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“You’re still holding my hand,” I whisper.

“Still engaged,” he informs me in a jagged voice. He doesn’t let go until we reach the truck, and even then, it’s like he’s peeling himself away.

In the cab, it’s no longer the quiet between strangers. It’s the silence of two people who just lit a fuse and are pretending they can’t hear it burning.

“Tomorrow,” he finally speaks, “we go out in public again and stick to the plan. You laugh at my jokes and we look like a couple who can’t keep their hands off each other.”

“And when we’re alone?”

He turns to me, and the moonlight catches something feral in his eyes. “When we’re alone, the performance stops. No more kissing.” He says it like a rule he’s making for himself more than for me.

“You started it.”

“You finished it.” He starts the engine. “Let’s see which one of us is better at pretending.”

Chapter seven

She pulled back after the kiss at Timber Jack’s, and I’m reliving every second. How she tasted like spring wild flowers and that pumpkin drink, the way her moans went straight to my cock, and the exact second she chose our deal, over getting lost, and taking our attraction to the next level. It was fair and smart.

I hate how much I respect her decision.

My truck engine strains as I take the last climb to my place slower than I need to. Her hand isn’t mine anymore, so it sits on the console between us as Lila peers out the window watching the trees sway in the wind.

There’s a smear of lipstick I left on her lower lip that’s setting me off again. I grip the steering wheel tightly so I’m not tempted to reach over and finish what she stopped.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she murmurs under her breath.

“Just trying to remember the rules.”

“I guess that’s a good thing. Can you recite them for me in case I forget?”

I check her, waiting for the grin that means she’s kidding. “Public couple. In private, opposite sides of the mattress. You win the title. I get Derick off my mountain. No extra complications.” I glance at her. “Did I miss one?”

“Don’t stare at me like that when we’re alone.”

“That wasn’t one of the laws we laid down, and if it was, I’m going to break it.”

Her mouth twitches and she glances away before I catch her break into a smile.

My cabin is tucked in a clearing just below the ridge. No harvest wreaths or cute signs like in town, just logs and a metal roof built for heavy snow. It’s a place of function: a porch light on a timer, a generator that always starts on the first pull, and enough silence to hear your own thoughts. I kill the engine as the first flakes of a new storm begin to fall.

When Lila reaches for the door handle, I’m already there. One slip on this ice and I’d never forgive myself. “This is yours?” she asks.

“All mine,” I say, reaching behind the seat and grabbing her bags. “Now, hang on to my arm, the path up can be a little treacherous.”

Inside, I hit the lights, revealing one open room. A wood stove, a leather couch that’s seen better days, and the kitchen along the back wall. I nod toward the short hall. “Bedroom’s that way.” As I head in with her suitcases, I’m suddenly conscious of the California king bed that takes up most of the space. I bought it for myself two winters ago, never thinking I’d be sharing it.

When I come back, she’s still inspecting the place. The pegs by the door with my spare Carhartt and a cracked hard hat. The row of boots, some for work and some for winter. The cast-iron skillet that seems to live on my stove. The bookshelf filled with field manuals and the paperbacks Sierra keeps dropping off, and the picture window over the sink, with a view straight into the pines.

“It’s … lived in,” she says.

“That’s a kind word for bachelor pad.”

“I mean it.” She moves through my kitchen, assessing my supplies like she already has a right to the flour, sugar, and my unmatched mugs. I should tell her to stop, but keep my mouth shut. The thought of her here every day in this house hits so hard I have to physically turn away and face the window.

“You cook.”

“I heat things. There’s a difference.”