartbreakingly beautiful. And maybe it's just the day I've been having, but I remember my mom taking about the power of living near water. Of starting each day purified. And it's silly. It's the type of insane shit my mom always said. The new-age hippie-ism that I loved to tease her for. Wearing my exhaustion, Beau's giant coat, and blistered feet, I suddenly feel the hot prick of tears behind my eyes. I scramble for my composure, for that protective layer of ice and stone before they can fall.

Beau has the decency to ignore me.

"Let me call my uncle," he says, walking into the bedroom. "He'll take a look at your car. The shower's right through here in the meanwhile. Use whatever."

A shower sounds so fucking amazing that I don't even bother protesting in feigned politeness. I follow him, noting the massive bed covered in thick blankets, the neat dresser with minimal personal effects. He rummages through ones of the drawers and hands me a pair of drawstring sweatpants and a hoodie. There's a little bubble in my chest that can't decide if I should feel awkward or grateful, so I hustle into the bathroom with a muttered thank you and jump into the shower before I can think better of it.

As I wash Beau's shampoo out of my hair, I realize that he probably expects me to sleep with him. Why else would someone bring a woman out to their remote cabin? Sex or murder seem like the most likely options. He could have just as easily waited with me for a tow. Hell, he could have left me there. If he's constantly traipsing around the wilderness like some sort of sexy park ranger, his phone probably has satellite. He could have called someone and been on his way.

Maybe it's just the fact that I'm naked in his house, but my brain flickers back to all of the porn-flavored dreams I've had about him this week, the true crime murder mysteries I devoured. I rub my eyes as if I can scrub away the intrusive thoughts.

But Beau doesn't come to join me in the shower—to fuck me or kill me or otherwise. In fact, when I finally get the courage to finger comb my hair and rejoin him in the main room, he's leaning against the kitchen counter, looking out to the dark water. His fingers are tight against its edge, matching the hard line of his jaw. Watching him, I realize that his hair is wet, he's in fresh clothes. I wonder if he has a second shower, or if he jumped in the lake.

"I like your place," I say, trying to break the silence with something benign.

I can see Beau force the tension out of his body before he turns to me. His thunderstorm eyes take me in, from my wet hair hanging down my back, to the rolled sweatpants, to by bare feet.

His mouth twitches before he leans over to open the fridge. "You hungry?"

I shake my head. My stomach is twisted into knots, from the whole wolf experience or the weirdness of this whole situation, I can't say. But when I glance toward the fridge, something catches my eye. It's packed with raw meat. Not that I'm a vegetarian or anything, but there are rows and rows of it, neatly wrapped, with almost no other food in sight. A shivery intuition runs down my spine.

I hesitate. "You hunt?"

Beau stills for half a second before he looks at me with a shrug. "Sometimes."

His non-answer is supremely unsatisfying, but there's something about the way he says it that makes me hesitate to push further. Very unlike me. My thoughts flicker back to the dark shape in the woods, the yellow eyes, the way he dismissed my claims of seeing a wolf. But I shove the thought aside.

"Marcus said he could have your car fixed up by tomorrow." He pauses for a moment. "I could drive you back to Jackson and have someone drop it off in the morning, but—" He swallows and falters, as if he's suddenly a little shy. "I don't mind if you want to stay here."

My blush floods my face, my chest, my damn hairline.

"Not to do anything," he says quietly, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I wouldn't presume—I mean I don't—shit."

I can't help the weak laugh. And then my stomach growls.

"Let me make you something to eat, Rhea," he says. "And then I'll drive you home."

Taking a seat on one of the stools at the counter, I force myself to smile, to appear unaffected. Like I spend every weekend showering at some stranger's house and wearing his sweatpants and eating his food. Let him think that this is nothing out of the ordinary for me. "Sounds good. As long as you're not planning on murdering me out back."

Beau rolls his eyes before turning to the pantry.

"Hiding a body is a lot more effort than it's worth," he says, pulling out a package of pasta. I nod when he shakes it at me in question. "Plus, probably would give those Crestline folks a hell of a lot more ammunition. Evicting the murderous woodland cannibals and all."

His tone is wry as he starts cooking. I hide my smile behind my hands. And even though spaghetti doesn't require a Michelin star, I like that he seems comfortable in the kitchen. He makes quick work of dicing tomatoes and onions and dumping them into a skillet with browning ground beef.

"How'd a girl like you get mixed up with Crestline, anyway?" He asks while he's focused on the food. It makes it easy to answer when I don't have those stormy eyes on me.

"It's not that interesting of a story."

"We've got time." He shrugs and flips the contents of the skillet.

A small, tired laugh escapes me. "You always this pushy?"

He turns to flash a smirk in my direction. "Only when people are determined to dodge my questions."

I hesitate, then sigh. "I was supposed to be a lawyer." The words feel foreign in my mouth, like they belong to someone else. And I suppose they do, in a way. "Made it through junior college, university, started law school... but then my mom got sick." I swallow hard. "I dropped out to take care of her. And after she died, I just... I never went back."

