Chapter 8
Wade
Snow is still falling when I finish wrapping her ankle. She’s tucked under a blanket on the couch, cheeks flushed from pain and firelight, trying to act like she’s fine. Tough kid. Tough woman, now.
“You’re going to have to stay off it awhile,” I tell her. “Bathroom’s down the hall. You can holler if you need a hand.”
She gives me a look that could thaw the drifts outside. “I’m not that helpless.”
“Didn’t say you were. Just saying hopping isn’t a plan.”
I glance toward the hall closet, thinking. There’s an old pair of aluminum crutches in there left over from a knee injury years back. Caleb used them once when he sprained his ankle during playoffs. They’ll do.
“Hang on,” I say, heading over. The metal clicks faintly as I pull them free, dusting off the grips.
Her brows lift. “You keep everything, don’t you?”
“Mountain living,” I say. “We recycle before we replace.”
She smiles, amused despite herself.
I kneel beside her to check the length. “Stand up … slowly. Let’s see where these hit.”
She pushes up on one leg, balancing against the arm of the couch. I steady her elbow without thinking, the heat of her skin startling through my palm. Her hair brushes my jaw as she straightens.
“Okay,” I say, forcing focus. “Hands go here. Weight on your good leg. Try a small step.”
She wobbles, laughs, and nearly tips into me. Instinct kicks in immediately. I catch her waist before she falls. For a second she’s against me, light and warm, breath catching against my chest.
“Sorry,” she says, voice softer now.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” I manage. My pulse disagrees, pounding hard enough I’m sure she can hear it. I clear my throat, adjust the crutches shorter. “Try again.”
This time she finds her balance, testing the motion across the rug. Determined, proud, stubborn as ever.
“See?” she says, grinning. “I’m mobile.”
“Barely.” I can’t help the smile that slips out. “Bathroom’s down the hall, second door on the left.”
“Yes, sir.” The teasing agreement in her voice hits me harder than it should.
When she disappears down the hallway, the cabin suddenly feels empty. I rake a hand through my hair and stare at the fire, trying to breathe past the image of her pressed against me, the scent of her shampoo, the sound of her laugh.
Lilah is my best friend’s daughter. And right now, she’s in my house. She’s stubbornly sweet and beautiful. And I’m one good intention away from making a mistake I can’t take back.
The phone rings just as she’s settling back on the couch, ankle propped high. Caleb’s name flashes on the screen.
“Hey, son.”
“Hey, Dad. Road’s icing over bad near the bridge,” he says. “Coach called it. We’re staying at Ryan’s place tonight. He’s got a spare room.”
“Good call,” I say, staring at the dark window beyond the fire. “Don’t push it in this weather.”
“You okay up there?”
“Fine. Lilah twisted her ankle on the ridge. She’s here until it’s steady enough for town.”
There’s a short pause, then the grin I can hear. “You and Lilah Grant, huh?”
“Don’t start.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, drawing out the words. “Stay warm.”
The line clicks dead before I can reply. I set the phone down and let out a slow breath. The cabin creaks softly, wind brushing at the eaves. Just me and her now. A part of me welcomes this – another part fears it. When I turn, she’s watching from the couch, one eyebrow raised.
“Bad roads?”
“Yeah. Caleb’s staying with friends tonight.”
“So … it’s just us.”
Her tone is casual, but her eyes give it away. Lilah’s curious, cautious, lit with something I shouldn’t name.
“Guess so,” I say. “You hungry yet?”
“Always.”
I move around the kitchen, pulling what I’ve got … venison stew from the freezer, a loaf of bread, butter that needs a little coaxing by the stove.
“You ever sit still?” she asks.
“Not much,” I admit. “Helps to keep my hands busy.”
“Cooking counts as art in my book.”
“Then I’ll take the compliment.”
When dinner’s ready, I carry the bowls to the coffee table in front of the couch and pull it diagonally so I can put a foot rest in front of her injured leg. She moves slowly, pushing up from the couch to a sitting position.
“Here, let me lift your leg onto this stool.”
“I can do it,” she says. She bends over at the waist, stubbornly independent, and I slide the cushioned footrest under the leg.
“Sit. I’ll get what you need.”
“Bossy,” she teases, but obeys.
We eat in the soft light of the fire, snow falling steady outside. Halfway through, I reach for the bottle on the shelf … good bourbon, smooth and amber.
“Helps the cold … and any pain,” I say, pouring a finger into each glass. “You can say no.”
She studies the glass, then lifts it. “Only one, please.”
We sip. The burn starts warm and low, loosening the edges around us.
“See?” I say. “Medicinal.”
“Right,” she says, smiling into the rim. “Doctor Lawson’s orders.”
The atmosphere feels charged with something beyond just helping her with a bum ankle. As we sit together on the couch, dining in front of the fire, I realize there’s a warm feeling I haven’t felt in a long time with a woman. I pour another bourbon for each of us, despite what she initially said.
When we’re finished eating, I toss another log on the fire. The flames flare and settle into a slow dance of orange and gold. I grab a second blanket, drape it over her legs, then tuck the edge around her.
“Better?”
“Yeah,” she says softly. “You take care of everyone, don’t you?”
I shrug, suddenly too aware of her eyes on me. “Old habits.”
“Your ex-wife must’ve loved that about you.”
The question catches me off guard. “She liked the parts that made her life easier. Not the parts that kept me gone into the mountains half the time.”
I poke the fire and watch sparks rise. She shifts, the blanket slips off. I reach to drape it back over her — innocent, automatic. The mood deepens. You can feel it in the air. I glance at her face, noticing the flames reflecting in her eyes, soft and bright.
“Wade…” Her voice is low, uncertain.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know what this is,” she says, “but I don’t want to keep pretending it’s nothing.”
For a second, everything in me freezes. The caretaker, the friend, the man trying to do the right thing. Then I see the truth in her face. It’s full of want and trust. I feel it inside me too. All that quiet I’ve been living in starts to sound like a lie.
I reach up, brush a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “Lilah …” Her name tastes like something dangerous, yet necessary.
Before either of us can think better of it, she pulls my flannel shirt down, and me along with it —just enough for her breath to meet mine.
The world narrows to firelight and our heartbeats.
And then she kisses me. The kiss is a bold move, but it feels spontaneous, not practiced.
It’s just a soft press of want and desire.
When she pulls back, her eyes search mine, waiting for permission, for regret, for something I can’t give her.
I exhale, slow. “That’s the kind of line we don’t cross lightly.”
“I know,” she whispers. “But maybe it’s one worth crossing.”
Outside, snow keeps falling. Inside, everything we’ve tried not to feel burns bright as the fire.