At the end of the driveway stood the barn.
It was magnificent.
It was weathered grey wood and a soaring gambrel roof, with huge doors and crisscrossing beams strung with what looked like thousands of tiny fairy lights, their warm glow a beacon in the stormy twilight.
Even in the downpour, I could see the potential. It was rustic, romantic, and utterly perfect. A miracle.
Rhys pulled the truck to a stop and killed the engine.
The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the relentless drumming of rain.
“Well,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Chloe might get her perfect wedding after all. ”
“She might,” I breathed, a genuine smile touching my lips for the first time all day. The relief was intoxicating. We’d found it. We’d fixed it.
I reached for the door handle. “Let’s go take a look. ”
“Ava, wait. ”
I turned back. The amusement was gone from his face, replaced by a sudden, sharp focus.
He was looking at the driveway behind us.
I followed his gaze.
The gravel path we’d just driven up was no longer a path.
It was a fast-moving, muddy brown stream, already halfway up the tires of the Land Rover. The creek we’d crossed a mile back had clearly breached its banks.
My smile vanished. My blood ran cold.
The road was gone.
A deep, ominous rumble of thunder shook the truck, seeming to vibrate right through my bones.
We were miles from the nearest town, the cell service was nonexistent, and the world outside was being systematically erased by the storm.
We were stranded.
I looked at Rhys. His gaze met mine, and the air crackled. The barn wasn’t just a potential venue anymore.
It was our only shelter. And in his eyes, I saw a mirror of the thought hammering in my own mind.
We had nowhere to run—not from the storm, and not from the charged, undeniable thing that was brewing between us.