Snowbound

The snow started falling in fat, lazy flakes just as Milo Torres' beat-up Subaru sputtered to a halt in front of the A-frame cabin. He cut the engine, and for a moment there was only the muffled hush of winter. Then, with a particularly vindictive groan from the ancient clutch, he shouldered the car door open into the crisp mountain air.

Milo grabbed his duffel from the backseat, wincing as the driver's side door gave another metallic shriek of protest when he slammed it. The cabin—more of a rustic fortress, really—loomed against the steel-gray sky. It promised isolation, quiet, and blessedly terrible Wi-Fi. Exactly what he needed to finally nail the exposé on Colby Cassin, golden boy CEO of Veridian Dynamics and all-around smug bastard.

Speaking of the devil. The front door swung open and there he was, leaning against the doorframe in a sweater that probably cost more than Milo's monthly rent. Colby Cassin, in the irritatingly attractive flesh.

"Torres," Colby drawled, his smile stretching lazily. "Fancy meeting you here. Come to bury the hatchet? Or just to bury me in another hit piece?"

Milo shouldered past him into the blessedly warm interior, stomping snow from his boots onto the mat. "In your dreams, Cassin. This is my cabin. You're just trespassing with better furniture."

"Ah, but it's my name on the rental agreement," Colby countered, closing the door with a soft click that felt far more final than Milo liked. "A little corporate retreat. You know how it is."

"Corporate retreat?" Milo scoffed, dropping his bag by the door with a thump. "Is that what we're calling your cover-ups these days?"

"Still chasing that story, hmm?" Colby crossed to the kitchen island, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into a cut-crystal tumbler. He held up the decanter in silent offer. Milo shook his head, a terse refusal.

"Someone's got to hold you accountable," Milo said, shedding his coat and hanging it on a hook by the door. The cabin was all vaulted ceilings and honeyed pine, the air smelling faintly of woodsmoke and lemon polish. A staircase—open-tread, wooden, and looking like it creaked just by existing—led up to a lofted sleeping area. One bed. Of course.

"Accountable for what, exactly?" Colby swirled the liquor in his glass, taking a slow sip. "Building a successful company? Creating jobs? Or is it just the principle of the thing, Torres? Tall poppy syndrome?"

Milo's jaw tightened. "Try environmental violations. Labor abuses. That little shell company you've got laundering money through the Caymans."

"Allegations," Colby said smoothly, utterly unruffled. He moved to the picture window, gazing out at the gathering storm. "Baseless ones, I might add. You've been sniffing around my company for months, Torres. What do you really have? A disgruntled ex-employee with an axe to grind? A few creative interpretations of publicly available documents?"

"I have enough," Milo bit out, though the words felt hollow even to his own ears. The truth was, he was still circling, still connecting the dots. Colby Cassin was slippery, his corporate structure a labyrinth designed to obfuscate and confuse.

"Enough for what?" Colby turned, fixing Milo with a look that felt far too perceptive. "Another above-the-fold takedown? Another scalp for your wall? Is that what gets you off, Torres? Playing the white knight?"

"It's called journalism," Milo snapped. "You wouldn't understand the concept."

"Oh, I understand plenty," Colby murmured, setting his glass down on the windowsill. Outside, the snow was falling harder now, thick flakes swirling against the glass. "I understand that you've got a chip on your shoulder the size of Montana. That you see corruption everywhere you look. That you're so convinced I'm the villain in your little narrative that you can't see anything else."

Milo opened his mouth to retort—something cutting, something that would erase Colby's self-satisfied expression—but his train of thought was derailed by the sharp trill of his phone. He dug it out of his pocket, frowning at the screen.

"Saved by the bell," Colby said dryly. "Duty calls?"

Milo glanced up, meeting Colby's gaze with a narrow-eyed look of his own. "Something like that," he said, and turned away to take the call.

