Chapter 6
Willa
The water turns ice cold halfway through rinsing the conditioner from my hair.
I yelp, stumble back from the spray, and fumble for the knobs before my spine freezes solid.
Great.
Either the hot water tank is ancient or someone around here thinks plumbing is a form of character building.
Wrapped in a towel and shivering, I hop across the freezing tile floor, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind me. This old bakery might be charming, but it’s got quirks. The kind that wait for the perfect moment to strike, like when you’re half-naked and vulnerable.
I swipe a hand across the fogged-up mirror. My reflection blinks back, flushed and frazzled. Hair twisted on top of my head. Lips still pink from Sebastian Ford’s kiss.
The memory hits like heat after frostbite. The steady press of his mouth. The way his hand anchored me, warm and sure. The way my whole body leaned into him like it had always known how.
I inhale sharply and blow it out slow, trying not to think too much. Or maybe not to feel too much.
Instead, I wrap my towel tighter, tug on the fluffy robe that barely qualifies as a layer, and set off in search of the water heater.
There’s a narrow door in the back hallway, could be a utility closet. I pull it open.
A broom. A bent mop. No heater.
I swear under my breath and close the door with a soft thud.
That’s when I remember the little shed I spotted earlier behind the bakehouse. Squat. Weathered. Wired for power, judging by the rusted meter box hanging off the side.
If the water heater isn’t inside the building, it has to be out there.
I hesitate at the back door. Beyond the glass, snow clings to the railing, thick and stubborn. I’ll just be a second. In, out. Hit a switch, maybe. Whatever it takes to avoid a full-body ice bath.
I open the door.
The cold hits like a slap.
I wince, step outside barefoot, towel cinched, robe flapping in the wind like a defeated flag.
The shed is maybe five steps away. Six, tops.
I hustle across the porch, down the icy steps, and shove the warped shed door open with a grunt. The water heater crouches inside like a hulking metal beast, half-frozen and not the least bit friendly. I spot a red reset switch, press it once.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
A gust of wind whooshes behind me. Then, I hear the click.
I freeze.
Turn slowly.
The porch door has swung shut.
Please, no.
I run back and grab the knob.
Twist.
Locked.
Harder.
Still locked.
Are you kidding me?
I knock. Bang. Rattle. Nothing.
The towel is still holding, barely. My robe’s open at the thigh, my toes are going numb, and snow is now actively falling down my spine like nature’s version of a cold shower.
There’s only one option.
The inn.
Sebastian’s inn.
I groan into the night sky. Consider hypothermia. Then bolt.
The snow bites at my calves. I sprint, slipping and swearing, robe flying. My towel slides a little too low, and I nearly lose it rounding the corner. But I make it. Up the stairs. Across the porch.
I bang on the front door like my life depends on it.
Footsteps thump inside. Heavy. Fast.
The door swings open.
Sebastian Ford fills the doorway. Flannel. Muscle. Pure, startled silence.
His eyes drop.
To the towel. The bare legs. The robe clinging to damp skin.
Then snap back to my face like he’s trying really hard to remember what manners are.
For a second, we just stare at each other. A full-body standoff between caveman instinct and common decency.
"I—uh—hi," I manage, panting. "Funny story."
He doesn’t blink. Just stands there, one hand gripping the doorframe so tightly his knuckles go white.
I clear my throat. "So... I may have locked myself out. In a towel. At night. While chasing hot water."
He exhales through his nose. A muscle ticks in his jaw.
"Jesus, Willa."
"I swear I’m not always this much of a disaster."
His voice drops, low and rough. "Get inside. Now."
I slip past him into the warmth, every inch of me tingling as the heat rushes in and the door shuts behind me.
"Come on," he says. "You need heat. And towels. Clothes."
I follow him through the inn, heart hammering. His boots are heavy on the hardwood. My feet are bare, wet, tracking melted snow behind me. He leads me past the kitchen, toward a private hallway, and pushes open a door at the end.
It’s his room.
Clean. Warm. Big enough for a bed, a fireplace, and a dresser and very few distractions.
He walks to the small en suite bathroom, opens a cabinet, and tosses me a thick, dark towel.
"Thank you," I murmur, wrapping it around me, while carefully removing my own towel and the robe, both freezing cold.
He stands near the doorway, arms crossed over his chest like he’s trying not to look at me.
