The whole place smells like him. Cedar. Leather. That warm, clean scent that’s been messing with my head since the fair. It’s in the furniture, the walls, the air. Standing in it is likebeing wrapped in his arms without him touching me. My body responds before my brain catches up…a low hum in my belly, my skin prickling, my thighs pressing together.
This is the kind of house built by a man who doesn’t need to impress anyone. Who just wants his space, his peace, and enough room to live the way he wants.
And standing in it, surrounded by his scent and his silence and the evidence of his life, I feel something I wasn’t prepared for.
Safe. I feel safe here.
“You want something to drink?” he asks from the kitchen. I watch him move through the space…his big body navigating between the counter and the fridge with an ease that says he knows every inch of this house by feel. His dark shirt stretches across his back when he reaches for glasses. His bare forearms flex when he turns the tap. Even the way he holds a glass of water…his thick fingers dwarfing it, his wrist turning slow…is stupidly attractive. I’m watching a man pour water, and my pulse is elevated. This is a problem.
“Water’s fine.”
He comes back with two glasses. Our fingers brush during the handoff…his rough, mine trembling…and heat shoots up my wrist. He notices. His golden eyes flick to my hand, then to my face. He doesn’t say anything. Just sits down on the long leather couch.
Close. But not touching.
I take a sip and set my glass down. The leather is soft under me, warm, and it smells like him too. Everything in this house smells like him. I’m marinating in Beau Redding and I haven’t even taken my shoes off.
He leans back, his arm stretching across the back of the couch. His long fingers land near my shoulder not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his hand.His thighs are spread wide, his jeans pulling tight across his quads. One ankle crossed over his knee. Relaxed. Open. Taking up space the way big men do without thinking about it.
Giving me room. Letting me decide.
The quiet between us is heavy. Charged. Like the air before a storm.
“How old are you?” I ask because I need to fill the silence. And because I need this man to understand what he’s getting into. Since mentioning my grown kids and divorce in the truck didn’t scare him off.
He turns to face me. His golden eyes catch the low lamplight and turn almost amber. “Thirty.”
I nod slowly. “I’m thirty-eight.” His mouth curves …just barely, just one corner of his full lips. I arch a brow. “And that doesn’t bother you?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been married?”
“No.”
“Any serious relationships?”
He shrugs one broad shoulder. The motion shifts his shirt, pulling it tight across his chest, and I catch the outline of his pecs, the shadow of his collarbone. “Dated. Nothing stuck.”
I study his face. Looking for the lie. The flinch. Something. “Why not?”
He holds my gaze for a beat. Then, quietly: “They weren’t you.”
Oh. My pulse jumps. I shift on the couch, reaching for my water just to have something to do with my hands. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what to do with them.”
He almost smiles. Almost. “You don’t have to do anything with them, Ina. Just hear them.”
The way he says my name. Every time. Like it’s the only word in his vocabulary that matters. Like his mouth was made to shape the two syllables and nothing else.
I take a breath. Try a different angle. “What happened at Cornell?”
Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe, that I know. Then it settles. “Tanya?”
“Small town.”
