CHAPTER 4 #2
I picked up my spoon, but I couldn't help watching him as he settled into his chair. He was too big for the small space, all broad shoulders and contained strength, but somehow he made it work. Made it seem like he belonged here, like he belonged everywhere.
The stew was incredible. Rich and hearty and exactly what I needed. The sound I made on the first bite wasn't dignified, and from the way Clark's gaze sharpened, he'd definitely noticed.
"Good?"
"It's perfect," I said honestly. "Did you make this?"
"Yeah."
"You cook, you build furniture, you run a Christmas tree farm... is there anything you can't do?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Plenty."
We ate in silence for a few minutes and it should have been awkward but somehow it wasn't. The fire crackled, the wind howled outside, and here we were—two strangers sharing a meal in a snowstorm.
It felt weirdly intimate.
"So," I said, because I couldn't help myself, "do you get a lot of stranded travelers showing up here?"
"No."
"Just me, then. Lucky me."
"Lucky you're not frozen on the side of the road." His voice was dry, but there was humor underneath—subtle, but there. "What were you doing out here anyway? Not many people drive through in December unless they're heading somewhere specific."
"Just... driving." I shrugged, going for casual even though the question made me feel exposed. "I've been on the road for a while. Seeing the country, working freelance, staying wherever feels right."
"For how long?"
"Four years, give or take."
His eyebrows rose slightly. "Four years of just... driving around?"
"Pretty much." I took another bite of stew, not meeting his eyes. "I do graphic design, so I can work from anywhere. Figured I'd take advantage of that."
"Where's home?"
The question landed heavier than it should have.
"I don't really have one. I mean, I grew up in the suburbs of Denver, but I haven't been back there in years.
My parents still live there, but..." I trailed off, not sure how to explain the restlessness, the feeling that staying in one place too long made my skin itch.
Clark was quiet for a moment, watching me with those perceptive eyes. "You running from something or toward something?"
The question hit me square in the chest. No one had ever asked me that before. Not directly. Not like they actually wanted to know the answer.
"I don't know," I admitted quietly. "Maybe both? Maybe neither?"
He nodded slowly, like that made sense to him somehow. There was something in his expression—not judgment, but assessment. Like he was taking my measure, figuring out what kind of person sat across from him.
Like he was deciding something.
It made me acutely aware of how young I probably looked. How directionless. The space between us suddenly felt wider than the small table.
"How old are you, Maverick?"
"Twenty-six. You?"
"Forty-three."
Seventeen years. The number settled between us, heavy with implication.
"Does that bother you?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"Does what bother me?"
"The age difference. I mean—" I stumbled over the words, feeling my face heat. "Not that there's anything to—I just meant—"
"I know what you meant." His voice was calm, steady. "And no. It doesn't bother me."
The way he said it—direct, unflinching, like it was the simplest fact in the world—made my pulse kick up.
Made my chest feel tight. Made me realize that some part of me had been holding my breath waiting for his answer, and now that I had it, I didn't quite know what to do with the relief flooding through me.
Or the heat.
"Oh." My pulse kicked up, heat spreading through my chest. "Okay."
His eyes stayed on mine for a beat longer, like he could see exactly what that admission was doing to me. Like he knew.
"Finish your stew."
I did, conscious of his eyes on me and of the way the small cabin suddenly felt even smaller with both of us in it. When I'd soaked up the last of the broth with my bread and set down my spoon, Clark stood and started clearing the dishes.
"I can do that," I said, starting to rise.
"Sit." One word. Firm. Final.
I sat.
He washed the dishes in the small sink, his movements efficient and practiced. I watched the way his shoulders moved under the henley, the careful way those big hands handled the bowls.
When he finished, he dried his hands on a towel and turned back to me. "Storm's supposed to get worse overnight. You have everything you need?"
"Yeah, I'm good. Really. Thank you for dinner."
He nodded but he didn't move toward the door. Just stood there, looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Clark?" I said after a moment.
"You should lock the door after I leave," he said finally. "Just in case."
"In case of what? Rogue Christmas trees?"
That almost-smile again. "In case."
"Okay."
He moved toward the door, and I followed him, suddenly not wanting him to leave even though I knew he had to. At the threshold, he paused and looked back at me.
