Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
DENVER
By the time the sun dips behind the pines, the day’s work hums through my body.
Tools cleaned. Pipes sealed. Her laughter still echoing in my head.
Dahlia’s at my stove now, humming, hair tied up in some messy knot that makes it hard to look anywhere else. The new flannel I lent her hangs loose off one shoulder, brushing soft skin that glows burnished gold in the firelight.
“I said I’d cook tonight,” she reminds me, stirring a skillet like she’s trying to tame it.
“You insisted,” I correct, leaning against the counter. “Can’t stop a woman on a mission.”
“Exactly,” she says, flashing that grin that could thaw glaciers. “Besides, you fixed my kitchen sink. I owe you dinner.”
The pan spits and hisses. So does Bear when a bit of butter lands on his paw. I fight the smile tugging at my mouth. “You always this good at multitasking?”
“Define good.” She lifts the spoon, grimaces. “Okay, maybe not. But it’s edible.”
I step closer, peer over her shoulder. “You call that edible?”
She bumps me with her hip. “Don’t test me, mountain man.”
I shouldn’t like the feel of her pressed against me, but I do. Too damn much.
“Guess I’ll have to supervise,” I mutter, reaching around her to turn down the flame. My arm brushes hers. Heat flares stronger than the stove.
For a heartbeat, she goes still. Then, quieter, “You always this bossy in the kitchen?”
“Only when someone forgets salt.”
She laughs, that bright, breathy sound that loosens every knot in my chest. “Fine, Chef Denver. Enlighten me.”
I find the salt jar, shake a little over her shoulder. “There. Fixed.”
She tilts her head back, eyes meeting mine. “Show-off.”
“Fast learner.”
Our gazes lock, steady, unhurried. Something dangerous hums between us. I pull back first, before I forget what the hell self-control means.
But the electricity crackling between us doesn’t pull back. It only thickens. Unnamable, impossible to ignore.
We eat at the small table by the window. Bear curls near the hearth, the wind whispering against the logs. The stew’s better than it has any right to be.
She spoons a bite, chews, grins. “See? Told you it was edible.”
“Edible’s underselling it.”
“High praise from a man of few words.”
“Don’t talk much ‘cause most things ain’t worth saying.”
Her smile fades into something softer. “And this? Tonight?”
“Worth it.”
She swallows hard, eyes glossy in the lantern light. “You really don’t miss the city? The people?”
“World’s still out there,” I say. “Just stopped needing it.”
“Must be nice … to not need anything.”
“Didn’t say that.” My hand curls around my mug. “Still need coffee. Good tools. Decent dog.”
She tilts her head, waiting.
“And?” she whispers.
Her voice does things to me. Makes truth slip free before I can stop it. “Maybe someone who gets the quiet.”
Silence settles. Comfortable, then charged. The fire pops. Her foot brushes mine under the table, accidental or not, I can’t tell.
“Denver…” she starts, but words trail off.
“Yeah?”
“Nothing.” She stares into her bowl, color rising to her cheeks. “Just glad fate brought me here.”
“Me, too,” I admit.
We clean up side by side. I wash, she dries. Every time her fingers graze mine, I feel that spark again, the one I’m not supposed to want.
When the dishes are done, she lights candles on the mantle, small flames flickering coppery. Then, she turns off the living room lights. “Candles are more … atmospheric,” she giggles.
“You mean romantic?” I ask without thinking. The trouble this tongue gets me in. No wonder I rarely talk.
“You could put it that way.”
She turns toward me, face haloed in warm light. For the first time in years, I forget every scar, every reason I shut the world out. I only see her—alive, bright, unafraid.
I take one step closer. She doesn’t back away.
The air tightens, like the pause before a storm. Her breath trembles. Mine does too.
“Dahlia,” I rasp, her name thick on my tongue.
“Yeah?”
“If I were smarter, I’d stop.”
“Smarter is overrated.”
It’s all invitation, no command. Her voice barely a whisper, but it wrecks me.
My hand rises, brushes a strand of hair from her face. She leans into it, eyes closing. For a heartbeat, the world shrinks to the space between us—her soft exhale, my pulse roaring in my ears.
I move slow, remembering everything about this moment. The softness of her breath on my cheek. The part of her thick, pink lips. The warmth blazing beneath my palm as my mouth sinks into hers.
She chuckles, and I inch back, eyeing her.
“Your beard,” she says. “It tickles.”
I hesitate, not sure what she means. If it’s good or bad. She doesn’t let me think long, arms threading around my neck and into my hair as she strains up on her tiptoes, kissing me back.
She smells like honey and tastes like sin, soft lips moving against mine. Reawakening things that have been dead so long, I didn’t think they still existed. Her lips part on a sigh, and I sweep into her mouth.
My arms clamp around her, drawing her hard against me, and she doesn’t shrink away. Instead, she pulls me closer, hands gripping my neck, fingers sliding into my beard. Sparks ignite at every touch, pure incineration against the backdrop of the candlelit cabin.
My hands rove, learning the shape of her body, how it feels under my touch.
Shoulders, waist, hips. I freeze, not wanting to push too far, dangerously close to crossing a line neither of us can come back from.
Instead, I raise my hands back to her face, palm her cheeks.
Angling her head, I deepen the kiss until I don’t know where I end and she begins.
Honey and pine mixing, heating each other from the inside out. “Want you,” I whisper, trying hard to maintain control.
“I want you, too,” she says, voice trembling. But then, it hits me like a freight train. Scars. The limp. The noises and images that still wake me at night. I’m broken, have nothing to give her.
“But…” I turn away, pacing. “I can’t do this.”
“What?” she steps forward, face incredulous.
“Can’t claim something that’s not mine,” I grit out between clenched teeth.
“But—”
“No. I’m supposed to give you a safe place to stay. Help you fix your cabin. Not take advantage of you.”
“You’re not taking—”
She’s not listening to me. Not giving me the out I need. “Gotta check something,” I mutter and step over the threshold, shutting the door against her and disappearing into the black night. Cold air knifes through me, sharper than guilt.
I don’t stay outside for long. It’s no practical proposition. But I need space to sort things out. Untangle what’s going on in my head and my heart.
When I return to the cabin, Dahlia’s nowhere to be found. I inch the bedroom door open, see her sleeping mound in a glint of light from the hallway.
I’m an ass. Proved it tonight. Pacing back into the living room, I stay by the fire, staring into the flames. My chest aches, full of something I can’t name.
Solitude is no longer enough. I want more. But how do I be enough for Dahlia?