Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
KELSIE
Iwake slowly, awareness returning in gentle waves. Unfamiliar weight across my waist. Warmth at my back. The steady rhythm of someone else's breathing.
Tom.
Memories of last night flood my consciousness. His mouth on mine under the mistletoe. The walk home through gently falling snow. The way he looked at me as if I were something precious when I stood naked before him. The unexpected tenderness in his touch, as if he were memorizing every inch of me.
I keep my eyes closed, savoring the sensation of being held.
It's been so long since I've felt safe in someone's arms. Marcus treated intimacy like a transaction, something I owed him rather than something we shared.
Even in sleep, he maintained his distance, retreating to his side of the bed the moment he was satisfied.
Tom sleeps like he does everything else, with complete commitment. One arm wrapped firmly around my waist, his body curved protectively around mine, his breath warm against my neck. Even unconscious, he holds me like he's afraid I might disappear.
I carefully shift to face him, not wanting to wake him but needing to see his face. In sleep, the perpetual vigilance softens from his features. The furrow between his brows smooths out. The firm set of his mouth relaxes. He looks younger, more vulnerable, and impossibly handsome.
My heart swells with something I'm not ready to name. It's too soon, too overwhelming. Yet I can't deny that in just over a week, Tom Parker has become more important to me than I ever expected. This arrangement was supposed to be temporary. Convenient. Uncomplicated.
None of those words apply anymore.
His eyes flutter open, catching me watching him. For a moment, uncertainty crosses his features, as if he's remembering where he is, who I am, what happened between us. Then his eyes clear, and a slow smile transforms his face.
"Morning," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
"Morning." I resist the urge to touch his face, uncertain of the rules in this new territory we've entered. "Sleep well?"
"Better than I have in years." He makes no such attempt at restraint, his hand coming up to brush a wayward curl from my cheek. "You?"
"Like a rock," I admit. "No talking in my sleep?"
"Not that I heard." His smile widens. "Though you do snore."
"Only a little." I smile back, something warm and buoyant expanding in my chest. "More like gentle thunder than a chainsaw."
His laugh, still rare enough to feel like a gift, rumbles through the quiet room. His hand settles at my waist, thumb tracing idle circles on my skin through the borrowed t shirt I slipped on sometime in the night.
"What time is it?" I ask, reluctant to break the moment but aware of responsibilities beyond this bed.
He glances at the clock on the nightstand. "Almost nine."
"Nine?" I bolt upright. "I never sleep this late. I have writing to do. You probably have sheriff duties."
"It's Sunday." His hand tugs me gently back down. "It’s a day of rest. Even for sheriffs and writers."
I allow myself to be pulled back into his embrace, surprised by how easily I yield to the suggestion. Normally, I'm up by six, anxious to make the most of my productive hours. But nothing about my time in Whisper Vale has been normal.
"I've written more in the past week than in the previous eight months," I tell him, settling against his chest. "Whatever creative drought I was experiencing is definitely over."
"Glad to hear it." His fingers trace lazy patterns along my spine. "This book about the divorced artist finding love with the grumpy mountain local?"
Heat rises to my cheeks. "It might bear some resemblance to recent experiences."
"Should I be worried about how it ends?" There's humor in his voice, but something else beneath it. Vulnerability, perhaps.
"I haven't decided yet." I trace the outline of a small scar on his chest. "Still figuring out if these two stubborn people can overcome their fears and pasts."
"And what does your professional assessment say?" His hand stills on my back. "As a romance writer."
"Romance stories always end with happily ever afters," I remind him. "Or at least happily for now."
"And does that transfer to real life?"
The question hangs between us, weighted with implication. I raise my head to meet his eyes, finding them serious and searching.
"Real life is messier," I admit. "More complicated. But sometimes, if you're lucky, even better than fiction."
His eyes soften at that. He leans down to press his lips to mine, a gentle, almost reverent kiss that makes my toes curl. When he pulls back, I see something in his expression that both thrills and terrifies me.
"Hungry?" he asks, the mundane question grounding us back in the present.
"Starving." I stretch, feeling pleasantly sore in places I'd forgotten could feel anything at all. "Last night was quite the workout."
His gaze darkens at the reminder, and for a moment I think he might suggest breakfast can wait. Instead, he sits up, sheets pooling around his waist.