"My number's in your phone. If you need anything—anything at all—you call me. Understood?"
There was that commanding tone again, the one that made my stomach flip and my brain go a little fuzzy.
"Understood," I said, and my voice came out quieter than I meant it to.
His eyes held mine for a long moment—long enough that my breath caught, long enough that I wondered if he could see exactly what I was thinking.
Then he stepped out onto the porch, and the cold air rushed in between us.
"Goodnight, Maverick."
"Goodnight, Clark."
I watched him walk back toward the main house, his figure dark against the swirling snow, until he disappeared from view. Then I closed the door, locked it like he'd told me to, and leaned back against it.
My heart was racing.
This was going to be a very long couple of days.
And I wasn't entirely sure I minded.
CHAPTER 4
Clark
I hadn't slept well.
That wasn't unusual. I hadn't slept well in five years, not since Mitch died and left me with a bed that felt too big and a house that felt too empty. But last night was different.
Last night, I laid awake thinking about hazel eyes and a bright smile and the way Maverick had looked at me when I'd told him to sit. The way he'd obeyed without question, without hesitation, like some part of him had been waiting for exactly that.
The way I'd almost touched him at the door.
I'd caught myself just in time, but my hand still tingled with the phantom sensation of what it would have felt like—his cheek, maybe, or his jaw, or that mess of hair that needed a cut. Warm skin. Soft. Young.
Too young for a grief-hollowed forty-three-year-old who'd spent the last five years talking to trees and a dog.
Bear whined from his spot at the foot of the bed, like he could sense my thoughts spiraling.
"I know," I muttered, throwing off the covers. The bedroom was cold, the house settling in the pre-dawn dark. Outside, the storm had finally stopped sometime around three in the morning, leaving everything buried under at least two feet of fresh snow.
Which meant the roads would be impassable for days. Which meant Maverick wasn't going anywhere.
Which meant I needed to get my shit together and stop thinking about how he'd looked sitting at a table I'd built, eating the dinner I'd made him, responding to my voice like—
I cut that thought off and headed for the shower.
The hot water helped but not enough. I kept thinking about the cabin, about whether Maverick had slept okay, whether he'd kept the fire going, and whether he was warm enough. Whether he was awake yet, or still curled up in that bed, soft and vulnerable and—
I pressed my forehead against the tile, letting the hot water beat down on my shoulders.
I was losing my mind. One evening of playing host and I was already obsessing over a stranger like some kind of—
Like someone who hadn't felt anything in five years and was suddenly feeling everything all at once.
I turned off the water and got dressed, pulling on my usual work clothes—henley, flannel, jeans, boots. Bear was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, tail wagging hopefully.
"Yeah, yeah," I told him. "Breakfast first, then we check on our guest."
Our guest. Not my guest. Ours. Like Bear had any say in Maverick being here.
Like I had any business thinking of him as anything other than a temporary inconvenience who'd be gone as soon as the roads cleared.
I fed Bear, made coffee, and stood at the kitchen window watching the sun rise over the snow-covered trees.
The property looked peaceful, untouched except for the path I'd need to shovel to the cabin.
Beautiful, in that way winter mornings were when you'd lived with them long enough to appreciate them instead of cursing them.
Mitch had loved mornings like this. Would stand right here with his coffee, talking about his plans for the day, making me laugh with some story about a customer or a tree or Bear doing something ridiculous.
I waited for the guilt. For the familiar ache that came whenever I thought about him, about the life we'd had, about moving on without him.
It didn't come.
Or it did, but it was softer than usual. Distant. Like it was making room for something else.
That should have worried me more than it did.
I finished my coffee, pulled on my jacket and boots, and headed outside with Bear.
The cold hit immediately. The sky was that impossible blue that only happened after a storm, the sun glinting off snow so bright it hurt to look at directly. I'd need to dig out the plow attachment for the ATV, clear the driveway, check the trees for damage from the heavy snow.
But first, I needed to check on Maverick.
The path to the cabin wasn't too bad—I'd walked it enough times yesterday that it was somewhat packed down. Still, I grabbed the shovel from the shed and cleared it properly, making sure he'd have a safe way to the main house if he needed it.
When I reached the cabin, I paused on the porch.