Snowed in with My Grump: Chapter Two - This Wasn’t the Plan

Being snowed in was bad enough. Being snowed in with her is another level of hell.

Piper Monroe shows up at Holt’s cabin like a damn storm—loud, cold, soaked to the bone… and infuriatingly familiar. He hasn’t seen her since the night she walked out without a word, and now she’s barefoot in his kitchen, bossing his pantry, and taking over his couch like she owns the place. He wants space. She wants cocoa. And the storm outside isn’t the only one building.

 Chapter Two 

Holt 

This Wasn’t the Plan

She storms in like the weather itself, loud, messy, and impossible to ignore.

Boots dripping snow all over my hardwood floors, cheeks flushed from the cold, jacket flapping open like it’s trying to escape her body. She’s muttering to herself, too, something about idiot meteorologists and snowdrifts with a death wish. I don’t catch all of it. Just enough to know she’s cold, annoyed, and as loud as ever.

Her boots hit the floor like she’s trying to make a point. She shrugs off her coat in a dramatic whirl, snow flying, and then throws a glare in my direction like I summoned the storm.

She’s soaked, sweater slipping low on one shoulder, jeans plastered to her legs, hair clinging to her face. And somehow—somehow—she still looks like trouble wrapped in warm skin and a second chance I never asked for. Distracting as hell.

Looking around. “Seriously? You live here?”

“Didn’t realize it was such an inconvenience,” I mutter, turning back to the stove.

“I just… this wasn’t where I was trying to end up. I saw a light. I knocked. I didn’t expect you.?”

“Same.”

Her mouth opens, then closes. She crosses her arms, still shivering but refusing to admit it. “The app had the timeline wrong. And they never said it would be an end-of-the-world snowpocalypse.”

“Yeah, well, the weather does what it wants to.”

“Apparently so do maps.”

I grunt, tossing another log onto the fire. It crackles in the silence she leaves behind. A silence that would feel peaceful if not for her soaking socks and the sound of her teeth chattering like a warning bell behind me.”

She makes a strangled noise in her throat, but it’s followed by the wet squelch of her socks hitting the floor. I don’t look back. If I do, I’ll see her shivering. I’ll see her lips quirked in that irritated little smirk she always wears around me. I’ll see all that dark, messy hair spilling from under her beanie like chaos wrapped in fleece and every headache I never asked for.

And I’ll like it more than I should.

I crouch and adjust the logs, nudging one back into place as the flames lick higher. The silence stretches behind me, filled only by the low pop of burning wood. She’s still muttering behind me, pacing barefoot across the floor like she owns the place, probably leaving little puddles everywhere on the floor I just mopped this morning. Of course she is. Piper Monroe doesn’t walk into a room—she takes over the air in it.

“Fire’ll warm up quick,” I say gruffly. “Try not to freeze. There’s a blanket on the couch.”

“Wow,” she says, voice full of mock gratitude. “So generous. You always this welcoming?”

“Nope.”

The blanket rustles behind me as she throws herself onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. “I’m only here until the storm passes. Couple hours. Tops.”

“Sure.”

“It’s not like I want to be stuck with you, you Grinch.”

I glance back. She’s curled up on the couch, blanket around her shoulders, bare toes poking out from under her, hair sticking up at odd angles. And somehow, she still looks annoyingly beautiful. Like trouble wrapped in soaked jeans and a sweater that’s doing her too many favors, and most of all being a distraction.

“What the hell were you even doing up here?”

She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Was supposed to be staying at a friend’s cabin for the weekend. Solo reset. Warm fire, too much wine, the works.”

I raise a brow. “Alone?”

“Trust me, I didn’t plan to add ‘crashing at my ex’s cabin’ to the itinerary. Just figured it beat pretending everything’s fine with my family for another holiday weekend.”

Her smile is forced this time. Just a flicker. But it’s enough to make me wonder if there’s more she’s not saying.

The worst part is, I care.

I haven’t seen her in about a year. Not since the night she left without saying goodbye. And now she’s shoes up at my cabin, dripping snow on my floors, wearing that same storm-in-her-veins energy like it never left.

She’s still too loud. Still too bright. Still too damn much.

And yet, somehow, the second she walked in, it felt like the whole cabin shifted. Like she never should’ve been here… and I never should’ve been surprised.

