Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
DAHLIA
Cocooned in warmth, I don’t want to move, let alone rise. But Bear’s friendly face hovers over mine, licking me with his thick, pink tongue.
“Are you serious?” I grumble, doing my best Denver impression. Don’t even come close. Never had enough stick-to-itiveness to walk around with a dark storm cloud over my head or a grudge in my heart. But I like the grinchiness in Denver. Like it counterbalances something inside of me.
The floorboards squeak. Denver enters softly, wearing a green and blue flannel and jeans that hug his thick thighs. I notice the slight limp again—for a fleeting moment—in his otherwise steady, smooth gait.
“Coffee, sleepyhead?”
“Sleepyhead?” I chuckle, stretching and sitting up. I grab the mug from him, fingertips brushing his hand. The air thickens, as if it has its own pulse. Denver’s eyes burn, echoing my own simmer. “Thought you don’t use nicknames.”
He scrunches his face.
“You know, like Dolly.”
“Not a nickname problem. Don’t want to call you what everyone else does.”
I take a sip, savoring the warmth of the perfectly creamed liquid. He’s got me figured out. “Mmm, thank you.”
“Sunshine,” he says.
I arch an eyebrow.
“Anyone else call you that?”
“Not a living soul,” I answer, amused by the grumpy man’s question.
“Mine, then.”
My throat tightens, skin thrumming with the one syllable word. Mine. I like it. “Then, what’ll I call you?”
He shrugs.
“Eeyore? Grumpy cat?”
He rolls his eyes, clueless about the meme I’m referencing.
“Hero?”
Denver shakes his head, face going stony.
But that’s what he is to me. No other way to look at it. “Hero, it is.”
“Hope I can live up to that name,” he murmurs, eyes resting on mine for too long to be reasonable. I like their heat.
“Already have.”
“Good.”
After breakfast, we head over to my cabin, making our way through the brush and saplings, holding the vegetation back for Bear and the cart where it thickens.
I raise my phone, snap even more pictures of the pooch.
No one back home is going to believe any of this.
My thumb hovers over the red photo button, tempted to get Denver’s picture, too.
I won’t use it in social media or anything. Not that he’d ever know anyway. But I need something to remember him by. To remember this experience, this feeling. I stop myself, though, unwilling to break his trust.
At the Wheeler House, Denver halts, puts his hands on his hips, like he’s sizing up the place. “Ready for this, Sunshine?”
“Yes, Hero.”
He nods, and a thrill runs through me. Something like pride. This big, rustic man sees me as an equal, despite all I have yet to learn about life up here.
As we unload tools and head inside, I steel myself. “Seattle girl or not, I can learn this.” I may be Denver’s guest, but I refuse to act that way. I want to be a partner in fixing the damage I caused, in cleaning up the messes I created.
Denver lines up the tools on the floor, names them for me. Then, he crawls under the kitchen sink to have a look. He groans. “Pipe wrench.”
I hesitate for a moment, eyeing the shiny collection of items, then hand him one. He looks down, grunts his approval, and grabs it. Our fingers touch again, sparking, flaring. My throat tightens, heart pounding against my ribs.
“Pliers.”
My eyes dart down the line. I pass him another, letting my touch linger longer this time. I can’t get enough of his warmth, his strength and steady masculinity.
“Cutters.”
I scrunch my face. “Which ones?”
“Hacksaw.”
I hand him the tool, beaming with pride. His eyes drop, check the offering. “Good job. Fast learner.”
“Thank you. You’re not bad yourself. You’ve got serious grumpy handyman influencer potential.”
He growls, like a warning, but his neck reddens traveling up his face. I notice a bead of sweat rolling down his cheek. Lucky little drop. Wonder if his beard is rough or soft?
The work continues. Gruff commands for pipe, epoxy putty, various other tools. All I can think about is trailing my fingers through his hair.
Why does hard work beside him feel more intimate than any date I’ve ever been on?
Suddenly, Denver pushes back out from under the sink, straightens. “Good news or bad news first?” he asks with an ambivalent grin.
“Good.”