Beau doesn't say anything, but he turns to look at me. His gaze, for all its intensity, holds no judgement.

"I guess I got lost somewhere along the way." I shrug and force the practiced smile at him. "But if we're going to talk about this, I'm going to need a drink."

It seems to bother him. Not the words, but the way I shift to the smooth composure I use to keep everyone at arm's length, the way I deflect. Caught in the cloudy gray of his eyes, I almost want to apologize. To explain why I am the way I am.

He turns back to the stove to give the pan another shake before turning to the fridge again and pulling out two beers.

"Hope you don't mind beer," he says, forcing a faint smile of his own. "I suppose you fancy city girls prefer something a little different."

I crack the can with an exaggerated eye roll. "I went to law school," I remind him, watching him as I drink. "I can drink anything."

"Was it that bad?" He asks after taking a swallow of his own. "Law school?"

With a shrug, I play my fingers against the rim. "Not really. Just a really strong 'work hard, play hard' mentality."

Beau raises an eyebrow as he takes another drink. "You loved it," he accuses teasingly.

I know I cannot be tipsy after a few sips of beer, but I feel a warmth run through me. Maybe it's the faded adrenaline or the reckless rush of being in a stranger's literal cabin in the woods, but there's something heady and intoxicating about Beau that I'm finding harder and harder to resist.

I hide my smile behind my hand. "I did."

"You could go back, couldn't you? Be the big hotshot lawyer you always wanted to be?"

I laugh at that. "Who says I wanted to be a big hotshot?"

Beau stirs the boiling pasta. "The cute little skirt and blazer routine isn't really the uniform for defending the weak and innocent, is it?"

I pretend to bristle indignantly. "I'll have you know that I was very determined to save the world."

"Oh yeah?"

"No cause was too small for that Rhea Dawson," I drawl. "She had a heart as bleeding as they come."

Finishing off his beer, Beau moves to grab two more cans. I realize that I've also finished mine. He hands it to me, and his stormy eyes are deep and dark with a piercing sincerity.

"I would have liked to meet that Rhea Dawson," he says softly as our fingers brush.

My heart stutters. A part of me wants to vault over the counter to kiss him. To tear the shirt from his back and beg him to bury himself in me. But I take the beer and turn the conversation to something safer. Something I'm not about to drown in.

"Would I want to meet the old Beau Forrester?" I ask, swallowing away my lust-driven thoughts. "The one who wanted to do something else?"

It works. Beau shakes off the moment so easily it almost makes me wonder if I imagined it. He grins and starts piling food into bowls. "I think he might have been a bit too wild for a girl like you."

I want to counter that I could handle him, but the words taste too forward. I shovel a bite of spaghetti into my mouth instead. Though there's a second stool at the counter, Beau keeps the counter between us as we dig into the food. It's completely ridiculous, but I'm caught between feeling grateful for the distance and wanting to taunt him into moving closer.

"I wanted to go to school, too," he says, finally. "Engineering. Thought I'd fix things, build things. But it wasn't in the cards."

I assume it's a financial thing, but something in the way he says it makes me wonder if there's more. So, I deflect. I quiz him on this insane little summer camp of a community they have out here. And like some sort of Ranger Rick-engineer hybrid, he has an answer for almost everything. Where does the electricity come from out here? Solar panels. The water? Tanks, wells, filters, pumps. Wifi? Beau chuckles and says I'll have to ask some of the younger kids how they rigged that one.

"How many of you are out here all off the grid?" I ask, stunned.

Beau smiles as he finishes his beer. "A fair few. But we're not off the grid, not since the seventies. Hard to hide away in a world with no hiding places left."

There's something wry in his tone, like he's making a joke that I don't understand. And it's a little... wistful? Maybe the beer is getting to me.

When the food is gone, I help Beau clean up the kitchen. I'm not sure, but it feels like we're both lingering with each task. As Beau hands me the last dish to dry, I swallow, suddenly a little nervous.

"It's really late." I say. It's unlike me, but I don't have the courage to be direct. "I'd hate to ask you to drive all the way to Jackson at this hour."

Beau leans back and considers me with a long, stormy look. He seems to be weighing his options, deciding on the best course of action. Like I'm some sort of puzzle he needs to solve. His mouth lifts in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Let me throw clean sheets on the bed."

I shake my head. "I'm not kicking you out of your own bed."

"It wasn't a suggestion." He smirks. "I'll take the couch."

There's a dropping sensation in the back of my throat that feels like disappointment. A stupid, girlish part of me hoped he'd just invite himself under the blankets with me. That same little voice wants to say, 'there's enough room for both of us,' like we're in romantic comedy.

But this isn't a movie, so I don't say anything.

By the time I climb into his bed, clean and warm, I can hear the wind shifting through the trees outside. Although I just watched him change the sheets, they smell woodsy and clean. And something unmistakably Beau.

Somewhere in the distance, a long, mournful howl rises int the night.

Sleep takes me before I can wonder whether the sound belongs to a wolf. Or something else entirely.