Neither of us pulls away.
The pressure of his knee resting against mine is a hot, heavy anchor, sending a slow tremor up my thighs. The heat of his body radiates across the tiny gap, warm and solid. His fingers wrap around his coffee mug, the scarred skin of his forearm visible where his sleeve is rolled up.
“You work too hard.” I leave the bread untouched on my plate, my eyes tracing the pulse beating at the base of his throat.
“The work doesn’t stop because it’s hard. It doesn’t stop because you’re tired. It doesn’t stop because you’re scared. It just keeps coming.” He takes a slow sip of coffee, his eyes fixed on me now, ignoring the window. “And you either keep moving or you drown.”
“You can’t outrun the county or Cascade by plowing drives at three in the morning. You’re going to kill yourself trying.”
“I’m not going to lose this place.” He sets his cup down with a slow click against the counter. “Jesse and I cleared this slope. We hauled the timber for the runs. We spent months sleeping on theconcrete because we couldn’t afford beds. I’m not letting some developer scrape it flat for a hot tub.”
“I don’t want them to scrape it either.” My voice is barely loud enough to cross the inches between our faces.
“Then why are you trying to sell?” He looks up, his grey eyes searching mine, dropping briefly to my lips before rising back to my eyes.
“I have to.” My voice is small. “I have bills. Student loans. A life in the city that isn’t free. The money from Cascade would change my life.”
“I can run the place by myself.” Wyatt’s jaw tightens.
“It’s too much work for one man.”
“Well, that’s my problem, not yours.” His voice drops, gravel-rough. “I don’t understand why you want to sell what Jesse built.”
“I don’t want to destroy it.” My gaze drops to his mouth, then quickly down to the grain of the counter. “But every time I look at Atlas, Jesse’s there in the garage. I have to go back to a place where I can control the boundaries. Where I don’t have to look at the pieces.”
Wyatt leans in closer, his knee pressing more firmly against mine.
The contact is scorching.
“You think you’re safe in the city?” His voice drops to a low, gravelly register that vibrates straight through my collarbone. “You think you control anything from a phone headset? You’rejust hiding behind the wall. Hiding so you don’t have to feel the wind.”
“I’m safe there,” I insist, my chin rising, though my breath is shallow, my chest rising and falling rapidly. “I’m useful. I help people.”
“But nobody helps you.”
He reaches out. This time, he doesn’t stop.
His hand is bare, his skin calloused, rough, and burning hot as he slides his palm slowly up the side of my neck. His thumb rests right over my pulse point, feeling the frantic, wild leap of my heart. The touch is direct, skin-on-skin, and a delicious shiver runs down my spine. My eyes flutter closed, my cheek leaning heavily, instinctively into the cradle of his hand.
He pulls me closer, just a fraction, his other hand finding my waist, his fingers digging firm and possessive into the wool of the sweater. I can smell him—coffee, cedar, and the clean, cold wind. The desire is a physical weight now, a heavy, throbbing need that fills the space between us. I want him to kiss me. I want the hard press of his mouth to chase away the quiet, to chase away the ghost of Jesse, to pull me out of the past and into the raw, sizzling present.
“Wyatt,” I breathe, my lips parting, our breath mingling in the small space.
He looks at my mouth, his gaze dark with a hunger that matches my own. His chest is pressed nearly against my ribs, hard and fast. His fingers on my neck slide upward, burying themselves in the hair at the nape of my neck, tilting my head back slightly. We’re millimeters apart. If either of us breathes too deeply, our lips will touch.
But then, from the hall, Atlas lets out a soft, low whine.
The sound is a quiet reminder, a cold splash of reality.
Wyatt’s fingers tighten in my hair for one desperate, bruising second, his grip possessive and hard, before he slowly, reluctantly lets his hands drop. He steps back, turning his stool toward the counter, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle leaps in his cheek.
“I have to check the sheepdog.” His voice is raw, scraping the quiet room.
“I’ll come.” My voice trembles, the words a clumsy attempt to rebuild my counselor’s wall.
“No. Stay here. Eat.”
He stands and walks out of the kitchen, his boots heavy on the linoleum.
