CHAPTER 4 #3
Smoke was curling from the chimney. Good. He'd kept the fire going. The windows were still dark, curtains drawn, no movement inside. Either he was still asleep, or—
The door opened before I could knock.
Maverick stood there in sweatpants and a t-shirt that hung loose on his frame, hair sticking up in about seven different directions, eyes still half-closed with sleep. He blinked at me, confused, then seemed to wake up a little more.
"Clark?" His voice was rough with sleep, and the intimacy of catching him like this, soft and unguarded, made it hard to breathe. "What time is it?"
"Almost eight," I said. Tried not to stare at the way his t-shirt had slipped off one shoulder, exposing his collarbone. Tried not to think about what he'd look like first thing in the morning every morning, sleep-warm and tousled and mine to wake up.
I stared. I thought about it.
Both were mistakes.
"Oh." He ran a hand through his hair, making it worse. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sleep so late. Even if it's not that late. I couldn't fall asleep for a while and then when I finally did I guess I just—" He cut himself off, seeming to realize he was rambling. "Sorry. Hi. Good morning."
The corner of my mouth twitched. "Good morning. You sleep okay?"
"Yeah, eventually. The bed's really comfortable. And it was so quiet, you know? I'm used to traffic or people or... noise. This was just..." He gestured vaguely at the snow-covered property. "Peaceful."
"Storm's over," I said. "Dumped about two feet. Roads'll be closed for a few days at least."
His eyes widened. "A few days?"
"At least. County has to plow the main roads first then the rural routes. We're low priority out here." I watched his face, trying to gauge his reaction. Panic? Frustration? "That a problem?"
"No," he said quickly. Too quickly. Then, more honestly: "I mean, I don't want to impose on you for that long. You didn't sign up for a long-term houseguest."
"You're not imposing." The words came out rougher than I meant them to. "You're stuck. I have space. It's not a problem."
He looked at me for a long moment, and I could see him trying to figure out if I meant it or if I was just being polite. "Are you sure?"
"I don't say things I don't mean, Maverick."
The weight of his attention settled over me—trust, belief, something I hadn't realized I'd been hungry for. Like he believed me. Like he trusted me to tell him the truth even when it wasn't easy.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Thank you."
We stood there for a moment, him in the doorway and me on the porch, and I became acutely aware that he was in thin pajamas and I was blocking the warm air from the cabin.
"You eat breakfast yet?" I asked.
"No, I just woke up."
"Come to the house in half an hour. I'll make something."
It wasn't a question, and he didn't treat it like one. Just nodded, something almost like relief crossing his face. "Okay."
"And Maverick?" I waited until he met my eyes. "Put on warmer clothes. You'll freeze."
Without thinking, I reached out and adjusted the collar of his t-shirt where it had gone askew. My fingers brushed his neck, just briefly, and I felt him shiver. Not from cold.
That earned me a small smile, the first real one I'd seen from him. "Yes, sir."
He said it lightly, casually, probably didn't even realize what he'd said.
But I heard it. Felt it like a punch to the gut.
The air between us shifted, went heavy. His smile faltered as he seemed to catch up to his own words, his eyes widening slightly. His lips parted like he was going to take it back, apologize, laugh it off.
I didn't let him.
"Good," I said, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. Lower.
His breath caught. I watched his throat work as he swallowed.
We stood there for a beat too long, him in the doorway and me on the porch, and I could feel the pull between us like a physical thing. It would be so easy to step forward, to crowd him back into the cabin, to cup his face and tell him to say it again. Mean it this time. Know what he's offering.
My hands flexed at my sides, wanting.
Instead, I took a step back. Put distance between us before I did something we weren't ready for.
"Thirty minutes," I said, my voice still rough.
"I'll be there," he said quietly, and his voice was different too. Breathless. Aware.
I didn't look back. Didn't trust myself to.
Bear fell into step beside me as I headed back to the house, and I could feel his judgment even without looking at him.
"Don't start," I muttered.
He huffed, which I chose to interpret as agreement rather than commentary on my complete inability to handle one attractive twenty-six-year-old who said "yes, sir" like he was born to it.
I had twenty minutes to get my head on straight.
It wasn't going to be enough.
***
At eight-thirty, Gary called about the car situation.
