We stay locked together afterward, breathing hard, skin slick and warm. I trace lazy patterns over his chest while he strokes my back in long, soothing passes.
“I still cannot believe we did this,” I whisper after a while, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “But I am not ready to undo it either. Not yet.”
Forrest presses his lips to the top of my head, holding me closer. “Good. Because I am not ready to let you go, Sloane. We can figure the rest out together. One day at a time. No rush.”
Sunlight continues to pour into the cabin, warming the wooden floors and highlighting the simple beauty of the space he built with his own hands. Outside, birds call through the pines, and the distant sound of a chainsaw hums from somewhere down the mountain. Inside, wrapped in Forrest’s strong arms, the panic eases.
We talk quietly for a long time after that, laughing at the foggy memories of moonshine shots and line dancing, at how Mabel had produced wildflowers like a magician, at the way Judge Whitaker had smiled, and at Ryder’s teasing grin when he caught us making out on Main Street. Neither of us suggests calling a lawyer or rushing back to the courthouse to fix anything. The conversation stays light, honest, and full of that same easy chemistry that has been sparking between us since yesterday afternoon.
Eventually, hunger drives us out of bed. Forrest pulls on a pair of worn jeans that hang low on his hips while I borrow one of his flannel shirts. It swamps me completely, the sleeves falling past my hands, and Forrest’s eyes darken when he sees me wearing it.
We move around his kitchen together, making coffee and simple scrambled eggs with toast. The domestic ease surprises me. Forrest is patient and helpful, reaching things from high shelves without being asked and stealing kisses between flippingeggs. Every brush of his body against mine sends fresh sparks dancing over my skin.
As we sit at the wooden table eating breakfast, I catch myself staring at the gold band on my finger again. It’s a loaned ring from the judge, and it should feel strange. It should feel terrifying.
Instead, it feels like the start of something I never knew I wanted.
Forrest catches me looking and reaches across the table to take my hand. “Still okay?” he asks, voice gentle but steady.
I squeeze his fingers, smiling despite the swirl of emotions still dancing inside me. “Still okay, big guy. Better than okay, actually.”
His big, happy smile returns, the one that lights up his whole face and makes my chest feel warm and full. “Then that is all I need to know right now.”
We finish breakfast slowly, talking about nothing important. The morning stretches lazy and golden around us, filled with lingering touches and easy laughter. The panic has not completely vanished, but it no longer feels like the loudest voice in the room.
Because right now, sitting across from my accidental husband in his cozy mountain cabin, wearing nothing but his flannel shirt, the only thing that feels louder than my racing thoughts is the steady, electric pull that keeps drawing me back to him.
Chapter Six
Forrest
We finish a very late breakfast at the kitchen table, the kind that stretches lazy and golden into mid-morning. Sloane is still wearing my flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, and every time she reaches for the syrup or another piece of toast, I catch another glimpse of smooth thigh and bare shoulder. I can’t stop looking.
She catches me staring again and points her fork at me with a playful smirk. “You keep looking at me like that, and we’re never leaving this cabin today, big guy.”
I grunt, but I’m smiling. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”
She laughs, that bright, sparkling sound that’s already becoming my favorite. “As tempting as that is, I want to see more of your world. You promised to show me your land and the lumber mill. I’m holding you to it.”
I rub the back of my neck, feeling that familiar mix of pride and nerves. Nobody outside the family has ever really cared about the mill, but Sloane really wants to know what I do. She looks at me like everything I show her matters.
“Alright,” I say, standing and offering her my hand. “Let’s go.”
She takes my hand and lets me pull her up, rising onto her toes to steal a quick kiss. “Yes, sir.”
We gear up quickly. I find her a pair of smaller work boots from the mudroom and one of my lighter jackets. She looks ridiculous and perfect all at once, the jacket swallowing her petite frame. I help her zip it up, my hands lingering at her waist longer than necessary.
We head out on the ATV. Sloane climbs on behind me without hesitation, her arms wrapping snug around my waist and her cheek resting against my back. The feel of her pressed against me sends heat rushing through my body, but I keep the speed steady. I want her to see everything properly.
I take her on the trails that wind through the property my family has owned for three generations. The air grows sweeter and sharper the higher we climb, filled with the scent of evergreen and warm earth. I point out different landmarks as we ride, the old logging road my grandfather cut by hand when he was barely twenty, the hidden meadow full of wildflowers where my dad used to take me fishing every summer, and the ridge where my grandmother planted the first pine saplings that are now towering trees shading the trail.
At the top of the ridge, I kill the engine and help her off. We stand side by side at the edge, the wind tugging gently at her hair. The whole valley spreads out below us, endless green pines, the river sparkling in the distance, and the family lumber mill nestled in the clearing where thin smoke rises from the drying kilns.
“This is all Kane land,” I tell her, my voice quieter than usual. “My granddad started the mill with nothing but an old saw and a dream. Worked sunrise to sunset six days a week. Grandma was the heart of it. She kept the books and made sure nobody went home hungry. She used to say the trees gave us everything, so we had to give them respect in return.”
Sloane listens with genuine interest, her hand slipping into mine. “Tell me more about them.”
I feel that familiar ache when I talk about my family. “Granddad was a stubborn old bastard. Worked until the day he died at eighty-seven. Grandma outlived him by twelve years and still baked pies for the crew every Friday. Dad was quiet like me, but he had this way of making you feel like you could do anything if you just worked hard enough. He passed when I was twenty-two. Heart attack. Mom is still here. Strongest woman I know. Runs the office, keeps me in line, and pretends she doesn’t worry about me living out here alone.”
