Chapter 8
Willow
I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Hearthstone Lodge with its dilapidated condition. It’s shocking, but real. I see the faded mural and the view from the suite window. And worse … I see him.
The way Graham stood in the great room like he was already imagining its revival. I noticed the way he listened to me, really listened, even when he was pretending not to. I definitely noticed the way he looked at me in that suite … like he was discovering something important.
He’s an infuriating man, but I can’t deny the attraction. How will I finally get some sleep? There’s only one solution tonight. I live this out with him … right here, right now. But in my fantasies.
I slip my hand under the covers, my fingers trailing lightly over my stomach, the soft fabric of my nightshirt bunching up as I go.
The room is dark, the only light a faint glow from the streetlamp outside, casting shadows that dance like whispers across the walls.
My breath quickens, heart pounding in my ears, as I let the fantasy take hold.
Graham's face materializes in my mind – those sharp eyes, the stubble shadowing his jaw, the way his lips curve when he's hiding a smile.
In my imagination, we're back in that suite at Hearthstone Lodge.
The air smells of aged wood and faint dust, the faded mural on the wall watching us like a silent spectator.
He's standing by the window, his broad shoulders outlined against the starry night, turning to me with that intense gaze that pins me in place.
"You can't stop thinking about this, can you?
" he murmurs, his voice low and rough, stepping closer until the heat of his body radiates against mine.
My fingers dip lower, brushing the edge of my panties, the fabric already damp from the ache building inside me. I gasp softly, arching my back as I slide my hand beneath the waistband, finding the slick warmth between my thighs.
In the fantasy, I tell him the truth, “I can’t stop, you’re right. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Graham's hands are on me now. His strong, calloused fingers grip my hips, pulling me against him.
I feel the hard press of his erection through his clothing, grinding into me as he backs me toward the wall.
His mouth crashes onto mine, tongue invading with a hunger that steals my breath, tasting of coffee and something darker, more primal.
I circle my clit slowly at first, the pressure sending sparks through my core, my free hand fisting the sheets.
"Tell me what you want," he growls in my head, his lips trailing down my neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there.
I whimper, my hips bucking involuntarily as I imagine him pinning me to the wall.
He yanks my shirt and bra up, exposing my breasts to the cool air, his mouth latching onto one nipple, sucking hard enough to make me cry out.
The sensation mirrors in reality as my fingers pinch and tease, wetness coating my hand as I slide two fingers inside myself, curling them to hit that spot that makes my toes curl.
Deeper into the fantasy, he scoops me up, muscles flexing under my weight as he carries me to the king-size bed, its linens impossibly smooth and inviting against the lodge's worn charm.
His hands move with frantic need, ripping my shirt over my head, fingers snagging in the fabric.
Graham unhooks my bra with a snap that echoes in the room.
Peeling my panties down, the elastic drags over my hips until they puddle at my feet.
I moan, goosebumps prickling as the air caresses my bare skin.
His clothes follow in a blur – shirt tugged off to reveal the hard planes of his chest, pants shoved down, briefs finally stripped away.
His cock stands rigid, veins pulsing under the skin, the head glistening in the dim light.
I gasp, my mouth watering at the sight, core throbbing with the promise of being stretched wide.
But he drops to his knees instead, smirking as he hooks my legs over his shoulders, my ass teetering on the bed's edge.
Graham's between my legs now, his breath hot against my inner thighs as he spreads me open.
"You're so wet for me," he says, his voice vibrating through me, and then his tongue starts.
Oh god, his tongue licks a slow, deliberate path up my slit, flicking over my clit with merciless precision.
I thrust my fingers faster, matching the rhythm, my body trembling as the pleasure coils tighter.
Sweat beads on my skin, the sheets sticking to me, and I bite my lip to stifle a moan, imagining his hands pinning my thighs down, holding me still as he devours me, sucking and lapping until I'm writhing, begging.
The edge approaches, sharp and insistent.
In my mind, he rises up, his chest broad and muscled, cock thick and hard, veined and throbbing as he positions himself at my entrance.
He thrusts in with one powerful stroke, filling me completely, stretching me until I gasp.
I pump my fingers harder, adding a third, the slick sounds filling the quiet room, my thumb rubbing frantic circles over my clit.
"Come for me," he commands, pounding into me in the fantasy, his body slick against mine, the bedframe rattling with each drive.
