11. Mabel
mabel
. . .
I wake up tangled in sheets that aren't mine, surrounded by a masculine scent that's becoming dangerously familiar again. For one peaceful moment, I exist in the limbo between dreams and reality—then panic hits me like a freight train when I realize where I am––in Cole Bennett's bed.
His strong arm is draped possessively across my waist, his breathing deep and even against my neck. The warmth of his body against mine feels too good, which is precisely why I need to leave. Now.
I try to slide out from under his arm, but he tightens his grip, pulling me closer against his chest. My treacherous body responds instantly, melting into his embrace despite my brain screaming at me to run.
"Where do you think you're going, Miss Maxwell?" His voice is husky with sleep, his lips brushing against my ear.
"My mother is probably wondering where I am." My voice sounds weak even to my own ears. "I can't just?—"
"Stay." He rolls me toward him, his hazel eyes now fully alert and focused entirely on me. "Just for a little while longer. Your mother saw you leaving with me. I’m sure she has an idea where you are."
Before I can protest, his mouth is on mine, and damn it, the man knows how to kiss. His lips are firm but gentle, coaxing rather than demanding, and I find myself responding despite my better judgment.
When he finally pulls away, I'm breathless and confused. This wasn't supposed to happen. I jumped into his arms then his bed before thinking things through. How could I be so reckless?
"Mabel." The way he says my name should be illegal. "I know you're freaking out right now."
"I'm not freaking out," I lie, even as I mentally calculate how quickly I can gather my clothes scattered across his bedroom floor.
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest against mine. "Your brain is practically smoking with all those thoughts racing through it."
"That's because I have responsibilities, Cole. Our lives are complicated and falling back in love with my high school sweetheart doesn’t exactly fit into the life I’ve created in Portland." I gesture vaguely between us.
His expression softens. "What if I told you I'd fit myself into this life of yours?
If you need to stay in Portland, I'll follow you and make it work. Hell, I'll open a branch of Cedar Bay Construction there. And if you want to stay, I’ll build you the fanciest law office you’ve ever seen and help you snag clients in all four nearby counties. "
I stare at him, speechless. "You can't just rearrange your entire life for me."
His thumb traces my lower lip. "That's where you're wrong, baby. I fucked up once and I ain’t doing it again. I’ll do whatever it takes to be your man again and there’s no way in hell I’ll let you get away.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. This isn't fair. He can't just say things like that, looking at me with those earnest eyes that still see the girl I was at eighteen. The girl who believed in forever before life taught her better.
"Cole..." I whisper, but I can't find the words to follow. My carefully constructed arguments dissolve under his gaze.
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare shoulder. "You don't have to decide anything right now. I just need you to know I'm all in this time."
I sit up, clutching the sheet against my chest, needing physical distance to think clearly. "You make it sound so simple."
"It is simple." He props himself up on one elbow, and I try not to stare at the way the sheet drapes low across his hips. "The complicated part was living without you all these years."
"That's not fair," I say, my voice catching. "You can't put that on me. We were kids."
"I'm not blaming you, Mabel." His voice is gentle but firm. "I'm saying I know what matters now. I've dated other women?—"
"Really? This is what you want to bring up right now?" I interrupt, raising an eyebrow.
He chuckles, running a hand through his tousled hair. "Let me finish. I've dated, but I've spent thirteen years comparing every woman to you. And they all knew it."
Something warm unfurls in my chest. I fight it, because hope is dangerous.
"I have a life in Portland," I say, but it sounds hollow even to me. "A career I've worked hard on for years."
Cole sits up fully now, the sheet pooling at his waist. "And I would never ask you to give that up. That's what I'm trying to tell you. I'll build my life around yours if that's what you need."
"And what about what you need?" I challenge.
His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. "I need you. Everything else is negotiable."
I look down at our joined hands, at how right they look together. "I can't make any promises."
"I'm not asking for promises." He lifts my chin with his free hand, forcing me to meet his eyes. "I'm asking for a chance."
The intensity in his gaze makes me tremble. This is Cole—not some smooth-talking city lawyer who knows all the right lines. When he makes a promise, he builds it as solid as the houses he creates.
"What if we try and it doesn't work?" I whisper, voicing my deepest fear.
"What if it does?" he counters, bringing my hand to his lips. "What if this is our second chance at something most people never find once?"
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the possibility that he might be right. When I open them again, he's watching me with such tenderness that something inside me breaks open.
"I have a meeting with a client on afternoon," I say finally. “I need to drive home by Monday morning.”
His brow furrows. "Okay..."
"But maybe I could come back next weekend. If you wanted to... talk more about this."
The smile that spreads across his face is like sunrise breaking over Cedar Bay—warm, familiar, and full of promise.
