I wanted to believe him. As we drove north into the darkness, leaving behind my home, my business, my carefully constructed life, I desperately wanted to believe that somehow, impossibly, everything would work out.
SIXTEEN
EAMON
I woke to absolute silence.
No traffic humming past on busy streets, no neighbors slamming car doors, no distant sirens wailing. Just pure, crystalline quiet broken only by the soft whisper of wind through pine needles and the distant call of some bird I couldn’t identify. It almost sounded like home.
For a moment, I lay still in the narrow bed, staring up at the log ceiling and enjoying the peace and quiet. I’d actually slept almost six hours—unheard of for me. Apparently, my body had needed it.
I slipped out of bed and padded barefoot to the window, pulling back the simple cotton curtains to get my first real look at our temporary sanctuary in daylight. Christ, it was beautiful. The cabin sat in a small clearing surrounded by towering pines and sugar maples, their leaves a riot of gold and crimson against the deep blue October sky. The Adirondack mountains rose in the distance, their peaks shrouded in morning mist, and the air that drifted through the slightly open window was so clean and sharp it made my lungs ache. It reminded me of home—the wild places in County Cork where I’d grown up, where the air smelled of peat smoke and sea salt and my mother’s herb garden.
The cabin itself was exactly what Gabriel had promised—remote, comfortable, and completely off the grid. Two bedrooms separated by a small hallway, a kitchen that was basic but functional, and a main living area dominated by a massive stone fireplace. The furniture was sturdy and practical, the kind built to last decades rather than follow fashion trends. Thick wool rugs covered the wooden floors, and oil lamps sat ready on every table in case the generator failed.
I could hear Charles moving around in the other bedroom, probably as disoriented as I’d been upon waking. He’d barely slept during the drive, too wired with anxiety and adrenaline to relax. Hopefully, he’d managed to get some sleep as well once he’d been in bed.
By the time he emerged from his room, I’d managed to coax the old coffee maker into producing something that resembled actual coffee and was standing at the kitchen window, watching a family of deer pick their way delicately through the clearing.
“Morning,” Charles said, his voice rough with sleep. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, there were pillow creases on his cheek, and he looked so endearingly rumpled that I had to grip my coffee mug tighter to keep from reaching out to smooth down that wayward lock of hair.
“Morning. Sleep okay?”
He made a noncommittal sound and shuffled toward the coffee maker. “This place is…quiet.”
“Too quiet?”
“I don’t know yet.” He poured himself a cup and took a tentative sip, then made a face. “Okay, that’s terrible coffee.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “Sorry. I’m not exactly a barista.”
“No worries. I can work with it.” He opened a few cabinets, frowning at the sparse contents. “Though we’re going to need supplies if we’re staying here for more than a day or two. Real food, decent coffee, maybe something other than canned beans and stale crackers. And I’ll need flour to feed Wolfgang.”
“We can drive into town and stock up on whatever you need.”
Relief flickered across his expression at the prospect of civilization. “That would be great. I’m not really built for wilderness survival. Which reminds me, where exactly are we?”
“We’re near Keene, not too far from Lake Placid.”
His face lit up with recognition. “I’ve been there once with my parents, ages ago, during the summer. Beautiful area and of course quite well-known.”
“Ah, yes, the famous miracle on ice. Olympic Games of…1980, right?”
Charles snorted. “You’re asking me? Do I look like the type who follows sports?”
I flashed him a grin. “I thought you might’ve made an exception for hockey, seeing as how all those hockey players are built like gods.”
“Mmm, true. I hooked up with an NHL player once, and he was…” Charles kissed his fingers.
“Same. He wasn’t out, obviously, but we had some very satisfying encounters that week.”
“Ooh, do tell.”
“He was very vocal in bed, telling me exactly what he wanted me to do to him. And when I did, he made the most beautiful sounds…”
Charles’s breath hitched, and that tension that always simmered between us flared like a match struck in the dark. The way Charles was looking at me—pupils dilated, lips slightly parted—made the air in the small kitchen feel thick and charged. I could practically feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the faint scent of his soap mixed with something uniquely him that made my mouth water. The casual mention of past hookups should’ve been normal conversation, but instead it hung between us like a challenge, a reminder that we were both experienced men who knew exactly what we wanted.
And the fact that we couldn’t, that it wasn’t allowed, didn’t change that.
