“Is that what you think?” She sounded genuinely puzzled. “That I’d prefer someone just because they can make small talk?”
He shrugged, uncomfortable with how accurately she’d read his insecurity. “Most people would.”
“I’m not most people.”
No, she wasn’t. She was beautiful, smart, talented, successful. She had her own TV show, for Christ’s sake. And he was... well, he was the ex-con blacksmith with scarred hands who could barely string two sentences together.
“I came here for you,” she said, stepping closer. “Not River. Not anyone else.”
The directness of her statement stole his breath. A splinter pricked his palm, but he barely felt it. He opened his mouth, closed it again, searching for words that wouldn’t come.
“Shit,” she muttered, reaching for his hand. “You’ve got a splinter.”
Before he could pull away, she’d taken his hand in hers, turning it over to examine his palm. The touch sent electricity racing up his arm, his pulse jumping beneath his skin. She didn’t flinch at the scars, didn’t hesitate to touch the damaged tissue that most people pretended not to see.
“Sit down and hold still.” She pushed him down onto a hay bail and reached into her pocket for a Swiss Army knife. She opened the tweezers and moved to stand in front of him. Her hair fell forward to shade her expression as she bent over his hand. He could smell her shampoo, count the freckles across her nose. An adorable crease formed between her eyebrows as she concentrated.
“Almost got it,” she murmured.
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. She knelt between his thighs, and her closeness overwhelmed his senses, making his heart hammer against his ribs so hard he was sure she heard it. The barn’s dusty light caught in her hair, turning the dark strands to burnished copper at the edges.
“There.” She extracted the sliver of wood with a triumphant smile. “That wasn’t so?—”
She lifted her head, and suddenly they were inches apart, her words dying in her throat. Her eyes widened slightly, pupils dilating as they met his. Time stretched, suspended between one heartbeat and the next.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. The curve of her lower lip, the slight part as her breath hitched. Everything in him ached to close that distance. To learn if she tasted as good as she smelled, to feel the softness of her lips against his own chapped ones.
His hand moved without conscious thought, rising to brush a strand of hair from her face, fingertips grazing her cheek with a touch so light he barely felt it. Her pulse jumped visibly at the base of her throat, matching the wild rhythm of his own.
All he had to do was lean forward. Just an inch. Less.
He could close the distance between them. Could press his lips to hers and discover if she tasted like he’d imagined during those long nights staring at her letters. Could find out if whatever this was between them existed beyond words on paper.
Instead, panic seized him, cold and sudden. What the hell was he doing? She was Magnolia Rowe. TV personality. Someone with a career, a life, a future far from Valor Ridge. And he was... this. Scarred. Damaged. A convicted felon who could barely speak in full sentences around her.
He released her abruptly and stood, nearly knocking her over. But he couldn’t worry about that now. He needed to put distance between them.
“Anson?” The confusion in her voice made him wince.
“Should finish the door,” he said stiffly, turning back to the workbench, his heart hammering agains this ribs. “Before Lila needs the stall.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw her shoulders slump slightly. “Right. Wouldn’t want to keep the horse waiting.”
So he worked, and she worked, the door taking shape between them—solid, functional, everything it needed to be.
Unlike whatever this was, whatever they were, which remained as splintered and broken as the door they’d come to replace.
twelve
The forge fire had died to embers hours ago, but Anson couldn’t bring himself to bank it properly and turn in. Sleep wasn’t coming tonight. Not with the memory of Maggie’s face—so close he could count her eyelashes, her pulse visible in the hollow of her throat—burned into his brain. He’d almost kissed her. And then he’d panicked and run like a goddamn coward.
He paced the length of his workshop, the floorboards creaking under his boots. Bramble watched from his bed by the dying coals, amber eyes tracking each agitated lap.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Anson muttered.
The wolfhound huffed, chin still resting on his paws.
Even the kittens seemed to judge him, three tiny heads poking from their box to observe his restless movement. Spark, bold as ever, mewed reproachfully.