"Talked to the county," he said without preamble. "Roads won't be clear until Friday at the earliest, and that's just the main ones. Yours? Probably Saturday, maybe Sunday."
I listened while watching Maverick through the kitchen window. Bear had found him as he walked towards the house. They were playing in the yard, both of them leaving deep tracks in the snow. Laughing at something. Looking younger and more carefree than I'd seen him yet.
"Clark? You there?"
"Yeah, I'm here. What about the car itself?"
"Got out there this morning when the snow let up. Had a look under the hood." Gary's tone turned serious. "It's bad, Clark. Cracked engine block. I can fix it but I need to order parts. Major parts."
Relief. Dangerous, undeniable relief.
"How long?"
"With the holidays coming up? Looking at a week minimum. Maybe more. If the block needs to be replaced..." Gary paused. "Could be two weeks, maybe three. I'll call when the parts come in."
Two weeks minimum. Maybe three.
"That's fine," I heard myself say. "No rush."
"No rush? Clark, you got someone stranded there. Most people would be chomping at the bit to—"
"It's not a problem," I cut him off. "Take your time. Do it right."
Another pause. "Okay. I'll call when I know more."
He hung up and I stood there with the phone in my hand. Two weeks minimum. Maybe three.
I should have felt concerned. Should have been thinking about the imposition, the disruption to my routine, the complication of having him here that long.
Instead, I felt relieved.
***
Ten minutes later, I was pulling a breakfast casserole out of the oven when the door burst open, bringing a rush of cold air, the smell of pine, and the sound of laughter.
Maverick stumbled in with Bear right behind him, both covered in snow. Maverick's cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, his eyes bright with joy as he wrestled Bear toward the door mat.
"Sorry, sorry," he said, breathless and laughing as Bear shook snow all over the entryway. "We got a little carried away out there."
He'd changed into jeans and a flannel over a thermal, his hair still damp like he'd tried to tame it in the bathroom before going outside. He had my gloves on his hands.
My gloves. On his hands.
Possessive satisfaction curled in my gut at the sight—entirely inappropriate, completely undeniable.
"Off," I said, nodding toward his coat.
He obeyed immediately, hanging it on the hook by the door like he'd done it a hundred times before. Like he belonged here.
Bear was already there, tail still wagging furiously, snow melting into puddles around his paws. Maverick dropped to his knees without hesitation, going right back to the play they'd just come from. "Okay, okay, one more minute of attention. Yes, you're such a good boy. The best boy, aren't you?"
I watched him for a moment—the easy affection, the genuine smile, the way he talked to Bear like they were old friends. The way Bear was eating it up, leaning into the attention like he'd been starved for it.
The way they'd already formed their own bond, out there in the snow while I'd been inside cooking. The way Maverick had made himself at home in my space, with my dog, in my life, without even trying.
We both had, apparently.
"Come eat," I said, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.
Maverick looked up at me, still smiling, and stood. "That smells incredible. What is it?"
"Breakfast casserole. Eggs, sausage, cheese, peppers. Nothing fancy."
"Nothing fancy," he repeated, moving to the table where I'd already set out plates and silverware. "You say that like you didn't build this cabin with your bare hands and make the best stew I've ever had from scratch."
"It's just food."
"It's really not." He sat down in the chair I'd pulled out—not the one from last night, but the one to my right at the head of the table. Closer. "But okay, we'll pretend it's just food if that makes you feel better."
I served him a generous portion, then one for myself, and sat down. For a moment we just ate in comfortable silence, the only sounds the clink of forks and the crackle of the fire I'd built in the main room fireplace.
"This is really good," Maverick said after a few bites. "Seriously. Do you cook like this all the time?"
"Usually. Easier than going to town for groceries every time I want a meal."
"Still. It's impressive." He took another bite, then seemed to hesitate before speaking again. "Can I ask you something?"
"Go ahead."
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
The question caught me off guard. I set down my fork and looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean..." He gestured vaguely with his fork. "You don't know me. I showed up on your property like a disaster, and you've given me a place to stay and fed me and made sure I'm warm and safe. You don't have to do any of that."
"Yes, I do."
"Why?"
Because you looked at me like I could fix everything. Because you waited for me to tell you what to do. Because you said 'yes, sir' this morning and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.
"Because it's the right thing to do," I said instead. "And because I have the space and the resources. Why wouldn't I help?"