"I'll be here," he says, pulling me back into his arms. "And maybe by then, I'll have some blueprints to show you."
"Blueprints?" I ask against his chest.
"For your law office." He kisses the top of my head. "Just in case."
"You're impossible," I laugh, but it comes out breathier than intended.
"Impossible to resist," he corrects, rolling me beneath him in one fluid motion. His weight presses me into the mattress, a delicious reminder of last night's activities.
"Arrogant, too." I try to sound stern, but my hands betray me as they slide up his biceps. God, when did he get so... solid?
"Only because I know what I want." His lips trail down my neck, making coherent thought increasingly difficult. "And I want you, Mabel Maxwell. Always have."
I close my eyes, trying to hold onto my resolve even as it melts under his touch. "Cole, we need to talk about logistics. Portland is three hours away. Your business is here. My firm is there. We can't just?—"
"I meant what I said," he murmurs against my collarbone. "We'll figure it out. Maybe I'll spend half the week in Portland. Maybe you'll work remotely some days. Maybe?—"
"Maybe we're getting ahead of ourselves." I place my hands on his chest, creating a small space between us. "Last night was... incredible. But one night doesn't erase thirteen years."
His eyes, serious now, search mine. "No, it doesn't. But it's a start."
The sincerity in his voice chips away at my defenses.
This is the problem with Cole Bennett—he's never played games.
Even as teenagers, he was straightforward, reliable.
The guy who showed up early and stayed late.
The one who built me a bookshelf when my collection outgrew my room, who learned to dance just so he could take me to prom.
"I've changed," I warn him. "I'm not the girl you knew."
His smile is slow, devastating. "I'm counting on that. I want to know the woman you've become."
My phone buzzes from somewhere on the floor, breaking the moment. Cole sighs, rolling off me but keeping one arm draped across my middle.
"Real life calling?" he asks.
"Probably my mother," I groan, making no move to retrieve it. "She's going to have questions."
"Tell her I said hello." His grin is mischievous. "And that I still make her daughter's favorite french toast."
The domesticity of the comment startles me. "You remember my french toast addiction?"
"Extra cinnamon in the batter, not on top. Warm maple syrup and Nutella on the side." He shrugs as if remembering such details for thirteen years is perfectly normal. "Some things you don't forget and your sweet tooth is one of them."
I swallow hard. "Cole..."
"I know, I know." He raises his hands in surrender. "Too much, too soon. I'll dial it back."
But I'm not sure I want him to. That's what terrifies me. One night, and I'm already imagining weekend mornings with french toast, lazy kisses, and—no. I need to get a grip.
"I should shower." I sit up, clutching the sheet tighter.
"Need help washing your back?" His eyebrows waggle suggestively.
I throw a pillow at him. "I think you've helped enough for one morning."
His laughter follows me as I gather my clothes and retreat to his bathroom. Under the hot spray, I try to sort through the jumble of emotions. Physically, I feel incredible—satisfied in ways I'd forgotten were possible. Emotionally? I'm a wreck.
I've spent years building my career, establishing myself as someone to be taken seriously in Portland's legal community. The idea of complicating that with a long-distance relationship makes my stomach knot. But the alternative—walking away from Cole again—feels equally impossible.
When I emerge, wrapped in his towel, he's made the bed and is standing by the window in just his jeans, phone to his ear. The morning light plays across the planes of his back, highlighting muscles that definitely weren't there in high school.
"Yeah, I'll be there by noon," he's saying. "Just need to check the foundation first." He turns, spots me, and his entire expression softens. "Gotta go, Fox. I'll call you later."
He ends the call, tossing his phone onto the bed. "Work," he explains. "Nothing urgent."
"I should get going anyway." I clutch the towel tighter. "Let you get to your day."
"My day started perfectly." He crosses the room, hands settling on my hips. "But if you need to leave, I understand."
The temptation to stay is overwhelming. To crawl back into bed with him, to pretend the outside world doesn't exist. But that's not who I am anymore.
"I do." I step back, creating necessary distance. "But what about dinner tonight?"
His eyes light up. "Yes?"
"I'll call you in a few hours." I need an extra dose of Cole, before I return to Portland.
He nods, accepting this. "I'll be waiting."
Twenty minutes later, dressed and marginally more composed, I'm gathering my purse when Cole hands me a travel mug of coffee.
"For the road," he says. "Still take it with cream, no sugar?"
The fact that he remembers this tiny detail undoes me. I accept the mug, our fingers brushing. "Thank you."
At his front door, I hesitate. This is the moment to say something profound, to define whatever this is between us. But words fail me.
Cole seems to understand. He leans down, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "I look forward to seeing you tonight, counselor.”
It's not until I'm in my car, halfway down his driveway, that I realize I'm smiling. And that terrifies me more than anything.