"Ready?" His voice makes me jump. He's in the doorway, keys in hand, trying so hard to look like this is just another morning.
"Almost." I gather my laptop, trying not to think about how empty this spot will look without it. "Just need to grab my—"
"Harper."
Something in his voice makes me stop. When I turn, he's looking at me with an intensity that steals my breath.
"This time with you..." He runs a hand through his hair, struggling with words in that way that makes my heart ache. "It wasn't just..."
"I know," I say softly. Because I do. Whatever this is between us, it's not simple. It's not just two people thrown together by circumstance and attraction. It's something more. Something that feels terrifyingly like a beginning.
He nods, jaw tight. "Good."
And that's it. That's all we say. Because we're both cowards, apparently.
I finish packing in silence, trying not to notice how my things have migrated throughout his house over the past two weeks. My favorite mug in his cabinet. My throw blanket on his couch. My heart, apparently, scattered in pieces everywhere I look.
Boris hisses when I walk past, which is new. Usually, he saves his disdain for mornings.
"I think he's mad at me," I say, attempting a smile.
Dean glances at the coffee maker. "He's not the only one."
Before I can process that, he's grabbing my bags and heading for the door. I follow him out into the cold morning air, where his truck idles in the driveway, breath-like puffs of exhaust rising in the winter light.
The forest around us is quiet, dusted with the remains of yesterday's snow. I’ve grown accustomed to watchingthe sunrise paint these trees gold. To listening to woodpeckers and chickadees from his porch, pretending to write while actually watching him work in his shop.
"You can put the address in the GPS," he says, stowing my bags in the back.
I nod, even though we both know I don't need to. He knows exactly where my apartment is – he's the one who recommended the contractor for the bookstore renovations, after all. But maybe he needs this pretense of formality. This fiction that we're just acquaintances, that last night was just...
"Dean," I start, but he's already closing the truck door, effectively cutting off whatever foolish thing I was about to say.
I climb into the passenger seat, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and wood and him. Two weeks ago, I thought my burst pipe was the worst thing that could have happened to me. Funny how life works sometimes.
As we pull away from the cabin, I watch it disappear between the trees in the side mirror. The morning sun catches the windows, making them gleam like eyes watching us go.
Or maybe they're watching me leave a perfectly good story unfinished.
Chapter 12
Dean
The truck's heater fights against the morning chill, but Harper's still huddled in her coat, arms wrapped around herself like armor. The GPS drones directions I don't need, filling a silence I don't know how to break.
Ten minutes into town. Ten minutes to figure out how to say... what, exactly?
Stay? So you can hang out with a guy who can barely handle breakfast conversation?
Right.
She shifts in her seat, and I catch the scent of my shampoo in her hair. Damn. Even when she's gone, I'll have reminders everywhere. The ghost of sugar cookies in my kitchen. The place on my couch cushion where she always sat. The memory of her warm and soft in my bed this morning, before everything got complicated.
Who am I kidding? It was complicated the moment I saw her trying to push that stupid moving truck herself.
"The light's red," she says quietly.
I brake, maybe a little harder than necessary. A dusting of snow falls from the truck's roof, catching sunlight as it slides down the windshield.
