Chapter 10
Wade
I lie awake on the couch, counting the seconds between the creaks and snaps of settling logs in the wood stove, the wind’s intermittent hard rattle against the glass. I can’t get comfortable. My legs don’t fit this old leather any better than my conscience fits things I wish I could do with Lilah.
I’ve never in my life wanted someone so badly and denied myself so hard. For years, I kept a list of lines I wouldn’t cross — most of them drawn for other people’s sake, not my own. I used to believe that made me a good man. Tonight, I’m not sure that’s true.
I picture Lilah in my bed, her injured ankle propped on a pillow.
I see her in my shirt, her bare legs tucked up, the line of her jaw soft as she turns onto her side.
I imagine the way her hair would look in the morning, pale gold and wild.
My body betrays me instantly, stiff and hot.
I try to adjust, but the couch springs creak and I just end up angrier at myself, hornier, more restless.
Lilah is under my roof, trusting me to keep her safe and help her heal from her fall. But I am the danger.
Finally, I drift to sleep only to be awoken what feels like five minutes later by moans and groans. They’re coming from Lilah. I throw off the blanket and sprint to my bedroom door peeking inside … wondering if she’s in pain.
Lilah is writhing in my bed, back half-arched, one hand knotted in the blanket, the other pressed between her thighs.
Her breath pours out in quick, desperate streaks.
The flannel shirt I gave her is pushed up revealing her breasts.
She is panting my name. She must be dreaming and touching herself without knowing it.
I step back, hand braced on the doorframe, the sight of her hitting me like a gut punch — sharp, then electric.
I should leave. I should close the door and pace the length of the house until my body calms down, but I can’t.
The images and sounds won’t disappear, and my cock is throbbing so hard it hurts.
I stand in the cold dark hall, watching her for a moment too long.
“Wade,” she says in a guttural moan, all heat and ache.
The sound nearly undoes me. I have one hand against the doorframe, and the other pressed hard into my thigh, because if I don’t anchor myself, I’ll go to her. I’ll give her what she’s begging for.
Finally, I make myself turn away, walking on legs that feel drunk and brittle, back to the living room. I sit down on the couch, sweating then stare at the orange eye of the fire’s glow until my eyes burn. Breath comes in tight, shallow bursts. My fists are clenched.
I want her. Not just the easy way — not just the get-off-and-get-over-it way — but the full, unfiltered, wreck-everything-and-start-over way. The kind that will stain my hands, my soul, my fucking friendship with Dave.
When the noises finally subside, I wait another three minutes, just to be sure, then stalk outside onto the porch.
The snow is coming down heavy and accumulating fast. But I welcome the cold on my face.
It’s the only thing that might keep me from doing something even more reckless than what I just witnessed.
God, I want her.
???
The storm worked overtime in the night. When I glance outside, the world’s gone white. The truck is half-buried, trees bowed under new weight, sky still thick with lazy flakes that refuse to quit. Colorado storms never last forever, but they always make a point before they’re done.
Coffee’s ready. I pour a mug and check my phone.
Caleb: Roads still iced. Staying at Ryan’s again. Starving (grouchy face)
I shake my head, half-smiling. Another message blinks in from Dave.
Dave: Highway closed both ways. I’m at the station for a double shift. You two good up there?
Me: She’s resting. Ankle’s stable. She’s staying off of it. Found some old crutches. We’re fine. Stay safe.
Dave: Copy that. Keep the kid out of trouble.
Kid. If he only knew.
When I turn, Lilah’s standing on the crutches in the hallway, wearing my flannel and yesterday’s determination. “Everything okay?” she asks.
“Yeah. Caleb’s working on his next meal plan, and your dad’s snowed in at the station.”
Her brow creases. “So nobody’s coming up this way.”
“Not till the plows get through.”
She glances toward the window where wind flings snow sideways. “Guess we’re stuck with each other.”
“Looks that way.”
The words hang between us, warmer than they should be. I set her a mug with hot coffee on the counter.
“Thanks,” she says, voice soft but sure. “For taking care of me.”
“Someone’s got to.”
“I can think of worse people to be snowed in with.”
