A CEO Rented a Cabin to Escape the Media—The Local Single Dad Who Fixed the Fireplace Kept Her Warm
The Escape to Hollow Pine
Francesca Blake slammed the car door shut, her breath coming in short, frustrated bursts. She gazed up at the rustic cabin in the middle of nowhere.
The cold mountain air bit at her cheeks, but she welcomed it. Anything was better than the suffocating heat of flashing cameras and relentless questions back in New York.
She yanked her coat tighter around her body and grabbed her suitcase from the trunk. A week—that’s all she needed. Just one week to let the media frenzy die down before she returned to clean up the mess her ex-business partner had made.
The betrayal still burned, but she refused to be seen as weak. Francesca Blake was the CEO of one of the most powerful fashion empires in the country. She didn’t run from anything, except apparently from the press.
She stomped up the cabin steps and unlocked the door. The inside was cozy, with wooden beams, a stone fireplace, and furniture that looked like it had been there for decades. It wasn’t her usual five-star suite, but she didn’t care. She needed quiet.,
Francesca set her suitcase down and shivered. The cold seeped into her bones, and the fireplace sat dark and lifeless. She frowned and flipped the switch on the thermostat. Nothing.
“Perfect,” she muttered with a frustrated sigh.
She grabbed the rental agreement and scanned the emergency contact list. She found a name: Callum Hayes, local handyman. She dialed the number.
After three rings, a deep, rugged voice answered. “Yeah?”
“This is Francesca Blake. I rented the cabin on Hollow Pine Road. The fireplace isn’t working, and it’s freezing in here.”
There was a pause before the man sighed. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
She hung up and rubbed her arms, pacing the small living room. The last thing she needed was to deal with some gruff, small-town repairman, but she had no choice.
Fifteen minutes later, a knock sounded at the door. She yanked it open, ready to demand why he was late, but the words caught in her throat.
The man standing before her looked like he belonged on the cover of an outdoorsman magazine. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with messy dark blonde hair and piercing green eyes.,
His flannel shirt stretched over his muscular arms, and there were faint smudges of soot on his hands.
“Callum Hayes,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You got a fireplace problem?”
Francesca blinked, forcing herself to regain composure. “Yes. It won’t turn on, and the thermostat isn’t working either.”
He stepped inside, his presence making the cabin feel even smaller. The scent of pine and firewood clung to him as he crossed the room and crouched by the fireplace.
“Pilot light’s out,” he muttered, grabbing a few tools from the bag slung over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t take long.”
She folded her arms, watching as he worked. “Are you the only handyman in town?”
He chuckled, the sound deep and rich. “Pretty much. Small town.”
She nodded, unsure what else to say. He didn’t seem impressed by her presence, which was a first. Most men either fawned over her or recoiled at the idea of a powerful woman. Callum did neither.
A few minutes later, the fireplace roared to life, bathing the room in a warm, flickering glow. Callum stood and wiped his hands on a rag.,
“Should be good now.”
Francesca held her hands out toward the fire, sighing in relief. “Thank you.”
He nodded, but instead of leaving, he glanced around the cabin. “You here alone?”
She arched a brow. “Why?”
“Storm’s coming,” he said simply. “If the power goes out, you’ll need more than just the fireplace. You got extra blankets? Flashlights?”
Francesca hesitated. She hadn’t exactly packed for survival. Luxury coats and designer gloves, yes. Emergency supplies, not so much.
Callum sighed, clearly reading her expression. “I’ll bring some over later, just in case.”
Before she could argue, he was already heading for the door.
“Wait,” she called.
He turned, one brow raised. She hesitated, then cleared her throat.
“I appreciate it.”
His lips twitched, almost like he wanted to smile. “See you later, Francesca.”
Then he was gone, leaving her standing in the warm glow of the fire, wondering why her heart was beating just a little too fast.
Francesca had spent her life in control. Every detail of her day was meticulously planned, every decision carefully calculated.,
But as she stood in the cabin’s small kitchen staring out at the thick snowflakes swirling beyond the window, she felt completely at the mercy of forces she couldn’t command.
The storm had come faster than expected, blanketing the landscape in an unforgiving layer of white. She tightened the belt of her cashmere robe and turned away from the window.
The fire crackled steadily in the hearth, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. The power had flickered once, but so far it held. Still, the silence pressed in on her.
In the city, she was surrounded by the hum of life—cars, conversation, the ever-present rhythm of New York. Here, the quiet was almost deafening.
A sharp knock at the door startled her. She hesitated before pulling it open, revealing Callum standing on the porch, a bundle of blankets in his arms.