“Kitchen sink’s fixed. Now, only the rest of the house to go.”
I whoop before thinking, wrap my arms around him for a hug. He freezes in my embrace, arms still at his sides, fisting tools. A wrench clunks to the ground. His arm comes up, and he awkwardly pats me.
I step back, “sorry” on my lips like a whisper, even as my eyes find his mouth. His head tilts towards me, face warm and more open than I’ve seen it since my arrival.
Bark! Bark! Bear’s call rises like a cheering crowd, breaking the tension and the moment. My breath catches in my throat, and the big man straightens. Then, I burst into giggles, not sure what’s so funny.
Denver joins in, genuine, full-bodied, easy. I haven’t laughed like this since Maya’s death. It feels like the beginning of something new, an opening chapter even as bittersweetness lingers. I wish she could be here, sharing in these experiences with me.
“We keep this momentum up, and I really will have a little cabin all my own in the woods,” I say, dabbing at my eyes as I finally get a handle on the laughter.
I look at the big redhead and find a mixture of joy and sadness in his gaze.
I feel it, too. “Thank you, Denver. I could never have done this without you.”
“Yes, you could have. But it’s only just a start.”
“A start’s a start,” I reply, pleased with today’s progress. But a new ache tugs at me that I can’t describe.
“Head back for lunch?” he asks.
It’s too soon. If we work this slowly, the cabin will never be done. Maybe that’s the point. “Lunch sounds wonderful.”
He nods, face stone.
Back at the cabin, Denver wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, hair falling loose from its tie. The sun catches the copper in it, wild and beautiful in a way that makes my throat tighten.
“What?” he asks, catching me looking.
“You could use a trim,” I blurt, instantly wishing I hadn’t.
One corner of his mouth twitches. “That so?”
“Purely practical,” I start, but he interrupts the thought, sauntering away.
He grunts, disappears inside the cabin, and for a second, I think I’ve embarrassed him. Then he re-emerges, shirtless, a pair of scissors in hand.
I stop, frozen. Jaw dropping and eyes descending, tracing every angle, firm ridge, and tempting valley.
Slashed across the sculpted frame are thick, angry scars.
His free hand raises, shielding me from them.
But my eyes are elsewhere, lost in the teasing strip of red hair below his washboard abs and belly button that descends into the waistband of his jeans.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Figure you gals like your men looking a certain way.” He shrugs, casual, but the pink climbing his neck gives him away.
My mouth goes dry. “I—uh—sure, I can try. Don’t sue me if you end up lopsided.”
He sits on the porch step, head tilted slightly forward. I kneel behind him, fingers trembling as I thread through his thick hair. It’s softer than I expected, smells like pine smoke and cedar soap.
“Shorter on the sides?” I ask.
“Whatever you think.”
The trust in that knocks something loose in my chest. Each snip feels intimate, the forest wrapping around this unexpected, quiet moment of domesticity. His shoulders are broad, muscles shifting beneath skin dotted with scars. I pretend not to notice how close my thighs are to his back.
When I finish, I brush loose strands from his neck. He turns slightly, blue eyes glinting. “Better?”
I nod, voice barely a whisper. “Dangerously better.”
His laugh is low, warm. “Guess I’ll take that as approval.”
For one dizzy second, I think he might reach for me—but Bear barks from the treeline, breaking the spell. Denver stretches, acting like nothing happened.
I, however, can’t stop smiling. My hands still smell like him.
I set the scissors down, taking a seat next to him on the porch step. The forest hums, wind rustling in the pines, the roar of a distant creek. So beautiful. I could never tire of this place. But the loneliness, I’m less sure about.
“Do you ever miss the world beyond these mountains?”
He shrugs, looking across the yard. “World’s still out there. Just don’t need to chase it.”
His words strike hard. “I’ve been chasing everything—views, validation, speed—but never peace,” I confess.
He nods, face sympathetic, no judgment. “It can be different up here.”
Maybe what I’ve been looking for isn’t success, it’s stillness. Maybe the mountain didn’t just give me a challenge. Maybe it gave me him.