Pressing both palms flat against the bathroom counter, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Flushed cheeks. Parted lips. Eyes wide. My hair's falling out of its bun again, dark strands stuck to my neck with sweat from the plumbing work.
"Get it together, Reyes."
The face in the mirror doesn't look like a woman who's getting it together. She looks like a woman who's been fed soup by a mountain man for seven days straight and is rapidly losing her grip on the boundaries she set.
The rest of the afternoon, we orbit each other. Careful distance. He chops wood on the far side of the property while I rehang a curtain rod in cabin three. We eat lunch at his kitchen table with a solid two feet of space between us, discussing which cabin needs new weatherstripping. Our knees don't touch. Our hands don't brush. Nobody looks at anyone's mouth.
It's excruciating.
After dinner, I'm fixing the latch on the supply shed behind the main house. The sun's dropping behind the ridge, turning everything amber and pink. Mountain air at this hour is coldenough to bite. My flannel isn't cutting it, but going back to my cabin for a jacket means walking past Owen's kitchen window, and right now proximity to Owen is a bad idea.
"You're cold."
His voice comes from behind me. Closer than expected. When I turn, he's holding out a jacket. Lined canvas, dark green, obviously his because it smells like him when he drapes it over my shoulders without waiting for permission.
The warmth envelops me. So does the scent. Pine and wood smoke and something underneath that's just Owen. My body responds before my brain can intervene, leaning into the collar, breathing him in.
"The latch is stripped," I say because I need to say something. "Needs a new screw."
"I've got screws in the workshop."
"I'll fix it tomorrow."
"Carmen."
There's my name again. Low. Deliberate. He's standing close enough that I can feel heat radiating off his body even through the jacket. The sun is almost gone. Everything is going blue and gold at the edges.
"We should talk about the bathroom."
"Nothing happened in the bathroom."
"Something almost happened in the bathroom."
Turning to face him fully, I have to tip my chin up to meet his eyes. He's taller than me by a good eight inches. Broad enough that he blocks the wind. His hands are at his sides, fingers curled, jaw tight.
"This can't happen," I tell him. Even as the words leave my mouth, my body is leaning toward his warmth. "I'm here to work. You're my employer. I've been in Bear Creek Valley for a week."
"Seven days."
"That's what I said."
"Seven days of you fixing things I didn't ask you to fix." His voice drops. Rough. "Seven days of your laugh coming through the cabin walls. Seven days of you sitting on that porch every morning with your coffee like this mountain belongs to you."
My heart is beating in my throat.
"Owen."
"I know." His hand comes up. Hovers near my jaw. Doesn't touch. "I know this can't happen."
But his eyes are on my mouth. My chin tips up, just barely, and his thumb grazes my bottom lip. Feather light. Testing.
Every nerve in my body fires at once.
"One month," I whisper. "We agreed."
"We did."
His hand slides into my hair. Tilts my head back. Holds me there, his palm warm against the nape of my neck, his thumb stroking behind my ear. The gentleness of it wrecks me. Twelve years of holding other people together, and this man is handling me like I'm the one who needs care.