Snow clung to his shoulders, his boots leaving deep imprints in the fresh powder.
“Brought these in case you need them,” he said, stepping inside without waiting for permission.,
Francesca watched as he set the blankets on the couch, then unzipped his coat and shook the snow from his collar. His presence filled the space effortlessly, his movements efficient and unbothered.
“You didn’t have to come all this way,” she said, crossing her arms.
He glanced at her, unreadable. “Storm’s worse than I thought. Roads are already bad. If the power goes out, you’ll need more than just the fireplace.”
She exhaled slowly. She didn’t like feeling helpless, and she certainly didn’t enjoy the idea of relying on a man she barely knew. But Callum wasn’t hovering.
He wasn’t offering help for the sake of it; he was just doing what needed to be done. She gestured toward the couch.
“I appreciate it.”
He nodded, but instead of heading for the door, he studied her for a beat. “You look restless.”
She blinked. “I’m not used to doing nothing.”
“Figured.” He moved to the fireplace, adjusting the logs. “You’re the type that always has to be working.”
Her jaw tightened. “And what type are you?”,
He didn’t answer immediately. “The kind that knows when to step back.”
Francesca wasn’t sure if that was a dig at her or just a simple truth. Either way, it unsettled her. She leaned against the counter, watching him.
“You don’t ask a lot of questions.”
“I don’t need to.”
That should have been frustrating, but instead she found herself intrigued. Most people pried, especially when they recognized her name. But Callum didn’t seem interested in her wealth or her scandal.
He straightened, brushing his hands together. “You eaten yet?”
The question caught her off guard. She had been so caught up in escaping the media storm she hadn’t thought much about food.
“No, not yet,” she admitted.
Callum pulled off his gloves and set them on the table. “I’ve got stew back at my place. Plenty to share.”
She hesitated. “I’m not in the habit of accepting dinner invitations from strangers.”
A flicker of something—amusement maybe—passed through his eyes. “Not an invitation. Just an offer. You can stay here and eat whatever you brought, or you can have something warm.”,
The choice was clear. She hadn’t packed much in terms of groceries, and the thought of another protein bar made her stomach turn.
“Fine,” she said, grabbing her coat. “But I’m driving myself.”
Callum didn’t argue, just pulled his own coat back on and stepped outside. The drive to his place was only a few minutes, but the snow made it treacherous.
By the time she pulled into his driveway, her knuckles were tight around the wheel. His house was modest, a sturdy two-story place with smoke curling from the chimney.
Warm lights spilled from the windows, making the snow outside seem even colder. Inside, the scent of something rich and savory greeted her.
The space was simple but lived-in: worn leather furniture, shelves lined with books, and a few framed photos on the mantle. It was a stark contrast to the sleek, curated perfection of her Manhattan penthouse.
He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two bowls of steaming stew. Francesca accepted hers cautiously, unsure of the last time someone had cooked for her.,
They ate in silence at first, the only sound the occasional clink of a spoon against the bowl.
“You always live out here?” she asked eventually.
“Moved back a few years ago.”
She waited for more, but he didn’t elaborate. Instead, he asked, “You always run when things get messy?”
The question made her stiffen. “I didn’t run.”
His gaze was steady. “You’re here.”
She set her spoon down, irritation flaring. “I needed space.”
“Fair enough.” He leaned back in his chair, studying her. “But space won’t fix what’s broken.”
The words hit harder than she wanted to admit. She stood, pushing her chair back. “Thank you for dinner.”
Callum didn’t try to stop her. He simply nodded. “Drive safe.”
She left feeling more unsettled than when she arrived because, for the first time in a long time, someone had seen right through her.
By the time Francesca pulled back into the cabin’s driveway, the snowfall had thickened into a relentless white curtain. The headlights of her car barely cut through the flurry.
The wind howled against the trees, shaking their snow-laden branches. She stepped out cautiously, her boots sinking deep into the fresh powder.,
The storm had escalated. She made it inside just as another powerful gust rattled the windows. Locking the door behind her, she exhaled slowly, rubbing her hands together for warmth.
Even though the fire still burned steadily, her mind wasn’t on the cold. It was on Callum.
More specifically, on the way he had looked at her—not with awe or judgment, but with something more piercing. Something that made her feel exposed despite all the carefully built defenses she had spent years perfecting.
She didn’t like it. Francesca wasn’t used to being read so easily, let alone by a man who seemed to have no interest in her power, her wealth, or the scandal she was currently buried under.
He was unreadable, and that unsettled her more than she cared to admit. Determined to shake him from her thoughts, she grabbed the nearest blanket and curled up on the couch, forcing herself to focus on the fire’s flickering glow.,
