The plan was simple: get a boring corporate job, wear beige, and become the kind of respectable, emotionally stable person my ex-husband could point to as proof I'd finally "grown up." I lasted three weeks. Then I saw the ad: "Live-in companion wanted. Remote mountain cabin. Must tolerate solitude and a disagreeable employer. Generous compensation."
I showed up for the interview in my only blazer, which still smelled faintly of tequila from the "I'm finally free" party I'd thrown for myself. The "disagreeable employer" turned out to be Eli Blackwood, a writer so famously reclusive and rude that Wikipedia has a dedicated section titled "Controversies and Personal Feuds." He looked at my resume, then at my face, and said, "Your last job was 'Social Media Vibes Coordinator.' Is that a real thing, or did you just get paid to be chronically online?"

I got the job. Obviously. Because when your life is a sinking ship, you might as well steer it straight into an iceberg named Eli.

Now I'm snowed into a too-quiet cabin with a man who communicates mostly in grunts and glares. He writes bestselling thrillers about serial killers. I heat up frozen lasagna and try not to cry over my life choices. He thinks I'm a frivolous millennial disaster. I think he's a pretentious hermit with a god complex. We're both right.

The only thing we agree on is the bone-deep, inconvenient, screamingly obvious physical attraction buzzing between us. The kind that makes you forget you hate someone's personality while you're staring at their hands. It's a terrible idea. It's the only idea I've got left.

This is not a romance. It's a cautionary tale. With kissing. And probably some regret. Definitely some regret.