"Family business, huh?" I take a sip of the cocoa—it's rich and dark with a hint of cinnamon. Definitely not from a packet. "Do you like it?"
"It's what I do." A pause. "What about you? What brings a city girl to Silver Ridge?"
"How do you know I'm from the city?"
"Your boots. Your raincoat. The way you got lost in a straight-line hike."
"Guilty." I laugh. "I'm a florist from Vancouver. I came looking for unique wood pieces to incorporate into my arrangements."
His eyebrows rise slightly. "A florist who uses wood?"
"I create unconventional pieces. Things that tell stories, not just..." I wave my hand, trying to explain, "pretty decorations that die in a week."
"Hmm." He nods, and somehow that simple sound feels like approval.
Another silence falls, but it's comfortable. I should feel uncomfortable sitting here with this taciturn stranger, but oddly, I don't. I find myself studying him when he looks into the fire. The strong line of his jaw beneath the salt-and-pepper beard. The tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes. The wayhis massive, calloused, capable-looking hands cradle his mug almost delicately.
He catches me staring, and our eyes lock. My breath catches in my throat.
"Storm's not letting up," he says, his voice lower, rougher. "Roads will be washed out by now."
I look away, suddenly very interested in my hot chocolate. "So I'm stuck here?" The thought of trapped in a remote cabin with a strange man should terrify me, but instead, I feel a flutter of excitement.
"Just for tonight." He stands abruptly. "I'll take the couch."
"Oh! No, I couldn't put you out of your bed."
"It's not up for discussion," he cuts in, but gently.
I nod, not trusting my voice. There's something about the way he says things—like each word costs him something, so he only uses the ones that matter.
Outside, thunder crashes, startlingly close. I jump, sloshing hot chocolate onto my hand.
"Here." Before I can react, he's kneeling in front of me, taking the mug and setting it aside. His hand engulfs mine as he examines it. "Not burnt?"
"N-no." My voice sounds strange to my own ears.
His thumb moves once, twice across my palm. His touch so light it might be accidental. But the look on his face tells me it's anything but.
In all my dating history, I've never felt this level of awareness, this electric charge from mere proximity. It's terrifying. Exhilarating.
"I should..." He clears his throat, releases my hand, and rises to his feet. "Get some sleep. Long day tomorrow."
As he turns away, I wonder if he feels this inexplicable connection between us the way I do.
four
Thorne
Ibarelysleep.Thecouch isn't the problem—I've slept on harder surfaces in the woods. It's knowing she's in my bed, wrapped in my sheets, her scent mingling with mine. The thought torments me throughout the night. Thankfully, dawn breaks clear and bright.
I'm at the stove making coffee when I hear her stirring in the bedroom. My body tenses in anticipation.
She emerges wearing my clothes, hair tousled from sleep, eyes soft and unfocused. Something primal roars to life inside me.Mine.The thought pounds through my veins with each heartbeat.
"Morning," she says, stifling a yawn. "Is that coffee? The hot chocolate was great, but this girl needs caffeine in the morning.”
I nod, pouring her a mug. Our fingers brush when I hand it to her. Even that brief contact sends heat surging through me. I turn away, gripping the counter edge until my knuckles go white.
