The old barn smelled of rain-soaked earth, ancient timber, and something faintly sweet, like hay.
Outside, the storm was waging a full-blown assault, the wind screaming around the eaves and rattling the high, mullioned windows.
Every few minutes, a flash of lightning would bleach the world to a stark, terrifying white, followed by a crack of thunder that vibrated through the floorboards.
“Well,” Rhys said, his voice a low rumble that was somehow more grounding than the thunder.
He snapped his phone shut and tossed it onto a dusty wooden crate. “I just spoke with Jed, the caretaker. The good news is, we’re not going to float away. The barn is on high ground. “
I was huddled in a threadbare armchair near the massive stone fireplace, a scratchy wool blanket pulled tight around my shoulders. I hadn’t stopped shivering since we’d made the mad dash from the car. “I’m sensing there’s bad news. “
His mouth quirked into a half-smile, the firelight catching the sharp line of his jaw. “The creek’s completely flooded over. The bridge is out. We’re not going anywhere until morning. At the earliest. “
My heart did a frantic little tap dance against my ribs.
Stuck
Here. Overnight. With him.
The thought was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating, a dangerous cocktail my carefully controlled system was not equipped to handle.
“Right,” I said, my voice tight. “Okay. So. ” My brain was already clicking through a checklist, a pathetic attempt to impose order on the chaos.
“We’ll need to assess our resources. Conserve phone battery. See if there are any emergency supplies, blankets, water. . . “
Rhys just watched me, his dark eyes unnervingly perceptive.
He walked over to a small, rustic bar set up in the corner, his boots echoing on the wide plank floors. He rummaged behind it for a moment before emerging with a triumphant grin and a half-full bottle of amber liquid.
“Resource number one,” he announced, holding up a bottle of single-malt whiskey. “Courtesy of the owner. He leaves it for ‘special emergencies. ‘ I’d say a biblical flood qualifies. ”
He found two mismatched, heavy-bottomed glasses, wiped them on the edge of his damp t-shirt, and poured a generous two fingers in each.
He handed one to me, his knuckles brushing against mine. A jolt, sharp and hot, shot up my arm. I wrapped my cold fingers around the glass, the solid weight of it a small anchor in the storm of my anxiety.
Rhys settled not in the other armchair, but on the thick bearskin rug in front of the fire, leaning his back against the stone hearth. He took a sip of his whiskey, his throat working as he swallowed, and let out a soft sigh. “Better.”
I took a tentative sip.
The whiskey was smoky and smooth, a ribbon of fire that unspooled in my chest, chasing away the chill and loosening a knot I hadn’t even realized I was holding.
We sat in silence for a few long moments, the only sounds the fire, the storm, and the soft clink of our glasses.
The roaring blaze cast dancing shadows that made the cavernous barn feel intimate, shrinking the world down to just the two of us.
“You’re doing it again,” he said quietly, his gaze fixed on the flames.
“Doing what?”
“Planning. ” He turned his head to look at me, his expression unreadable. “Running the scenarios. Trying to control a situation that is, by definition, completely out of your control. I can practically hear the gears turning. “
A defensive retort rose in my throat, but the whiskey had blunted my sharp edges. He was right. “It’s how I’m wired,” I admitted. “If I have a plan, a list, a schedule… nothing can go wrong. Or if it does, I have a protocol for it. “
“And what happens when a flash flood washes away the protocol, Ava?” he asked, his voice gentle but probing.