CHAPTER 5
Maverick
Thursday morning I woke up thinking about his hands on my face.
Day one of the three Clark had given me as if I didn't know exactly what I wanted. Forty-eight more hours until Saturday when I'd get what I wanted.
The property was even more beautiful in daylight.
Clark led me through rows of Christmas trees, Bear bounding ahead through the snow, and I couldn't stop taking pictures.
The way the morning sun hit the frost-covered branches.
The patterns the wind had made in the drifts.
Clark's profile as he checked a tree for damage, his breath visible in the cold air.
Especially that last one.
The fact that half my photos were of Clark—checking trees, moving through snow, his breath visible in the cold—was purely professional interest in composition and lighting. Obviously.
"You always take this many pictures?" Clark asked, glancing back at me.
I lowered my phone, feeling my face heat despite the cold. "Pretty much. Occupational hazard. I see compositions everywhere."
"Show me."
It wasn't a request.
I hesitated for a second, then moved closer and pulled up my camera roll. Clark stood beside me, close enough that I could feel his warmth, and I tried not to think about how good he smelled—pine and woodsmoke and something that was just him.
"These are from the last few weeks," I said, scrolling through. Mountains in Wyoming. A diner in Nebraska. The sunset yesterday before my car died. "I just... I don't know. I like capturing moments."
"You're good," he said, and something in his tone made me look up. He wasn't just being polite. He meant it. "You have an eye for this."
"Thanks." The compliment shouldn't have made me feel this warm. "It's just a hobby, though."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why just a hobby?" He was looking at me now, not the phone. "If you're good at something and you enjoy it, why not make it more than that?"
I didn't have a good answer. Or maybe I did, and I just didn't want to say it out loud. Because making it more than a hobby meant committing. Meant risking failure at something I actually cared about.
"I don't know," I said finally. "Never really thought about it."
Clark held my gaze for a moment, like he knew I was lying, then turned back to the trees. "Come on. Want to show you something."
I followed him deeper into the property, past the neat rows of trees to a section that was older, more wild. The pines here were massive, probably forty or fifty feet tall, with branches heavy with snow.
"This is where my grandfather started," Clark said, stopping in front of a particularly large tree. "1952. He planted these first twenty trees himself, built the business from nothing."
I looked up at the tree, trying to imagine it as a sapling. "And you inherited it?"
"Ten years ago. He left it to me when he died." Clark's hand rested on the trunk, gentle. "Mitch—my husband—he loved this place. Used to say the trees had personalities."
It was the first time he'd mentioned his husband by name. I stayed quiet, letting him talk.
"He'd name them," Clark continued, a small smile on his face. "Spent hours out here, just walking and talking to them. Thought I was ridiculous when I started doing the same thing after he died."
"I don't think it's ridiculous."
He looked at me, his expression softening. "No?"
"No. I think..." I chose my words carefully. "I think we all talk to something. Some people talk to themselves, or to God, or to their plants. You talk to trees. It's the same thing."
"And what do you talk to, Maverick?"
The question caught me off guard. "I don't know. Nobody, I guess. I just... keep moving."
"Maybe that's the problem."
The words were quiet but they hit hard. I wanted to argue, to deflect with a joke, but he was looking at me with those perceptive eyes that saw too much, and I couldn't find the words.
"Come here," he said instead, gesturing to the tree. "Feel this."
I stepped closer, and he took my hand—not the gentle touch from yesterday, but firm, deliberate—and placed my palm flat against the bark.
"Feel that?" he asked, his hand covering mine, keeping it pressed to the tree. "The texture. The cold. The life underneath."
I could feel it. But mostly I could feel his hand on mine, the warmth of him at my back, the way my heart was doing that stupid racing thing again.
"This tree's been here longer than either of us," Clark said, his voice close to my ear. "It's weathered storms, droughts, harsh winters. It's still here. Still growing."
"Because it has roots," I said quietly.
"Because it has roots," he agreed.
We stood there for a moment, his hand still covering mine, and I knew we weren't really talking about trees anymore.
Then he stepped back, breaking the contact, and I immediately missed his warmth.
"Let's keep going," he said. "Got a few more things to check."
I followed him, my hand still tingling where he'd touched it, trying to figure out what the hell was happening to me.
