Fuck me. “And she wants you to write about it?”
“She thinks it would make the perfect companion piece to the one on vacation rentals. ‘Grit meets gossip’—that’s how she pitched it.” Joely gave a tight laugh. “She said if I can track down the guys on that list, I can give them a chance to tell their side of things.”
“Are you going to do it?” My voice was calm. Too calm.
“I don’t know. I told her I’d think about it. I don’t love the idea of airing people’s dirty laundry, but…” She rubbed the back of her neck. “I came here to write something meaningful. If I could find the truth behind it and show some heart—maybe there’s a bigger story worth telling.”
I nodded slowly, my heart jumping around the inside of my chest like an out-of-control jackhammer. “So, you’re hunting down mountain men now?”
Joely smiled faintly. “Guess so.”
She didn’t realize how close she already was.
And I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the one to tell her.
CHAPTER 8
JOELY
The rain had eased into a steady drizzle by the time we finished eating. A soft hush clung to the cabin, broken only by the occasional hiss of the woodstove or the clink of a fork against ceramic. I sat cross-legged in one of the kitchen chairs, trying not to over analyze Thatcher’s silence.
The time we’d spend together had been… more than I expected. And I wasn’t just talking about the sex.
It was the way he’d looked at me—like I wasn’t just some woman passing through town. The way his touch had gone from demanding to reverent. The way I’d felt safe, stripped bare, and seen.
But now?
He was quiet. Way too quiet.
He cleared the plates with methodical precision. No teasing. No smirk. Just rinsing and stacking like the fate of the world depended on a spotless kitchen.
“I wasn’t planning to tell you about the article,” I said, hoping to pop the bubble of weirdness forming between us. “But I didn’t want to lie either.”
He didn’t look up. “You didn’t lie.”
“My editor just thought about adding The Ex-List angle yesterday,” I said. “And it’s not even the focus, just a sidebar.”
Still no reaction. His back remained turned as he dried his hands on a towel.
“You’re mad.”
“No.” He finally turned around. “I’m not mad.”
“But something’s wrong.”
He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, eyes unreadable. “It’s fine. It’s just… complicated.”
A tightness settled in my chest. “Do you think I’m going to write something that hurts people?”
“No.” He exhaled slowly. “I think you’re going to do your job. And that’s your right.”
Oof. That landed like a slap. He’d turned as cold as the creek. Like I was suddenly nothing more than a hack with a notebook and a deadline. “It’s not like I want to write fluff pieces about vacation rentals and relationships gone wrong.”
“Then why are you?”
“Because that’s the only kind of work left for journalists who are forced out of their jobs for trying to do the right thing.”
Thatcher’s eyes softened. “Is that what happened to you?”
