She looks happy. Actually happy.
"Cade Marshall, as I live and breathe."
I turn to find Sheriff Tom Parker approaching with his wife Kelsie. Tom's in civilian clothes for once, his arm around Kelsie's waist.
"Sheriff. Kelsie." I nod to both of them. "This is Natalie. She's staying with me for a while."
Tom's sharp eyes take in her healing bruises, the way she steps slightly behind me. He's too smart not to read the situation.
"Pleasure to meet you, Natalie." His voice is gentle. "You need anything while you're in Whisper Vale, you come see me. My door's always open."
"Thank you." Natalie's voice is small but steady.
"We should have coffee sometime," Kelsie adds. "I run the B&B in town. Lots of women pass through who've had hard times. I've got a good listening ear if you ever need one."
"I'd like that," Natalie says. "Thank you."
We chat for a few more minutes before Tom and Kelsie move on. Natalie is quiet as we finish our shopping.
"Everyone here is so nice," she finally says as we load bags into the truck.
"Small town."
"It's not just that." She leans against the passenger door, looking at me over the truck bed. "They're nice to me specifically. Like they know something's wrong and they're trying to help without making me feel broken."
"That's because they do know." I close the tailgate and walk around to her side. "Tom's a smart cop. He saw your bruises and put it together. And Whisper Vale protects its own."
"I'm not one of their own. I'm a stranger who showed up a week ago."
"You're with me." I cup her face in my hands, tilting it up so she has to meet my eyes. "That makes you one of us. For as long as you want to be."
Her hands come up to grip my wrists. She rises on her toes and kisses me.
It's different from last night. Last night was questions and testing. This kiss is an answer. A declaration.
She pulls back and rests her forehead against my chin. "Take me home, Cade."
Home. Not back to your cabin. Not to your place.
Home.
I help her into the truck without another word.
The driveback feels longer than usual. Charged. Her hand rests on my thigh, warm through my jeans, and I'm hyperawareof every shift of her fingers. The silence between us isn't uncomfortable. It's anticipation.
We barely make it through the front door.
I set the grocery bags on the counter and turn to find her right behind me. She grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me down, and this kiss has none of the gentleness of the others.
This kiss is hunger.
I back her against the kitchen wall, my hands finding her hips, her waist, the curve of her ribs through her shirt. She gasps into my mouth and arches against me.
"I need you," she breathes against my lips. "Now."
I lift her. She wraps her legs around my waist, and I carry her down the hall without breaking the kiss. We fall onto the bed together, her beneath me, her hands already yanking at my shirt.
I let her pull it off. Let her run her hands over my chest and stomach, tracing scars she doesn't ask about. When she finds the raised line across my ribs from the shrapnel that ended my military career, she leans up and presses her lips to it.
