I dump cocoa mix into the mugs with slightly shaking hands, pour hot water, and stir like my life depends on it.
Behind me, Beau speaks. “You live in Charleston?”
I turn, surprised. “Yeah.”
“Why Timber Creek?”
There’s no judgment in his tone. Just curiosity.
I wrap my fingers around my mug. “Because I needed… quiet.”
His eyes hold mine, and I swear he can see straight through the parts of me I’ve been taping together.
“Quiet from what?” he asks.
I swallow.
I could say a million things. Work. Stress. My ex. The feeling that I’m always performing a version of myself that’s easier for other people to digest.
Instead, I shrug lightly. “Life.”
Beau’s jaw tightens like he understands that answer more than he wants to.
He takes a sip of cocoa, and his expression flickers—barely—but it’s like he’s surprised it’s good.
“See?” I say, relieved to have something easy. “I can provide nourishment.”
“Congratulations,” he deadpans.
I grin. “Thank you.”
He glances around the cabin again, eyes pausing on the bookshelf, the throw blanket, the romance novel on the coffee table.
His mouth twitches. “You read those?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” he repeats.
I lift my chin. “Don’t act like you don’t read.”
“I don’t.”
“Lies.”
His gaze drifts back to mine, and the air between us shifts. It’s subtle, but I feel it—like the joking is a bridge and we’re both standing at the edge of something deeper.
“What do you do, Mila?” he asks.
I blink. “Like… for work?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m a copywriter.” I make a face. “Which sounds cooler than it is. Mostly I convince people to buy things they don’t need.”
His eyes narrow faintly. “You like it?”
“No,” I say instantly. Then I wince. “I mean. It pays my bills. But I don’t love it.”