The stove clicks and groans as it heats up. The room starts to thaw, and so does she, judging by the way she stretches her legs out, all cozy and smug.

The lights above us give a faint flicker, just enough to make her glance up.

“How long’s the power been flickering?” she asks.

“Off and on since noon.”

As if summoned, the lights above us dim, buzz, and die completely.

“Awesome,” she mutters.

I stand, already heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab a flashlight from the kitchen. Stay put, I don't want you knocking anything over.”

“Wow, I forgot how charming you are in a crisis.”

“You’re the crisis,” I mutter under my breath.

I grab the flashlight from the drawer and flick it on. Then find the lantern and start checking the batteries. Piper follows after me, barefoot now, like she lives here. Like she belongs in my kitchen.

“Thought I told you to stay put,” I say without looking back.

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps moving like she owns the damn place. And worse? Part of me doesn’t hate it.

She opens the pantry.

“What are you doing?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

“Seeing if you have hot chocolate.”

“You said you were staying for a couple hours.”

“It depends on the storm. I’ll head down once it clears.”

“That could be days.”

She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You’ll survive.”

I blink. “I’ll survive?”

“Yes, Holt. I’m great company as you well remember. You should be thanking the snow gods.”

Fuck. I close my eyes so I don’t roll them at her. Because, yeah, I remember all too well. And that’s the problem.

She’s reorganizing the shelves now. Like she owns the place. Like she hasn’t just upended my entire weekend with her chatter and chaos and eyes that sparkle when she’s being a pain in the ass.

“Put the soup cans back the way they were.”

“They were in alphabetical order by brand,” she says, incredulous.

“I like knowing where things are.”

“You’re deranged.”

“I like structure.”

“You like being alone,” she says, too quiet this time.

My jaw tightens and I don’t answer, because she’s not wrong.

Outside, the wind howls. Inside, it’s just me, her, and the kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty—it feels like trouble.

She looks at me. “So… no heat, no lights, and no idea how long this storm’s actually gonna last?”

“Yup.”

She lets out a long breath. “Well… good thing you have me for backup.”

I stare at her.

She grins. “I make a mean blanket fort. Plus, I’m great in emergencies.”

“This isn’t an emergency.”

She gestures around. “No power. No heat. No generator. Sounds like an emergency to me.”

I sigh, already pulling more blankets from the hall closet. “You can sleep on the couch.”

“You’re making me sleep on the couch?”

“Yes.”

“A real gentleman would offer me the bed.”

“Good thing I’m not trying to be one.”

She scoffs, grabbing a blanket off the back of the couch like she owns it. “Unbelievable.”

“You said you just needed somewhere to warm up. Not room service.”

“Wow. You’re really leaning into the whole grumpy mountain man thing, huh?”

“Not leaning. Living.”

I don’t say anything else. Just flick the last light off and head down the hall to my room, ignoring the way she flops dramatically onto the couch like she’s settling in for a week, not a night.

The cabin creaks as the wind pushes harder against the windows. Pipes groan. The cold sinks deeper into the walls.

I peel off my flannel and toss it onto the chair, tug the thermal shirt over my head, and pause with my hands braced on the edge of the dresser. I can still hear her out there. Shuffling the blankets. Moving around like she doesn’t already take up too much space just by existing.

I climb into bed. Try to shut it all out. Blanket’s half over me when I realize I left my damn phone on the counter. Not that I’ve got signal, but still—habit.

I grumble under my breath and swing my legs over the side of the bed, padding barefoot down the hall. The fire’s burned low in the stove, casting everything in a dull orange glow.

She’s curled on the couch, tucked under two blankets like she’s trying to disappear into them. I keep walking, keep my eyes forward.

And then I hear it.

Teeth chattering. Soft, but steady.

I pause. Just for a second.

Long enough for the guilt to land somewhere between my shoulder blades.

I close my eyes.

Try not to care.

And fail miserably.

I don’t say anything. Just grab my phone and turn toward the hall.

But I slow down by the coat rack. Grab the extra blanket. Toss it on the edge of the couch without a word.

“Still not a gentleman,” I mutter.

She doesn’t answer.

But the chattering stops.

Come back tomorrow for Chapter Three

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: December 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix