"It stops fighting you. Becomes smooth. Soft." His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist. "Like this."
I swallow hard. "I think I'm getting the hang of it."
"You're a natural." His voice is lower now, rougher. His other hand settles on my hip, steadying me. Or maybe steadying himself.
We work together in companionable silence, him pointing out details, me following his lead. The carousel horse slowly comes to life under our hands—wood warming, surface smoothing, details emerging from what was rough and unfinished.
"It's beautiful," I whisper, running my palm over the finished mane. "Your dad would love it."
"Thank you,” he says quietly. "I couldn’t have finished it without you."
Something warm blooms in my chest. "What will you do with it?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then he says, "Give it to a kid who needs magic. That's what Dad would've wanted."
I turn in the circle of his arms, and suddenly we're face to face, barely inches apart. His eyes are so blue in the lamplight, full of things I'm not sure either of us is ready to name.
"You're a good man, Beau Lawson."
"You make me want to be." His hand comes up, cupping my cheek. "You make me want a lot of things I thought I'd given up on."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "Like what?"
"Like this." He leans down slowly, giving me time to pull away.
I don't.
His lips are soft against mine. When his tongue traces the seam of my mouth, I open for him, and the kiss turns searching, hungry.Delicious.
His hands slide into my hair, angling my head, and I press closer, needing to feel all of him. He's so warm, so solid, and when he makes a low sound in his throat, heat pools low in my belly.
We break apart breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"Faith," he says, my name rough and wanting. "I need you to know—this isn't just the storm. Or convenience. Or—"
I press my fingers to his lips. "I know."
"You do?"
"Yeah." I smile, feeling it all the way to my toes. "Because I feel it too."
His eyes search mine, looking for doubt, for hesitation. Finding none.
"Stay with me tonight," he says quietly. "Not in the guest room. With me."
My answer is to kiss him again, pouring everything I feel into it—all the want and hope and terrifying possibility that's been building since I knocked on his door.
When we finally break apart, he takes my hand and leads me toward his bedroom, and I follow without hesitation.
Because sometimes you have to trust the storm.
Sometimes you have to believe that getting snowed in wasn't an accident—it was exactly where you needed to be.
Chapter 8
Beau
I'vespentyearskeepingmy distance. Building walls. Keeping people out.
