"Thank you for not thinking I'm crazy for having a secret cabin in the wilderness."
I smile. "I think it's smart. Everyone should have a place no one else knows about."
"Do you? Have a place like that?"
"Not anymore. I did in Chicago. A coffee shop on the south side. Nobody from the Bureau knew about it. Just me and whoever made the best espresso in the city." The memory is bittersweet. "I haven't had a place like that since I left."
"You could make this your place," Rhys says quietly. "If you wanted."
I know what he's really offering. I should say something safe. Something that keeps distance between us. But what comes out is, "I'd like that."
He moves closer. Not crowding, but deliberately closing the space. Close enough that I can see the lighter flecks in his eyes. Close enough to smell cedar and smoke and something distinctly him.
"Harlow." My name sounds different in his deep voice. Careful. Like he's testing how it feels to say it.
"Rhys."
His hand lifts, hesitates, then brushes my cheek. Gentle. Questioning. His palm is warm against my skin. Rough. Steady.
I lean into the touch without meaning to. Without thinking. Just responding to the need for connection, for warmth, for someone who understands.
He leans down. Slow enough that I could pull away. Slow enough that this is a choice we're both making.
Our lips meet. Tentative at first. Testing. Then his hand slides into my hair, fingers threading through to cup the back of my head, and mine fist in his shirt, pulling him closer. The kiss deepens. His beard rasps against my skin, rough and real. He tastes like coffee and something darker. His other hand finds my waist, thumb pressing against my hip bone through my shirt. Heat floods through me, three years of his grief and two years of my guilt seeking absolution in each other. I arch into him and he makes a sound low in his throat, hungry and desperate. Nothing about this feels tentative anymore.
Then I feel it. The wedding ring in his pocket. Emma's ring. Pressing against my hip where our bodies meet.
I pull back. Breathing hard. "We can't."
Rhys steps away immediately, hands dropping. "I know."
"It's too fast. Too much."
"I know," he says again. His voice is rough. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry." I touch my lips, still feeling the pressure of his. "Just not yet. Not when we're running on adrenaline and fear and proximity."
He nods. Runs a hand through his hair. "You should take the bedroom. I'll be out here if you need anything."
I need the space as much as he probably does. At the bedroom door, I pause. Look back.
Rhys stands by the wood stove, backlit by firelight, looking every inch the mountain man who built this refuge with his bare hands. But his eyes are all sheriff. All protector. All the man I'm starting to want despite every reason I shouldn't.
"Goodnight, Rhys."
"Goodnight, Harlow."
I close the door between us. Lean against it. Press my fingers to my mouth where I can still feel him.
Through the bedroom window, snow falls so thick I can't see the tree line. We could be the only two people left in the world out here.
The thought should terrify me.
It doesn't.
7
RHYS
