CHAPTER 4 #4
He studied me for a moment, like he was trying to figure out if that was the whole truth. "Most people wouldn't."
"I'm not most people."
"Yeah," he said softly. "I'm starting to figure that out."
My throat went tight. Made me want to reach across the table, to touch his hand, to—
"Tell me about your work," I said, needing to change the subject before I did something we'd both regret. "You said you do graphic design?"
He nodded, seeming grateful for the shift. "Yeah. Logos, mostly. Some branding work, web design occasionally. It's freelance so I just pick up projects as they come."
"You like it?"
"I'm good at it," he said, which wasn't an answer. "And it lets me work from anywhere, so that's nice."
"But do you like it?"
He was quiet for a moment, pushing eggs around his plate. "I don't know. I guess I've never really thought about it that way. It's just... what I do. It pays the bills, lets me travel. That's enough, right?"
"Is it?"
He looked up at me, vulnerability in his expression. "I don't know," he admitted. "I used to think it was."
"What changed?"
"I'm not sure anything changed. It's just recently maybe I... slowed down long enough to notice I wasn't happy."
The honesty in that statement hit me harder than it should have. I recognized it—that moment of clarity when you realize you've been going through the motions so long you forgot there was supposed to be joy in it.
I'd had that moment five years ago when Mitch died. And then again yesterday, when a stranger with bright eyes and a restless energy stumbled onto my property and made me remember what it felt like to want something.
"You don't have to have it all figured out," I said finally. "Especially not at twenty-six."
"Did you have it figured out at twenty-six?"
"Hell no. I was building this place, trying to keep a business afloat, and figuring out how to be someone's husband." The memory didn't hurt the way it used to. "I didn't have anything figured out. Still don't, most days."
"You seem pretty figured out to me."
"That's because I'm old and stubborn and I've learned how to fake it."
That got me a real laugh, bright and genuine, and the tightness I'd been carrying loosened at the sound.
"You're not that old," Maverick said, still smiling.
"Forty-three. Gray in my beard. Knees that crack when I stand up too fast." I raised an eyebrow at him. "Pretty sure that qualifies as old."
"Forty-three is not old. It's..." He trailed off, his cheeks going a little pink. "It's distinguished."
"Distinguished."
"Yeah. Like... experienced. Capable." His blush deepened. "You know what, never mind, I'm going to stop talking now."
I should have let it go. Should have changed the subject, finished breakfast, sent him back to the cabin so I could get some work done and stop thinking about the way he was looking at me.
Instead, I leaned forward slightly. "Finish your thought."
"I really don't think I should."
"Maverick." Just his name, but I put weight behind it. Command. "Finish it."
He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on mine. "I was going to say it's attractive. The gray, the experience, the way you just... take charge of things." He let out a shaky breath. "Happy now?"
"Very."
The word came out low, almost a growl, and I watched his reaction. His breath stopped. His pupils dilated further, swallowing the hazel until his eyes were nearly black. His hands gripped his fork so tight his knuckles went white.
The pulse in his throat was racing.
I wanted to put my mouth there. Wanted to feel it flutter against my tongue, wanted to make it race faster.
My hands were flat on the table, fingers spread, and it took everything in me not to reach across the space between us. Not to grab his wrist like I had yesterday, pull him closer, find out if he'd resist or melt.
He wouldn't resist. I could see it in the way he was looking at me—wanting, waiting, just like he had when he'd stood in my driveway and let me decide what to do with him.
The air between us felt electric, charged with all the things we weren't saying. All the things we both wanted.
He licked his lips, nervous, and my hands tightened on the edge of the table.
Christ. I was forty-three years old and one nervous habit—one sweep of his tongue across his bottom lip—was enough to make me forget every reason this was a bad idea.
Except he wasn't a kid. He was a man who knew exactly what he was doing, even if he didn't fully understand why yet.
He was affected. Good.
So was I. Too much.
But this time, I didn't retreat completely. This time, I made a decision.
"Three days," I said quietly.
"What?" He blinked, confused by the shift.
"Three days. You have three days to think about what you want. What this is. What you're asking for." I held his gaze. "That gives us until Saturday night. Then we'll talk."
"Clark—"
"Today is Wednesday. I'm giving you until Saturday to think about whether this—" I gestured between us, "—is something you actually want. Or if it's just gratitude. Or boredom. Or being snowed in together."
His breath was coming faster now. "I know what I—"
"No. You don't. Not yet." I stood up, needing distance before I changed my mind. "Three days. Then we'll see."
I started clearing the dishes, and he just sat there, staring at me with wide eyes.
"What if I already know?" he asked quietly.
"Then you wait three days and tell me Saturday." I looked at him over my shoulder. "But Maverick? When Saturday comes, you better be sure. Because once I put my hands on you, I'm keeping them there."
He swallowed hard. "Okay."
"Good." I turned back to the dishes. "Now finish your breakfast. Then I'll show you around the property. Give you something to do besides sit in the cabin all day thinking."
"Yeah," he said, his voice still shaky. "Yeah, I'd like that."
We finished eating in silence, but it was different now. Charged. Aware. The countdown had started.
I could feel him watching me as I cleared the dishes. Could sense the questions he wasn't asking, the words he was holding back.
Good. Let him think. Let him want.
Let him come to Saturday knowing exactly what he was asking for.
Three days. Saturday evening.
I could feel the tension building already, stretching between us like a live wire.
Three days before I stopped being able to keep my hands to myself.
The smart thing would be to avoid him. Keep my distance.
But when I looked at him—sitting at my table in my too-big gloves, watching me with those hazel eyes that saw too much, responding to my voice like he was born for it—I knew I wasn't going to do the smart thing.
Not even close.
Saturday couldn't come fast enough.
Or maybe it was coming too fast.
I had no idea how I was going to keep my hands to myself that long.