“What’s his name? Maybe I know him.”
“Dagger. Dagger Wells.” I watched his face for recognition, but there was nothing. “He lives in a cabin somewhere around here. We just found each other at Christmas—DNA test thing—and he’s been trying to get me to move here ever since.”
T.J. shook his head slowly. “Don’t know him. But I don’t know anyone around here. I keep to myself.”
That made sense. I scanned the cabin around us. It was comfortable but sparse, the furniture practical rather than decorative. No photos on the walls. No personal touches that I could see. Just a man-sized dent in the couch cushion and a stack of paperbacks on the side table.
“How long have you lived here?” I asked.
“Three years.”
“And you don’t know your neighbors?”
“I know they exist. That’s enough.” He took a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. “You should get out of those wet clothes. I’ll find you something to wear.”
He stood before I could respond and disappeared down a short hallway. I heard a drawer open and close, then he returned with a folded stack of fabric—a flannel shirt and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring waist.
“Bathroom’s through there.” He nodded toward the hallway. “Towels are under the sink if you want to dry your hair.”
I took the clothes from him, my fingers brushing against his. A spark of something shot up my arm—unexpected and electric—and I saw his jaw tighten like he’d felt it too.
“Thank you,” I said. “For all of this. You didn’t have to?—”
“Go change, Charisma.”
The way he said my name made my stomach flip. Low and rough, like the word had to fight its way out of his throat.
I nodded and fled to the bathroom before I could do something stupid, like ask him to say it again.
The bathroom was small but clean. I peeled off my wet hoodie and work uniform, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked terrible—my mascara was smeared, my hair was tangled, and that awful bruise stood out like a brand on my arm.
But beneath the mess, I was still me. Still the girl who’d aged out of foster care at eighteen with nothing but a garbage bag of clothes and a stubborn refusal to let the world break her. Stillthe girl who’d worked double shifts and skipped meals to make rent, who’d taken a job at The Naughty Fork because the tips were good. That girl had learned long ago that men were going to stare at her body whether she got paid for it or not.
And that was why I was still a virgin at twenty-three. No man had ever made me feel like anything more than a collection of curves to be ogled and grabbed and commented on.
I pulled on T.J.’s flannel shirt, and it swallowed me whole. The hem hit mid-thigh, the sleeves hung past my fingertips, and it smelled like him—cedar and leather, with warmth beneath it that made my stomach tighten. I rolled the sleeves up to my elbows and stepped into the sweatpants, cinching the drawstring as tight as it would go.
When I looked in the mirror again, I barely recognized myself. Not the Naughty Fork girl in the tiny shorts. Not the viral meme. Just a woman in borrowed clothes, standing in a stranger’s bathroom, wondering how her life had taken such a sharp turn.
I found T.J. in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove. He glanced up when I walked in, and his eyes traveled over me slowly—not the way men usually looked at me, assessing and hungry, but something else. Something that made heat bloom in my cheeks.
“Soup,” he said, turning back to the pot. “Nothing fancy. Just canned stuff. But you should eat something.”
“You don’t have to keep taking care of me.”
“Someone should.”
The words landed in my chest and stuck there, sharp-edged and sweet. I moved to the small kitchen table and sat down, tucking my bare feet up under me.
“Why do you live out here all alone?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just ladled soup into two bowls and carried them to the table, setting one in front of mebefore taking the seat across from mine. The same position as before. Close enough to talk, far enough to think.
“I needed to disappear for a while,” he finally said. “Clear my head.”
“For three years?”
His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. “Some heads take longer to clear than others.”
