She watched the water trace down the glass, thinking of Anna—and of her parents.Different roads, same ending. No wonder Burke carried ghosts. So did she. Maybe that’s why being with him didn’t feel so dangerous.
A sharp crack of thunder split the silence, rattling the Bambi’s thin walls and sending a shiver up her spine. She pressed her palm to the cool window, echoes of storm and memory mingling in the dark.
Chapter 20
Surge
Darcy
Rain hammered the camper, shrinking the world to candlelight and shadows.
Darcy curled her bare toes against the vinyl floor. The soft string lights tucked beneath the cabinets cast a warm amber glow over the tiny space. A single candle flickered on the dinette, sweet wax mixing with the faint scent of rain drifting through the vents. Cozy. Homey.
The knock came hard—sudden, sharp against the door. She jumped. The storm had swallowed every sound outside—no footsteps, nothing but rain. For all she knew, whoever it was had been standing there for minutes, listening. Watching.
She stopped cold. Instinct carried her to the side window; she parted the blinds with two fingertips.
At first, it was only a tall, rain-blurred shape on her stoop—water running off the brim of his cap, jacket plastered to his frame. Then the faint glow from her lights caught the Sheriff’s Department patch at his sleeve.
Safe. It was just him.
Relief left her weak.
She padded barefoot to the door, tugging the hem of her cami as if that might make her look less undone. She felt too bare, too intimate.
But when she opened the door, the look in his eyes said different—like the storm hadn’t touched him. Only she had.
She cracked the door; wind shouldered the rain inside, chilling her skin. He filled the doorway—drenched, blond hair plastered to his forehead, department jacket soaked dark at the shoulders. Water slid down his face, catching on the stubble at his chin. In one hand, he held a bottle of red—casual despite the weather, as if he had all the time in the world.
“Storm this bad, figured a glass of red might make it bearable,” he said, voice steady, gaze lingering—bare legs, sun-warmed shoulders, teal-blue eyes shining in the glow.
“Come in,” she managed.
He ducked under the frame. She swung the door shut, slid the latch, and handed him a dish towel. He shrugged out of the jacket, set it over the towel by the door, and in that small, ordinary motion, the world steadied.
The wind rattled the windows, but inside the quiet thickened—just the candle’s flicker, the low glow of the lights, the two of them close in a space too small to ignore.
She slid into the dinette booth, tucking one leg beneath her. He sat opposite; his knees brushed hers beneath the table. He tried to fold himself small, but his tall frame crowded the curve of the seat. The intimacy of it dried her mouth.
He uncorked the wine and poured, candlelight catching in the glass. His hand brushed hers—rough skin, an electric spark that lingered long after he pulled back.
“Cozy little place,” he said, voice low, as if speaking louder might break the spell.
She sipped. The wine was warm, rich—but nothing compared to the heat gathering in the small space between them.
His knee pressed firmer into hers. He didn’t move away.
Neither did she.
He set his glass down, eyes never leaving hers.
“Darcy,” he murmured, her name rough as gravel. Before she could think, his lips found hers.
His mouth was warm, sure—hungry in a way that stole the air from her lungs. She trembled, and he deepened the kiss, his hand sliding up to cradle her neck. The rough pad of his thumb stroked beneath her ear, urging her closer.
She melted, every nerve sparking alive. His stubble grazed her skin as he angled her head; his kiss deepened—claiming. Her fingers curled in his damp shirt, clutching him like he was the only solid thing in the storm.
His mouth left hers, trailing lower—across her cheek, along the graceful line of her neck. Heat pressed to the tender place beneath her ear. She shivered, tipping her head back; he kissed lower, each press slow and devastating.
