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A knock at the window made him jump. A figure stood outside, the hoodie and snow combining to obscure any features. Tristan cracked his window, shivering at the gust of cold wind that entered.
“Come on,” the voice was male, low and much warmer than the weather. “You don't want to stay in here all day.”
Tristan considered the options for a few seconds and decided that the possibility of a serial killer was slim. Then again, at the moment, he may have preferred a mass murderer to a business retreat.
“Thank you,” he said. Tristan grabbed his bag, locked his car and followed the mysterious stranger across the road and what he assumed was a driveway. Before he'd gotten two yards, his feet were soaked, as were his khakis to mid-shin. The stranger was a few feet ahead, a shadowy figure of undetermined age and unknown features. They were almost right on top of the house before Tristan was even aware it was there. He couldn't make out more than just the impression of something small and cozy, and then he was following the stranger inside.
In the same vein as the other homes scattered along this particular road, it was more comparable to a cabin than a house. The front door led into a medium-sized room with one small hallway that most likely led to a bathroom and single bedroom. The main room had kitchen essentials along the near wall, a fireplace at the far end and furniture in the middle. A simple table and plain wooden chairs were off-center, and a ratty couch sat in front of the fireplace. A large forest green rug covered most of the wooden floor.
“You're lucky you ended up in front of my house,” the young man stepped out of his boots. “Another half mile and I wouldn't have seen you, and the next house is ten miles away.” He pulled off his hoodie, sending a snow shower to the floor.
Tristan stared. His stranger was a couple years younger than himself, and a few inches taller. The shirt under the hoodie revealed a lean, sculpted torso that immediately garnered a second look. The stranger's hair was a rich dark brown, tousled in that way that only some guys could pull off. And this one definitely could. The eyes that turned towards him were a startlingly bright blue.
“I'm Bryce Stanton,” the smile that curved his sensuous lips was blinding.
“Tristan Perry,” Tristan shook his head, letting the snow fly. Suddenly, he realized that he knew the name. “Wait, you're not the Bryce Stanton are you? The writer?”
Bryce ducked his head, a little boy 'aw shucks' look on his handsome face. “That's me.”
Tristan stared, cold, wet clothes forgotten. After his break-up, it had been the Bryce Stanton best seller that had helped him cope.
“Tristan?”