Chapter 4
Chapter Four
K ing
I don’t invite people over. Hell, I don’t even entertain the thought. My cabin is my space, a sanctuary where the world doesn’t reach me unless I let it. But tonight, she’s here, sitting at my kitchen table with that damn soft smile that’s been haunting me for three days.
Indie Burton. The city girl who swears she isn’t one.
She’s wearing jeans and a sweater that hugs her in all the right ways, her hair loose and wild around her shoulders. She fits in here like she was made for it, but that thought grates against the walls I’ve built around myself.
“You don’t strike me as a man who throws dinner parties,” she teases, swirling her wine in her glass. “I should be feeding you.”
“Come again?” I huff.
“For helping me get my car out of the ditch.” She pauses. “And changing the oil too.”
“No problem–these mountains are hard on a toy car like yours. More maintenance required. And anyway–you delivered my nephew safe and sound and took care of Bella–I appreciate that,” I reply, gruff as always. I delivered her car to her last night, and then without thinking, invited her to dinner. “And this is hardly a dinner party.”
Her laugh is soft, warm. It slides under my skin and settles there, making me shift in my chair.
“It’s nice,” she says, looking around. Her eyes land on the fireplace, where the flames cast flickering shadows across the room. “Cozy.”
I grunt in response, focusing on my plate. The steak’s cooked perfectly, the potatoes crisp, and yet I can’t bring myself to care. She’s too damn distracting, her presence pulling my attention like a magnet.
“Do you ever relax?” she asks, tilting her head to study me.
“This is me relaxed,” I deadpan.
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she leans back, sipping her wine like she’s completely at ease.
“You live alone out here?”
“Always have,” I say, my voice steady.
“Doesn’t it get lonely?”
I shrug. “I like the quiet.”
She nods, her gaze dropping to her plate. For a moment, the room is filled with nothing but the crackle of the fire and the clink of her fork against the ceramic.
“What about you?” I ask, surprising even myself. “Why Copper Mountain?”
She looks up, her expression unreadable. “I needed a change.”
“From what?”
Her fingers tighten around her glass, the movement so small I almost miss it. Almost.
“From everything,” she says, her voice softer now.
I lean back, watching her closely. There’s something in the way she says it, like she’s carrying a weight no one else can see.
“You running from something?”
Her eyes snap to mine, sharp and guarded. “What makes you think that?”
“Because I know what it looks like,” I say simply.
She exhales, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m running toward something.”
“And what’s that?”
She hesitates, then looks at the fire. “I’ve always wanted to belong somewhere. I thought I found it once, but I was wrong.”
The honesty in her words hits me harder than I expect. I don’t know why I asked, and I sure as hell don’t know why it matters, but it does.
“Sometimes it’s not about finding a place,” I say after a long pause. “Maybe it’s about finding a person.”
Her head turns, her eyes meeting mine. There’s something in that look, something raw and unspoken that pulls tight in my chest.
“Is that what you’ve done? Found your person?”
I shake my head, a bitter chuckle escaping me. “Not yet.”
She smiles faintly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. The firelight dances across her face, highlighting the softness of her features and the vulnerability she’s trying so hard to hide.
I don’t think. I reach out, my fingers brushing hers where they rest on the table. The contact is brief, but it’s enough to send a jolt of electricity up my arm.
She looks down at our hands, then back up at me. Her lips part, but no words come out.
“Indie,” I say, my voice low.
“Yeah?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Instead, I lean across the table, closing the distance between us. Her breath hitches, and for a second, I think she might pull away. But she doesn’t.
Our lips meet, soft at first, tentative. Then the dam breaks.
She tastes like wine and something sweeter, something uniquely her. My hand cups her face, my thumb brushing against her cheek as I deepen the kiss. She makes a sound, a soft whimper that shoots straight to my gut.
When we finally pull apart, her eyes are wide, her lips swollen.
“That was...” she starts, then trails off.
I smirk. “Unexpected?”
“Yeah,” she breathes, her voice shaky.
For a moment, we just stare at each other, the air between us thick with tension.
“You’re dangerous, cowboy,” she says finally, a small smile tugging at her lips.
“So are you,” I reply, my voice rough, “city girl.”
She laughs, the sound breaking the tension and filling the room with warmth.
“Guess we’re even then,” she says, her tone lighter now.
“Guess so.”
We finish dinner in relative silence, the crackle of the fire the only sound. But the tension doesn’t fade. If anything, it grows, coiling tighter with every stolen glance, every brush of fingers.
When the plates are cleared and the wine is gone, I walk her to the door. The night air is cold, biting against my skin, but I barely notice.
“Thanks for dinner,” she says, her voice soft.
“Anytime,” I reply, meaning it more than I should.
She hesitates, then leans in, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek.
“Goodnight, King,” she whispers, her breath warm against my skin.
“Goodnight, Sugar.”
I watch her walk to her car, my chest tight and my mind spinning.
She’s not just dangerous. She’s a wildfire. And I’m not sure I want to put her out.