I can handle one night of forced proximity without falling in love with the man who broke my heart. I’m stronger than I was eight years ago. Smarter.
The wind picks up outside, rattling the windows and reminding me that we’re well and truly trapped here. No escape until the storm passes, no reprieve from Ethan.
I close my eyes and try to think of Jamaica. White sand beaches and rum drinks and blessed solitude. But all I can picture is Ethan’s hands as he carefully arranged the kindling, the concentration on his face as he showed Axel how to build something warm and lasting from nothing but old wood and patience.
Footsteps approach the kitchen, and Ethan appears in the doorway. He’s pushed his sleeves up further, and there’s a smudge of soot on his cheek that makes him look younger somehow. More like the man I used to know.
“He’s organizing the woodpile,” Ethan says, answering my unspoken question. “Kid’s got a serious thing about making sure everything’s in its proper place.”
“Reminds me of someone I used to know,” I say without thinking, then immediately regret it. Because that someone is him.
But Ethan just nods, his expression thoughtful. “Yeah. Probably does.”
He moves into the kitchen, close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with wood smoke. My body remembers what it felt like to have him this close when touching was allowed, when the space between us was meant to be eliminated, not maintained.
“Cassidy,” he breathes, and I look up from the pasta I’m stirring.
His eyes are darker than usual, intense. His gaze drops to my lips for a moment before meeting my eyes again, and I remember with devastating clarity how those lips used to feel against mine, how they felt when they trailed down my stomach.
Before I can think better of it, I’m rising on my tiptoes, closing the distance between us. Our lips meet, and it’s like striking a match in a room filled with gasoline. His hands immediately frame my face, and I’m gripping his shirt, pulling him closer as eight years of denial ignite into an inferno.
The kiss explodes between us, a furious release of everything we’ve been holding back. I can taste the heat of his mouth, feel the strength in his hands as they slide to my waist.
The timer on my phone suddenly blares, making both of us jump apart. We stare at each other, breathless and stunned by what just happened.
“I—” I start, but words fail me completely as I fumble to silence the alarm.
Ethan steps back, running a hand through his hair. “I should... set the table,” he says, his voice rougher than before.
“Wash your hands first.”
“Of course,” he agrees, moving to the sink.
We move around each other in the kitchen, avoiding collision. When his arm brushes mine as he reaches for the silverware, I feel it like a current.
“Cassidy, about what just happened—” he starts.
“It was a mistake,” I cut him off, not meeting his eyes as I drain the pasta. Steam rises, clouding the air. “We’re both stressed and trapped here. It doesn’t mean anything.”
His jaw tightens. I see it out of the corner of my eye.
“Right.”
“Food will be ready in five,” I say.
Ethan nods, gathering the mismatched plates and heading toward the small dining table that’s wedged between the kitchen and living room. The fire he and Axel built is crackling nicely now, making the place feel almost cozy.
“Axel,” I call toward the living room. “Dinner’s ready. Go wash your hands.”
He appears immediately, heading to the kitchen sink without argument. At least he’s obedient, I think, watching him scrub his hands thoroughly before drying them on a towel.
We settle around the small table, the silence stretching awkwardly until I serve the pasta. Axel digs in immediately, twirling the spaghetti around his fork and shoving it in his mouth.
“This is really good,” he says between bites, and the appreciation in his voice makes me smile.
“Just basic stuff,” I murmur, but his enthusiasm warms me.
Ethan eats quietly, occasionally glancing between Axel and me. In another life, this could have been our son sitting at our table.
