Oh, God.
Something in my chest drops, rearranges itself, and settles with frightening clarity.
This man is going to matter.
That night, wrapped in the quilt on the couch, I listen to the fire crackling. Maisie’s soft breathing comes from the blanket next to me, and the faint hum of the refrigerator fills the quiet.
Normal sounds. Safe ones.
But sleep won’t come.
Not because I’m afraid.
But because I’m afraidnotto be.
Safety is a sensation I don’t recognize yet.
Kindness even more so.
And this quiet? This steady presence of a man who kisses like a promise and holds me like I matter? It’s almost unbearable.
I shift onto my side and let my hand brush the edge of the couch where he sat earlier, warm and solid next to me. His presence still lingers there, like warmth that hasn’t cooled yet.
And I wonder… if I got up, padded down that hallway, would he still be awake?
Would he pull me into bed and wrap himself around me?
Would he kiss me? Make love to me?
The wanting hits me hard enough that I have to squeeze my eyes shut.
I close my eyes. Exhale. Not yet. I’m not ready.
But the ache he’s put inside me isn’t going anywhere. It’s curling deeper with every minute. It’s not just lust. I know that. Lust is wild and frantic. Lust is what I’ve seen in the eyes of men who stared too long, spoke too close, and touched without asking.
This is different. This is wanting threaded with wonder.
And it terrifies and excites me in equal measure.
A flicker of panic rises when I wake the next morning. My eyes fly open, heart racing, breath tight, before the room snaps back into focus.
The fireplace. The heavy timber beams overhead. The braided rug. Maisie stretched across my feet like a living heater.
I’m safe. I’m in Wyatt’s cabin.
I sit up slowly. My hair is a tangle. My cheeks are warm. My body aches in that gentle way that comes fromrealrest.
Getting up quietly, I head to the bathroom to freshen up and dress, then follow the scent of bacon and toast back to the living room.
“I hope you like your eggs scrambled,” Wyatt says as I enter the kitchen, turning toward me with a spatula in one hand.
I nod. “I like anything I don’t have to cook myself.”
That earns me a half-smile. Rare. Lethal. And God, he’s handsome, with those little crinkles beside his storm-gray eyes.
“Then you’re in luck.” He slides eggs and bacon onto a plate and sets it on the counter for me. Reaching into the cupboard, he grabs a mug and fills it with strong tea, adds milk and two sugars, just the way I like it, and hands it to me.
We eat in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable.
