Three days.

We enjoy three days of pure indulgence and bliss with Elle while we’re all snowed in. I think for sure that during that time, Bastian would become his usual self, which is more of a grumpy prick than the contented man Elle saw, but he never does. I take it to mean something. Like it’s a sign that this woman is taming Bastian’s beast.

During the day, the phones start working again. Elle’s landlord phones, apologizing profusely. He promises to have a crew at her place as soon as he can get them out there. They’ll clear the debris and set aside all of her belongings that weren’t completely destroyed. It’s all covered by insurance policies and such. Then he offers her another vacant cabin to stay in. This one’s supposedly more modern. Built more recently.

She turns him down and says she’s made other arrangements. I take it as another good sign for the three of us, and am hopeful her three-day stay turns out to be the entire month that’s left of her writing shut-in here on Mount Charleston.

We had three days.

By day, she taps away on her laptop while Bastian tends to his gardening. I fill my time with stuff around the house. The summer is usually my time to shine. That’s when I have my fill of fly-fishing. So, my winter routine involves keeping the house in order.

And three nights.

By night, we satisfy every one of Elle’s cravings, and she does the same for us, wherever the mood catches us.

In either of our bedrooms.

On the living room sofa.

On top of the kitchen counter.

Under a steaming hot shower.

And somewhere in between, we find time to rest, sleep, and recover for another day.

Until today.

Or maybe it was last night. That was when we heard the clatter and noise of snow plows clearing the roads and dropping salt to prevent accidents. Their appearance signaled the temporary nature of this living arrangement for all of us.

I thought we had more time with her.

At least a few days, maybe a few weeks.

But that was not in the cards.

This morning starts off just like the last few mornings. I’m the first to wake up. I get out of bed and have my hot shower. Then I make breakfast, setting it out on the table before heading to whichever room we fell asleep in after fucking the night before.

Except, today, when I go to Bastian’s room to give them a wake-up call, Bastian’s the only one in his bed.

Elle’s not there.

She’s not in my room.

My chest is tight as I check every possible space, even back in the greenhouse, which she said was her favorite place to be at our cabin—besides sandwiched between us as we fucked her senseless, of course. We put one of the writing tables back there for her just yesterday, so I’m hopeful when I step into the bright space filled with roses of every color set on waist height counters.

But she’s not there either.

I take a stab in the dark that maybe she went out front to stretch her legs in the driveway or look out at all the snow on the trees.

I get there and can’t believe my eyes as I see the empty spot in the driveway where Elle’s truck was parked. That was something else we took care of yesterday, now that I think about it. Bastian and I used Elle’s truck to go back to her cabin for our pickup truck. There were two vehicles in our driveway yesterday. Now there’s just one.

She’s gone?

I can’t get back inside through the front doors fast enough.

“Bastian!” I shout toward the hallway to the bedrooms and grab my winter jacket from the hooks beside the front door.

He must hear the urgency in my voice, because he rushes out of his room and down the hall in a hurry.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“It’s Elle. She’s gone.”

“What? How did… when?”

Yes, he damned well better panic.

“I don’t know. She’s not here.”

“Shit. I think I know where to find her,” Bastian says under his breath but it’s loud enough for me to hear.

“Where?”

He unhooks his jacket and stuffs his feet into his boots. “Back at her cabin. Come on. Let’s get over there before she does something that gets her killed.”

Now, I’m the one following him out the door to our pickup truck. “What makes you so sure she’s not gone? Gone as in down the mountain back to her home in Vegas?”

He doesn’t answer until we climb inside, his hand shoving the keys in the ignition. “This is all my fault.”