I turn just as a little boy climbs down from the tree behind me, dark hair falling into his eyes, all long limbs and restless energy.
“Dad!” he calls, bounding toward the man in front of me.
Oh.
Cole’s attention shifts instantly. “Liam,” he says, his voice grounding, steady.
The boy stops at his side and glances up at him before looking at me. I smile without thinking, and he grins back, lifting a hand in a small wave.
Before I can respond, Cole steps slightly in front of him. Not abrupt. Not aggressive. Just instinctive.
“The keys,” he says, turning back to me.
Only then do I realize what he means. He’s holding out a small ring with two keys attached.
“For the guesthouse.”
“Oh—” I swallow. “I’m sorry. The door was unlocked, so I thought… I assumed it was open for me.”
“It was,” he says simply.
I nod, suddenly aware of how close he is now. I reach out, and when my fingers brush his, a spark snaps along my skin, sharp and unmistakable. Heat blooms, sliding fast beneath my ribs. My heart stutters. His eyes darken.
I curl my fingers around the keys, resisting the urge to step closer despite the tension rolling off him.
“Thank you for this,” I whisper.
He holds my gaze for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
Then he steps back, one hand dropping to Liam’s shoulder in a casual, familiar gesture.
“Are you going to stay and play?” The little boy asks, peeking around Cole’s hip. “Dad never wants to playfungames.”
His lips tick down for a moment, but I beam. “I know some good games, but we’ll need your dad’s permission for hide-and-seek, tree climbing, tag, or the other games I know.”
Cole steps closer, cutting off my instinctive move toward his son. Not abruptly. Just enough to place himself between us. His presence is solid, immovable, and suddenly I’m acutely aware of how small the space feels.
He studies my face with quiet intensity, his gaze sharp and assessing, as if he’s searching for something he doesn’t want to find. A flicker of threat. A wrong intention. His hands stay tense at his sides, fingers curled, ready. It should make me uneasy.
Instead, my pulse skids.
There’s something in the way his eyes linger, in the moment his fists slowly loosen, in the subtle shift when his expression eases—not warm, not kind, just… less guarded. The change is minute, but my body feels it instantly, heat pooling low, muscles going soft and weak in response.
I want something reckless.
To close the distance. To press myself into that strength. To show him, somehow, that I’m not what he’s braced for.
Then he clears his throat.
“We’ll see.”
“Better than a no,” I breathe before I can stop myself.
“What was that?”
I force myself to inhale, to pull my thoughts back into order. I just met this man. I’m usually good at reading people, but this isn’t a man who offers himself up to be read. I clear my throat. “I said… that’s better than a no.”
He considers me for a long moment. Then he nods once.
