She met his eyes in the reflection. “Getting there.”
He slid his hands to her shoulders, the touch both protective and anchoring. “That’s my girl.”
They spent the afternoon quietly. Byrdie prowled the corners like a tiny inspector, then settled on the back of the sofa, her tail flicking. Flynn made tea while Heather sorted through the folder of police paperwork. The mundane tasks steadied them.
When dusk fell, they ate beef stew by the fire. Byrdie purred between them, half-asleep, paws twitching in dreams.
Flynn leaned back in his chair, the firelight tracing his profile. “Feels almost normal,” he murmured.
Heather smiled into her mug. “Don’t jinx it.”
“Wouldn’t dare.”
She set the mug down and looked around, seeing the stacked books, the muddy boots by the door, the cat snoring softly in the corner. “It’s strange,” she said. “After everything, this feels more like home than anywhere else has.”
Flynn reached for her hand, their fingers tangling. “Then let’s keep it that way.”
Heather’s heart lifted, quiet and sure. Outside, the rain whispered against the glass; inside, the fire hummed.
Byrdie gave a sleepy chirp, and Flynn smiled.
Chapter 42
Heather—Present Day
Heather woke before the kettle did.
Gray light sifted through the cottage curtains, thin as gauze, laying a pale ribbon across the quilt. Byrdie’s bell gave a soft, interrogative jingle from the foot of the bed; a heartbeat later, the cat hopped up, turned twice, and installed herself against Heather’s hip with the authority of a duchess reclaiming a throne.
Outside, something thudded—measured, clean. An axe into seasoned wood.
She slid from the quilt, careful not to disturb Byrdie, and padded barefoot to the window. The mist hung low over theyard, silvering everything it touched. Flynn stood bare-headed in it, sleeves pushed to his elbows, splitting logs by the shed. The swing of the axe was pure rhythm—lift, twist, drop, crack. Steam curled from his shoulders where the damp met body heat; his shirt clung in a way that made her stomach do something ridiculous. It wasn’t even fair; he moved like every woman’s intrusive thought had finally unionized.
He paused to rub his shoulder, still tender after Kerr’s mistreatment, then braced a new log with one boot, muscles shifting under worn cotton as he lined up the next strike.
The motion was unhurried and confident. Every part of him—his breath, his balance, the calm precision in his movements—looked like someone who could rebuild the world with his hands and make it look easy.
Heather’s palm found the windowpane without thinking, fingers leaving faint prints on the cool glass. She shouldn’t be staring. But God, the quiet strength of him, the way he moved like the morning itself belonged to him, was hypnotic.
Somewhere between the swing and the crack, she caught herself wondering what it might feel like to be the thing he split in two—and instantly concluded she needed a cold shower and a new hobby.
When he lifted the axe again, light caught the curve of his jaw, the bead of sweat sliding down his neck, and she thought:
No wonder the house feels safe when he’s in it.
He looked up suddenly, as if he’d felt her watching. Their eyes met through the thin blur of mist. Flynn’s mouth curved, slow and knowing, and he tipped his chin toward the door in silent invitation.
Her pulse fluttered. She turned from the window and grabbed the first thing within reach: one of his sweatshirts draped over a chair. It smelled like soap and woodsmoke and the kind of warmth that felt earned. She pulled it over her head, thehem brushing her bare thighs, and padded into the kitchen to start the kettle.
By the time the water hissed to a boil, she heard the door open behind her. The sound of boots on the threshold, the low scrape of him shaking off the chill.
“Caught you starin’,” he said, voice still rough from the cold.
Heather didn’t turn, just poured the tea and said, “You were hard to miss.”
Flynn’s warm laughter rumbled through the small room. “Flatterer.”
She finally faced him. His hair was damp, his skin flushed from the wind. He looked devastatingly alive—strong, safe, solid. And when his eyes trailed down to where her bare legs disappeared beneath his sweatshirt, his breath hitched, barely audible.