***
We spent the next hour walking the property. Clark showed me how to identify different types of pines, how to check for disease or pest damage, and how to tell if a tree was ready for harvest. He was patient, explaining things thoroughly, and I found myself genuinely interested.
Or maybe I was just interested in watching him work.
The way he moved with such confidence and purpose.
The way his hands were gentle with the trees but strong enough to snap branches when needed.
The way he'd occasionally look at me to make sure I was keeping up, like he was checking on me without making it obvious.
It was doing things to me.
At one point, I slipped on an icy patch, and his hand shot out to steady me—fingers wrapping around my waist, firm and sure. He held me there for a beat longer than necessary, and I felt the heat of his palm through my coat, through my layers, like he was branding me.
"Careful," he said, his voice low.
"Yeah," I managed, breathless. "Careful."
He let go slowly, his hand sliding away, and I immediately missed the contact.
A few minutes later, he stopped to check a tree and noticed my scarf had come loose. Without a word, he reached out and adjusted it, his fingers brushing my throat as he tucked it back into my coat.
"Stay warm," he murmured, and the casual intimacy of the gesture—the way he just took care of it without asking—made my breath catch.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it, not wanting to break the moment. But it buzzed again.
"You should check that," Clark said, noticing my distraction.
I pulled out my phone. Another missed call from Mom. A voicemail notification I hadn't listened to yet.
"Everything okay?" Clark asked.
"Yeah, just... my mom. She's been trying to reach me." I shoved the phone back in my pocket. "I'll call her back later."
Clark studied me for a moment, then nodded. "You cold?" he asked as we headed back toward the main house.
"A little," I admitted. My face was numb and my fingers were getting stiff despite the gloves he'd given me.
He frowned, looking me over in that assessing way of his. "How long have you been cold?"
"I don't know. A while?"
His jaw tightened. "And you didn't say anything?"
"I didn't want to cut the tour short. I was having fun."
"Maverick." There was that tone again. Not angry, but firm. Disappointed, maybe. "If you're cold, you tell me. Understood?"
Something about being scolded for not taking care of myself shouldn't have made my breath catch. But it did.
"Understood," I said quietly.
"Inside. Now."
I went.
The main house was blessedly warm. Clark steered me toward the fire, which was crackling away in the large stone fireplace, and pointed to the couch.
"Sit."
I sat.
He disappeared into the kitchen and I heard the sound of a kettle being filled. Bear came and laid down at my feet, warming them with his massive bulk.
A few minutes later, Clark returned with two mugs. He handed me one, and I wrapped my hands around it gratefully.
"Hot chocolate," he said, sitting down in the chair across from me. Not close, but close enough. "Drink."
I took a sip and nearly moaned. It was incredible—rich and creamy with a hint of cinnamon. "Oh my god. This is amazing."
"My husband's recipe," Clark said, watching me over the rim of his own mug. "He made it from scratch every winter."
"He had good taste." I took another sip, letting the warmth spread through me. "Thank you for this. For all of this, actually. The tour, the breakfast, the cabin. Everything."
"You don't have to keep thanking me."
"I kind of do, though. You've been..." I struggled to find the right words. "You've been taking care of me since the second I showed up. Nobody really does that."
"Maybe they should."
The way he said it—simple, matter-of-fact, like it was obvious—made my chest ache.
We sat in comfortable silence for a while, drinking our hot chocolate, listening to the fire crackle. Bear snored softly at my feet. Outside, the snow had started falling again, light flurries that made everything feel even more isolated and peaceful.
This felt dangerous. Not the storm or the cold or being stranded. This. The comfort. The ease. The way I didn't want to leave.
"Can I ask you something?" I said after a while.
Clark nodded.
"When you said you've been alone for five years... do you like it? The solitude?"
He was quiet for a long moment. "I thought I did. It was easier than trying to connect with people again. Easier than risking..." He trailed off.
"Risking what?"
"Losing someone else."
The honesty in that answer made my throat tight. "I get that."
"Do you?" He was looking at me now, really looking. "Is that why you keep moving? So you don't have to risk staying?"
God, he saw right through me. "Maybe."
"Maybe," he repeated, the ghost of a smile on his face. "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think we're both scared. Just in different ways."
"What are you scared of?" I asked.