Except he is.
And I’m looking too.
His flannel hangs open just enough to see the plain white tee stretched across his chest. His jaw is rough with end-of-day scruff. His eyes, those mountain-storm gray eyes, are fixed on mine now.
Unmoving.
Unblinking.
"You warm?" he asks.
"Getting there."
Neither of us moves.
Then I take one step forward.
And he closes the space like it costs him something.
His hand brushes my jaw, then cups it. His thumb skims my cheek. I tilt my face into it without thinking.
"You gonna kiss me again, ladder man?" I whisper.
"Yeah," he growls. "I am."
Then he does.
His mouth crashes into mine, and everything else falls away.
His hands are on my waist, then up my back, pulling me closer like I’m the only thing anchoring him. I grip his shirt in both hands, trying to breathe and kiss him and stay standing all at once.
He groans against my mouth. "You’re driving me insane."
"Good," I whisper, breathless.
He pulls back a fraction, just enough to meet my eyes. His thumb brushes my cheek. "Say the word and I’ll stop."
I swallow hard. "Don’t stop."
The words feel bold, but I mean them. I’ve never wanted anything like this. Never wanted anyone like this.
"I want you," I say quietly, voice shaking. "But I need you to know something."
His body goes still. He waits.
"I’ve never… done this before," I admit. "I’ve never slept with anyone."
Silence. Just the sound of the fire popping softly behind us.
Sebastian’s expression doesn’t shift to surprise or pity. It darkens. Deepens with something like reverence.
"Willa…" he breathes my name like a promise. "We don't need to do this now. You don’t have to prove anything to me."
"I’m not." My voice steadies. "I want you. I’m not scared of you."
A muscle ticks in his jaw. "You should be. I’m not gentle."
"I think you are," I say. "You just don’t let most people see it."
His breath comes harder now, like he’s fighting himself. "You deserve soft."
"Then be soft with me," I whisper. "Tonight. Just me and you."
He doesn’t speak. He just moves.
Lifts me off the floor like I weigh nothing. Carries me to his bed.
The towel slips from my body as he lays me down, and I feel his gaze drag over me. Slow, reverent, hungry.
"You’re beautiful," he says. "God, Willa. You’re so damn beautiful."
Heat blooms in my chest. I reach for him, and he comes down over me, bracing himself on his elbows, careful not to crush me. Our lips meet again, this time slower. Like he’s memorizing me.
"You’ll tell me if something doesn’t feel good," he murmurs, kissing down my neck.
I nod, breath catching. "I will."
He touches me like I’m made of silk. Like he’s unwrapping something rare. His hand trails down, learning every curve, every inch of bare skin with a kind of restraint that nearly unravels me more than anything else.
"Breathe," he whispers when I tense. "We have all night."
And we do.
He takes his time. Starts slow. Reverent.
His mouth brushes the tips of my fingers, one by one, like he’s memorizing the shape of them. Then he trails kisses up the inside of my wrist, along the bend of my elbow, down the curve of my waist. Each touch is unhurried. Like he wants me to feel every second of it.
His lips find the hollow of my throat. I tilt my head, offering more, and he lingers there, breathing me in.
Then lower. Between my breasts. Along the valley of them. He takes his time with each, pampering them with a care that makes my breath catch. Slow kisses, the graze of his tongue, the press of his palm.
He keeps going, mouth moving down to my stomach. His hands slide along the insides of my thighs, coaxing them open, spreading me wide with a gentleness that feels almost reverent.
“Sebastian…” I whisper, arching toward him, already trembling.
“Shhh.” His breath is hot against my skin. “Let me. You are so beautiful, Willa.”
I close my eyes.
And let go.
The world blurs at the edges. Nothing exists but the heat of his tongue, the grip of his hands anchoring me, the slow, dizzying build of something bright and consuming rising from deep inside me.
My fingers twist in the sheets. My hips lift, chasing every flick of his mouth. My thighs tremble, muscles drawn tight like a bowstring.
“Don’t stop,” I beg, voice ragged. “Please. Don’t stop.”
His name escapes me like a prayer.
He works me like he’s learning me for the first time. Worshipping every inch with care. The slow strokes of his tongue grow more focused.
My breath shortens. My back arches. The world tilts.
“Good girl,” he whispers against me. “Come for me.”
And I do.
