“Oh, no. Did I break you?” The satisfaction in her smile was so bright it might as well have been its own sunrise.
“I’m good,” he promised, voice still wrecked from what she’d just done to him. “Better than good.”
He moved to shift his weight off her, but she tightened her arms and legs around him.
“Stay,” she whispered. “Just a little longer.”
Damn. Guilt stabbed through him, dampening the afterglow. She thought he was going to leave, run away to the forge again, and leave her alone.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, his voice rough with emotion. “Not tonight. Not ever again.”
She relaxed beneath him, and he carefully shifted his weight to the side, keeping one leg tangled with hers and his arm slung across her waist. Gold paint smeared between them, marking them both now. He’d never seen anything so beautiful as Maggie in this moment—flushed and satisfied, her skin gleaming with sweat and paint, her hair a wild tangle around her face.
“You’re staring,” she murmured, her lips curving into a sleepy smile.
“Can’t help it.” He traced a finger along her collarbone, following a streak of gold. “You’re something else, Magnolia Rowe.”
“So are you.” She turned toward him, her hand coming up to cup his face. Her thumb brushed over his beard, leaving another golden smudge. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”
A lump rose in his throat, riding a strange mix of joy and regret. “You deserved it sooner.”
“No.” She leaned in to brush a feather-light kiss against his lips. “This happened exactly when it needed to. Not a moment before.”
He pulled her closer, his body already stirring again despite the bone-deep satisfaction still humming through his veins. Outside, snow began to fall, tiny flakes catching the moonlight as they drifted past the window. The cabin felt suspended in time, a perfect moment he wished he could stretch into infinity.
thirty-five
Maggie opened her eyes to golden light. Not the sun, she realized after a groggy beat, but the shimmer of dried paint across Anson’s chest as he breathed beside her. She traced a finger along one gilded scar, following the path she’d painted hours before. The gold flaked under her touch, leaving glittering dust on her fingertip.
Outside, the world was still dark, the pre-dawn hours silent except for the occasional pop from the dying embers in the woodstove. Anson slept deeply beside her, one arm thrown above his head, the other curved protectively around her waist even in sleep. His face looked younger without the constant vigilance, without the careful guard he maintained during waking hours.
She studied him in the dim light—this scarred, beautiful man who’d finally let her in. His beard needed trimming, and his hair fell across his forehead in a way that made her want to push it back, to touch him just because she could. Gold paint streaked his neck, his shoulders, making constellations of the burn scars she’d traced with reverent fingers.
Last night she’d painted him to show him his worth, to make him see what she saw—a man transformed by fire, not ruined byit. But the truth was, he’d done the same for her. He’d made her feel whole again when she hadn’t even realized she had a piece missing.
In her last letter to him, before she came to Montana, she’d written about needing gold joinery herself. About how everything she’d built was cracking beneath the pressure. The fame that had once felt like validation now felt like a cage. The carefully constructed life she’d created was hollow, echoing with Landry’s threats and network demands. Her fancy condo in Tampa with its perfect staging and camera-ready décor had never felt like home.
She’d come to Valor Ridge running. From Landry, yes, but also from the life she’d outgrown. She’d come broken, cracked in places that didn’t show on camera. But here, in this cabin, in this man’s arms, she’d found the gold to fill those cracks.
Here, she’d found purpose beyond ratings and views—in the women at Haven House whose faces lit up when they built something with their own hands, in the community that had folded her into its protective embrace without question. In Anson, who looked at her like she was something precious, who held her like she might disappear.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with an incoming call. HDN again, no doubt. She glanced at the time—5:47 a.m. Too early for a network call, especially on a holiday. They must be desperate.
The buzzing continued, insistent. She carefully extracted herself from Anson’s embrace and slipped from the bed, grabbing the phone before it could wake him. Naked, she padded to the bathroom and closed the door before answering.
“This is Maggie.”
“Magnolia.” Jim Harris’s voice crackled through the speaker, tight with forced cheerfulness. “I was hoping to catch you. Weneed to talk about your return. The board met yesterday, and we’re prepared to sweeten the deal even further.”
“Jim, it’s not even six in the morning on Christmas.”
“Oh.” He paused, clearly having forgotten the time difference. “My apologies. I’ve been up all night in meetings. Look, let me cut to the chase. We need you back by January 3rd. Non-negotiable. The sponsors are pushing, and we’ve already committed to air dates.”
She leaned against the bathroom door. The wood was cold against her bare skin, raising goosebumps, and she wished like hell she’d never answered this call and was still warm and cozy in Anson’s arms.
“I can’t be there by the third.”
“Magnolia, I understand you’ve been through something traumatic with this stalker situation, but?—”
