Tourists left.
I’d broken my cardinal rule.
For a long moment, I just lay there, watching her sleep. Her hair had dried into wild copper curls, nothing like the sleek bob she’d been wearing when I first saw her on the trail. Freckles dusted her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, and her lips were slightly parted, soft and pink in the early morning light.
She looked peaceful. Beautiful. And completely out of place in my life.
The thought hit me like cold water. In the firelight, with the storm raging outside and her body moving against mine, everything had felt right.
But now, with daylight creeping in and reality waiting just beyond the cabin door, I wasn’t sure what any of it meant.
Leah stirred against my side, snuggling deeper into my arms, and something tight twisted inside my chest.
Last night had felt simple. But this morning didn’t.
I didn’t regret a damn thing. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was how easy it had been to forget every rule I’d made for myself.
If Boone could see me now.
Leah let out a light moan, her lashes fluttering open. Her green eyes found mine, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“Morning.” The word came out softer than I’d intended, hinting at the depth my feelings had grown for her in such a short amount of time.
A flush crept up her cheeks as awareness settled in… and she remembered exactly what we’d done and how many times we’d done it last night.
She pulled the wool blanket a little higher over her bare shoulders, suddenly shy in a way she hadn’t been last night when she’d been crying out my name.
I understood the impulse. The intensity of what had passed between us felt fragile somehow, like morning frost that might melt away if we looked at it too directly.
I wanted to pull her closer. Wanted to pretend the outside world didn’t exist past these walls.
Instead, I sat up slowly, putting space between us before I made a promise I wouldn’t know how to keep.
Every part of me wanted to stay in this cabin forever, reality be damned.
But as soon as Tucker unlocked the gate, any early morning hiker could discover us in here, naked and sprawled out in front of the dying fire.
City women didn’t wake up in cabins and decide to stay in a place like Red Oak Mountain forever.
She’d go back to Boston and her real life. And I’d be the wild mountain story she told her friends about over drinks.
“Storms make things feel… bigger than they are sometimes.” The words rambled out of my mouth of their own accord, and I watched her shrink away from me, the wound in her heart temporarily visible on her face.
The second the words left my mouth, I wanted to take them back. Because nothing about last night had felt small.
She shifted closer, warm and soft, then whispered, “Don’t worry, stranger. You already told me you don’t play for keeps. Last night was…” her mouth moved silently as she struggled to find the right words, “Well, let’s just say I don’t regret a moment of it. And I hope you don’t either.”
Every instinct I had screamed to forget caution and keep her right where she was.
So I got up and grabbed my pants before I could say something reckless like ‘stay’.
“We should probably head back soon. Folks will start hiking once the trail dries out.” I shoved one leg into my pants, then the other, before grabbing my boots. “If we stay much longer, we’ll be giving people a show they didn’t expect.”
This was the smart move. Cut ties before we got in too deep.
She had a full life out there somewhere.
