Becca awakened to see snow falling beyond her window, the thick flakes blanketing everything around the cozy cabin where she was finishing her latest romance manuscript, the deadline fast approaching. She doesn’t know why today is different, but the creative block she’d been experiencing for nearly two weeks remained in the dream world.

Words poured from her fingertips to the keyboard like the snowflakes outside—gentle, steady, inevitable. Becca stretched her arms above her head, relishing the pleasant ache in her shoulders from hours of typing. The characters who had stubbornly refused to speak to her for fourteen torturous days were now practically shouting their desires, fears, and secrets.

She padded to the kitchenette, bare feet against the cold wooden floor, and put the kettle on. While waiting for the water to boil, she pressed her forehead against the frosted window. Snow transformed the world outside—covering pine trees heavily with white, burying the dirt road, and making her grateful she didn’t have to shovel out her car. She relished the isolation.

Perfect.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. Marissa, her editor.

-Please tell me you’ve made progress.-

Becca smiled as she typed her response.

-Thirty pages since dawn. The dam broke.-

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared.

-Thank goodness. What changed?-

Becca considered this as she poured hot water over a tea bag. What had changed? Last night she’d fallen asleep frustrated, the manuscript still stuck at the same scene—her heroine refusing to confess her feelings to the brooding artist who clearly adored her. This morning, she’d awakened knowing exactly why: the confession needed to happen during a snowstorm, when they were trapped together, nowhere to run, no distractions. Just like she was now, snowed in at this remote cabin.

Art imitating life.

Becca carried her steaming mug back to the desk and settled into her chair. Outside, the snow continued its relentless descent. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for just a moment before resuming their dance.

She wrote, visualizing the heroine of her story clearly in her mind: “You can’t keep running,” Jessa said, her voice barely audible above the howling wind.

Excerpt © Autumn Cotter. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the publisher’s prior written permission, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.