She leans on the counter and smiles over the rim of her cup. That’s when I realize I’ve stopped hoping the roads clear. Part of me doesn’t want them to.
We eat eggs and toast by the fire because I’ve decided it’s easier for her. The storm’s still grumbling outside, but inside, things are heating up with the new fire in the hearth I started.
Lilah finishes her plate and leans back against the arm of the couch, her leg stretched out on a pillow. She’s scrolling her phone.
“Could be worse,” she says, glancing up through her lashes. “At least we’re snowed in with food and heat.”
“And bourbon,” I add.
“And bourbon,” she echoes, smiling.
I check her ankle. There’s no visible swelling, but she may be one of those people whose body doesn’t react with a build-up of inflammation on an injury.
“You have doctor hands.”
“Doctor hands?”
“Yeah … skilled, but gentle. And slightly bossy.”
I shake my head, but my mouth betrays me with a grin. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.” Her tone softens. “You’re good at taking care of people.”
“That’s the job.”
“Doesn’t mean everyone’s good at it.”
She’s looking at me now, too directly. For a long second neither of us moves. To break the spell, I stand and check the window. Snow’s still thick, swirling sideways. “Plows won’t make it up here till tomorrow.”
“So we have another day,” she says quietly.
“Looks like it.”
Her phone is working well. A call comes through. She puts it on speaker and Dave’s gravelly voice fills the room.
“Hey, Pumpkin. You holding up?”
“I’m good, Dad. Wade’s been incredible.”
“Well, he always is,” he says. “You’re in the safest place in the county. Just stay off that ankle. I’ll check in tonight.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you too, kiddo.”
The line clicks off, and she sets the phone down, eyes glancing toward me. “He trusts you a lot.”
I rub the back of my neck. “Guess that’s what twenty years of friendship does.”
“Must make this feel complicated.”
“Some things just are.”
She nods, thoughtful, then gestures toward the kitchen. “How about we make something sweet? I saw flour in your pantry.”
“You bake?”
“Photographers have to eat.”
I laugh, but the idea feels right. We need something normal to fill the afternoon.
I haul out ingredients as she rattles them off, setting them on the counter.
Before long, we’re elbow-deep in dough. She sits on a stool and insists on doing the mixing, refusing to let me call it off because of her ankle.
The cabin fills with the smell of cinnamon and sugar.
Snow still beats the windows. When the rolls come out, she leans against the counter, cheeks flushed from the oven’s heat.
“Tell me that doesn’t look perfect,” she says.
I tear one apart, hand her half. “Perfect,” I agree. “Even if we can’t leave the mountain, at least we’re eating like royalty.”
She laughs, and something in the sound relaxes all my senses. I pour two small bourbons, and carry it to the coffee table while she hobbles over on the crutches.
“To snow days,” I say.
“You ever notice,” she says softly, “how storms make everything slower? Like the world just … waits.”
I nod. “Yeah. Sometimes waiting’s the hardest part.”
For a moment, neither of us blinks. The air between us is so thick with everything we’re not saying.
Outside, the wind shifts — the storm’s voice lowers to a whisper.
Inside, the distance between us does the same.
She shifts closer, the blanket falling from her shoulder.
I move to pull it back up, and my fingers brush the curve of her collarbone. Her breath catches.
I start to pull away, but she lays her hand over mine. “You always do that,” she says quietly.
“Do what?”
“Take care of everyone but yourself.”
I can’t look at her when she says it, because she’s too right. “Old habits die hard.”
“Maybe some shouldn’t,” she murmurs. “Just … maybe let someone take care of you, too.”
Her thumb moves slightly against the back of my hand. It’s such a small touch, but it feels significant. I turn my palm to meet hers, fingers threading almost without thought.
“Lilah,” I say, meaning to warn, to remind, to stop this from becoming what it’s already become.
She lifts her chin, eyes steady on mine. “I know what I’m doing.”
The fire snaps, sending a flare of light between us, and that’s all it takes. I lean in before logic can rebuild the wall between us.
This kiss isn’t tentative like the first. It’s slow, deliberate, the kind that ends every argument you thought you needed to make. Her hand slides to my jaw. Mine finds the small of her back. Everything else disappears -- the snowstorm, the walls, and all rules.