The call was brief, a quick check-in from his editor that yielded no new information and only served to heighten Milo's frustration. He shoved the phone back into his pocket, turning to face Colby again. The other man had moved closer, leaning against the back of the sofa with his arms crossed, his face an impassive mask.

"Well?" Colby prompted, one eyebrow arched. "Duty satisfied?"

"For now," Milo said shortly, stripping off his sweater to reveal a faded band tee beneath. He tossed the sweater over the back of an armchair, running a hand through his already disheveled dark hair. "Unlike some people, I actually work for a living."

"Oh, is that what we're calling it?" Colby pushed off from the sofa, crossing the room to the fireplace. He knelt, adding another log to the already crackling fire with economical movements. "Running around playing crusader while the rest of us build things of actual value?"

"Actual value?" Milo echoed, incredulous. "Is that what you call lining your pockets at the expense of everyone else?"

"Spoken like someone who's never had to make a payroll," Colby returned, standing and dusting his hands off on his expensive wool trousers. "Or balance a budget. Or be responsible for the livelihoods of thousands of employees."

"Responsibility?" Milo scoffed, shaking his head. "Is that your justification? You're not responsible, Cassin. You're greedy. There's a difference."

Colby's eyes flashed, a flicker of anger in their depths. "Careful, Torres. Your self-righteousness is showing."

"Better self-righteous than corrupt," Milo shot back, taking a step closer. The air between them hummed with tension, the firelight throwing distorted shapes on the walls.

They stared at each other for a long moment, the silence broken only by the pop and hiss of the burning logs. Then Colby's mouth curved into a knowing grin, slow and deliberate.

"You know, for someone who hates me so much, you certainly spend a lot of time thinking about me," he drawled, his voice low and rough. He took a step closer, his gaze never leaving Milo's face. "One might even say you're obsessed."

Milo's throat tightened, heat rising in his cheeks despite himself. "Don't flatter yourself, Cassin. You're just another story."

"Is that so?" Colby reached out, his fingers grazing lightly against the sleeve of Milo's tee. The touch was barely there, but it sent a surge of energy through Milo's veins. "Then why does it feel like there's more to it than that?"

Milo gulped, his heart hammering against his ribs. He wanted to step back, to put distance between them, but his feet seemed rooted to the spot. "You're imagining things."

"Am I?" Colby's hand slid down, his fingers weaving with Milo's own. His thumb stroked over the back of Milo's hand, a slow, deliberate caress. "Or are you just afraid to admit what's really going on here?"

Milo's mouth went dry, his thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. He knew he should pull away, should put a stop to this before it went any further. But Colby's touch was doing strange things to his resolve, turning his anger into something far more dangerous.

"Fuck you, Cassin," he breathed, the words quiet even to his own ears.

Colby's grin widened, his eyes darkening with something like triumph. "Maybe later," he murmured, his voice rough with promise. "But first, we should probably figure out how we're going to survive the next few days trapped together in this cabin."

He stepped back, letting his hand fall away from Milo's, and the sudden loss of contact left Milo reeling. He sucked in an unsteady breath, trying to regain his composure, but his thoughts were a jumbled knot.

Colby moved toward the kitchen, his stride casual, as if he hadn't just set Milo's world on fire with a single touch. "I hope you like canned soup and questionable venison," he called over his shoulder, his tone deceptively light. "Because that's about all we've got to work with."

Milo closed his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples as he tried to steady himself. He could still feel the ghost of Colby's touch on his skin, the warmth of it seeping into his bones. He knew he was in trouble, that he was playing with fire, but some part of him couldn't bring himself to care.

"Sounds like a feast," he managed, his voice only slightly strained. He opened his eyes, forcing himself to move toward the kitchen, toward the man who was quickly becoming his most dangerous temptation.

The kitchen was small but well-equipped, all stainless steel and butcher block. Colby moved around it with the ease of someone who knew his way around a meal, pulling cans from the pantry and a heavy skillet from a lower cabinet.