"Pancakes?" he suggests. "I make decent ones."
"Sheriff Parker cooks?" I raise an eyebrow in mock surprise. "Will wonders never cease."
"Don't get too excited." He swings his legs over the side of the bed, giving me an appreciation of his impressive back muscles. "Pancakes and bacon are about the extent of my culinary skills. Raised Savannah on them, though, so they must be passable."
I watch as he pulls on sweatpants, admiring the casual grace of his movements. "I'm sure they're wonderful."
"We'll see." He turns back to me, and the look on his face makes my breath catch. Like he's seeing something precious and unexpected. "Take your time. Bathroom's all yours."
After he leaves, I allow myself a moment to just breathe, to process the seismic shift that's occurred in my life.
A week ago, I was a blocked writer with a failed marriage and a career in jeopardy.
Now I'm in bed with a man who makes me feel things I never knew were possible, words flowing from my fingertips like magic, rediscovering parts of myself I thought were lost forever.
The bathroom mirror reveals a woman I barely recognize. My hair is a riot of curls, my lips slightly swollen from kisses, my eyes bright with something that looks suspiciously like happiness. There's a small mark on my neck, a reminder of Tom's enthusiasm that sends a thrill through my body.
I shower quickly, wrapping myself in one of Tom's oversized towels before venturing back to the bedroom. My clothes from last night are scattered across the floor. I gather them up, folding each item neatly, a small ritual to collect my thoughts.
The scent of coffee and bacon wafts up the stairs, domestic and inviting in a way that tugs at something deep inside me. I slip into fresh clothes, nothing fancy, just jeans and a soft sweater, but I take extra care with my hair, a small vanity I haven't bothered with in months.
Downstairs, I find Tom at the stove, his back to me, flipping pancakes with surprising skill. He's put on a t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders, and his hair is still mussed from sleep and my fingers. The casualness of the scene makes my heart squeeze painfully.
"That smells incredible," I say, coming up behind him.
He turns, spatula in hand, and the smile that spreads across his face when he sees me makes my knees weak. "Coffee's fresh. Help yourself."
I pour a cup, then lean against the counter beside him, watching his hands as he works. They're large and capable, the same hands that touched me with such gentleness last night now expertly flipping pancakes.
"You're staring," he notes, though he doesn't seem displeased.
"Just appreciating the view." I sip my coffee, enjoying the slight flush my comment brings to his cheeks. "Never thought I'd see the stern sheriff making me breakfast after thoroughly ravishing me."
His eyebrows shoot up at my boldness, but his lips quirk in that almost smile I'm coming to adore. "Thoroughly, huh? Good to know."
We eat at the small kitchen table, knees touching underneath, the meal punctuated by glances that carry more meaning than words. The pancakes are, as promised, decent. The company makes them exceptional.
"Plans for today?" Tom asks as we clear the dishes together.
"I should write," I say, though the prospect of spending the day alone seems less appealing than usual. "The words are flowing, and I don't want to lose momentum."
He nods, understanding in his eyes. "I have a few things I can check at the station. Nothing urgent."
An awkward silence falls, neither of us quite sure how to navigate this new territory. Are we spending the day together? Do we need space? The unspoken questions hang between us.
"I could write for a few hours," I suggest finally. "Then maybe we could do something this afternoon?"
Relief crosses his features. "Sounds perfect."
"Any suggestions?"
He considers this, head tilted slightly. "There's a trail around the lake. Not too strenuous. Good views."
"A walk sounds nice." I find myself already looking forward to it, to spending more time with him outside the house. "Meet back here at one?"
"It's a date." He says it casually, then freezes, as if suddenly uncertain whether the term applies.
"A date," I confirm, reaching up to press a quick kiss to his lips. "Our first official one, I believe."
His arms slide around my waist, keeping me close. "Unless you count the tree lighting."
"That wasn't planned." I rest my hands on his chest, feeling his heartbeat strong and steady. "This is intentional."
"Very intentional," he agrees, bending to kiss me more thoroughly.
What begins as a simple goodbye escalates quickly, his hands tangling in my freshly combed hair, my body pressing closer to his. When we break apart, we're both breathing harder.
"At this rate, neither of us will get anything done today," I murmur against his lips.
"Would that be so terrible?" His eyes have darkened to that stormy gray that makes my insides melt.