“That, yes.”
She smiled like she knew exactly how rattled I was. “I’m an art teacher. Young kids. Paint, clay, glitter, chaos. It’s loud.”
I nodded. “That explains the mess of garland in my kitchen.”
“You’re welcome,” she said lightly. Then, softer: “And you? What brings you to a cabin in the woods besides self-loathing?”
“I told you. Work.”
“Mm.” Her eyes slid over me, deliberate. “You could’ve worked anywhere, though. Why here?”
Because I wanted quiet. Because quiet used to help me think. Because I was tired of being the man who once wrote something people cared about.
Instead I said, “Cheaper than therapy.”
She laughed brightly and sudden. “Maybe I should try that. I’m already halfway there — unwashed hair, emotional baggage, questionable life choices.”
“Charming resume.”
“Don’t mock,” she said, pointing her fork at me. “You picked the same hiding place I did.”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
She leaned in a little, chin propped on her hand. “Are you always this grumpy in the morning, Silas?”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“You’re practically brooding into your eggs.”
“I prefer the termthoughtful.”
Her lips curved. “Right. Thoughtful. That’s what we’re calling it.”
I took a slow sip of coffee, letting the heat steady me. “You’re relentless, Colette.”
“I know,” she said, and for a heartbeat, the teasing dropped away. Something flickered in her eyes—satisfaction, maybe, or just relief. Then she grinned again. “And I think you like it.”
CHAPTER 8
Colette
I likedthe way he froze when I said it — just for a second, eyes flicking up from his coffee like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right.
“I think you like it,” I said again, slower this time, because I wanted to see what he’d do with the words.
He didn’t look away. Not this time. Just breathed out once, steady, an exhale that made me think he was counting to ten behind those serious eyes.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” he said finally.
“Confidence looks good on people,” I said, stealing a bite from his plate. “You should try it sometime.”
He blinked, and I smiled around the fork. I was having too much fun. It wasn’t even about flirting — not really. It was about watching someone who seemed unshakableactually waver.
Overme.
“Careful,” he said, trying to seem stern — or maybe unbothered? He was neither. “You don’t know what you’re playing at.”
“Oh, I do.” I leaned forward a little, elbows on the table. “You get treated like you’re fragile, don’t you? Everyone tiptoes around you.Famous author, tragic past, needs quiet.”