My body shudders apart. A cry tears from my throat, raw and unbridled. It’s messy, imperfect, and utterly mine.
He sheds his clothes like he can’t stand the distance anymore, like fabric is the last thing keeping us apart.
And then it’s all him.
Bare. Solid. Real.
Heat and muscle and need, pressed to every inch of me.
Before the pleasure can really fade, Sebastian is over me again, settling between my thighs, holding my face in both hands.
“Look at me,” he says. “Eyes open.”
I meet his gaze. His expression is raw, almost feral with restraint.
"Okay?" he asks.
"Okay," I whisper. "I’m okay."
He guides himself to me, slow and careful. "I’ll go slow. If it hurts—"
"It won’t."
He holds still for a heartbeat, watching me. Then pushes forward, inch by inch.
My breath catches. Not from pain, but fullness. A kind of completeness that cracks something open inside me.
He stops once he’s fully inside. Gives me a moment.
Then he moves.
And everything else disappears.
There’s only him. The rhythm of our bodies. The heat of his skin on mine. The way he watches me like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted.
"You’re gonna break me," I whisper.
"Never," he says. "Never."
His pace quickens. The bedframe creaks beneath us.
The world narrows to this. To us. To the heat and rhythm, the pull and surrender. The room fills with our sounds. His name on my lips, my breath catching between kisses, the ragged edge of something building fast.
“Willa,” he groans, voice frayed. “Willa.”
“Sebastian—”
I fall again. Hard. The release rips through me like a wave breaking wide open, blinding and breathless.
His rhythm stutters. A sharp gasp against my neck. Then he drives into me once, twice—harder now, deeper—until everything in him coils tight.
He groans my name like it’s being torn from his chest.
I hold him close as he shudders through it, my fingers pressed to his back, feeling every muscle go rigid beneath my palms… and then release all at once, like a dam breaking.
We collapse into each other afterward, tangled in heat and linen, breath mingling. The sheets are twisted around our legs. The air is thick with the scent of us. Sweat, skin, something wild and aching and spent.
Neither of us speaks.
His fingers trail lazily down my spine. My cheek rests against his chest, rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath.
Outside the window, snow falls in slow, silent flurries. Inside, it’s nothing but warmth and the sound of hearts settling.
I close my eyes.
He brushes a strand of hair from my forehead. Kisses crown the top of it. His hand stays there, just holding.
Minutes pass, maybe more.
Then, finally, he exhales.
"Willa," he whispers.
"Hm?"
"I'm scared now," he admits.
"Of what?"
"Of losing you."
His confession lands between us, heavier than the silence that follows.
"You’re not gonna lose me," I say, low but steady. "I’m not going anywhere."
He swallows hard. "I don’t deserve this."
"What do you deserve, then?" I ask gently.
"Solitude," he says. "Quiet. To be left alone with my ghosts."
"Ghosts don’t keep you warm at night," I point out. "And I’m pretty sure they’re terrible at making coffee in the morning. Or cinnamon rolls."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "You’ve got me there."
I shift closer, until our foreheads touch. "Then stay with me. Where it’s warm."
"Willa…"
"Let me be your something good, Sebastian. Let me stay by your side."
He closes his eyes. Takes a slow breath. Then opens them again, and something in them has shifted. Softened.
"Okay," he whispers. "Okay."
In the morning, I wake before him. The fire’s down to glowing embers, casting long shadows across the walls. For a moment, I watch him sleep. His face relaxed in a way I haven’t seen before, the weight he always carries momentarily gone.
I slip out of bed quietly and pull on one of his flannel shirts. The fabric is soft, worn. Smells like pine and smoke and him.
I crack the bedroom door, tiptoe through the hallway, and just make it to the front entry—
“Leaving so soon?”
I yelp and whirl around.
Loretta leans against the wall near the kitchen, arms crossed, an unlit cinnamon stick dangling from the corner of her mouth like a cigar. She’s wearing a bright red cardigan, slippers with pom-poms, and the world’s most knowing smirk.
I open my mouth. Close it.
She squints. "Is that his flannel?"
I blush furiously. "I was just—"
"Oh, sugar, relax. I’ve got eyes. I’ve also got a kettle on. Come have some coffee before your walk of pride. You earned it."
I laugh despite myself.
She winks. "Good for you, sweetheart."