It hits me then … a wave crashing over, my muscles clenching around my fingers as I shatter, back arching off the bed. I hear a choked cry escape my throat. Stars burst behind my eyelids, pleasure pulsing through every nerve, leaving me gasping, trembling, and spent.
As the aftershocks fade, I withdraw my hand, slick and warm, and pull the covers up. Graham's image blurs, fading like smoke in the wind. My body heavy, eyelids drooping, I finally drift toward sleep, the lodge and him slipping away into the night.
???
By morning, my nerves feel raw. One more tiny fantasy memory and I swear I could combust before I even reach the lobby. This has to stop. All of it.
Avery meets me at the front desk, clutching a stack of papers like she’s afraid they might explode.
“Small crisis,” she whispers.
“Perfect,” I mutter. “Pile it on.”
“It’s about the revised plans. Mr. Sinclair sent a courier before sunrise.”
I blink. “He what?”
“He made changes. A lot of changes.” She hands me the envelope. “Some of them are … good.”
Of course they’re good. The man doesn’t know how to do anything halfway.
“I’ll review them after the downtown walk,” I say. “We need to finalize vendor layouts.”
Avery hesitates. “He’s waiting for you. At the Hope Peak Bakehouse.”
My heart misfires. “He’s what?”
“He said he wanted your feedback before the next draft. And he, um…” She lowers her voice. “He looked anxious.”
I shove the papers into my coat and head out into the crisp morning.
The walk into town is a tangle of cold air and pounding pulse.
Snowmelt trickles along the curb. Lights still glow soft in the windows of Hope Peak’s quaint shops.
The smell of cinnamon and rising dough drifts from the brick building ahead.
Hope Peak Bakehouse has frosted windows fogged with morning warmth.
Through the glass, I see him – Graham Sinclair.
He’s standing near the corner table beneath the garland-wrapped window with his hands in his coat pockets.
Those are the same hands I fantasized having love on me last night.
He doesn’t look like he belongs in a cozy bakery.
When he spots me approaching, he straightens.
The unreadable expression across his face is something I take notice of.
He’s not attracted to me. This is all about business.
I really must curb my imagination and secret wishes.
I push the door open, swallowed instantly by the scent of cinnamon, fresh bread, and brewing coffee. A bell jingles overhead.
“Morning, Willow.” His voice is lower in this warm space, almost intimate – and he’s addressing me by my first name. This is new.
“You’re out early,” I say, stepping closer than I should. “Again.”
“I wanted time to think.”
I chuckle. “About how to defend your design expansion?”
“No. About how to explain the changes I made without you assuming the worst.”
The jab lands exactly where he places it.
“I don’t assume the worst,” I mutter.
“You assume I don’t care.”
The words slice deeper than the cold outside.
I cross my arms. “Let’s get something straight, Sinclair. I care about Hope Peak. I’m doing my job. That’s all this is.”
“That’s not all this is.”
Heat floods my face. “We’re not doing this,” I whisper.
“Why not?” His voice drops low. It’s rough like dark honey. “You argue with me like you’re afraid of what else might happen if you stop.”
I freeze. The bakery’s warmth suddenly feels like a trap. “Don’t,” I whisper.
But he steps closer – slowly and deliberately, like approaching a skittish creature he doesn’t want to spook. “Willow,” he murmurs, “what did you see up there yesterday? At the lodge?”
I swallow hard. “A place worth saving.”
“And what else?”
Damn him. Why does he make seeing me feel like breathing for him? “I saw …”
No. Absolutely not.
“I saw the problem with your proposal,” I snap, turning abruptly. But the space is too narrow, the table too close, and I misjudge the distance. We collide and his chest brushes mine. Graham’s eyes lock on mine, heat simmering so openly I nearly forget how to stand.
“That’s a lie,” he says softly.
The room shrinks around us.
“Tell me what you saw.”
“What does it matter?” I whisper.
“It matters,” he says, stepping in until my back touches the warm brick wall beside the pastry display. “Because it changed me.”
The world tilts. “What?”
He braces one hand near my head, lowering his voice to a velvet whisper. “When you talked about the tree … when I saw what this town means to you …”
He swallows and it’s barely visible only because I’m too close.
“Willow, I revised the entire plan last night because of you.”
My breath stutters. “You don’t get to say that,” I whisper.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to owe you anything.”
His jaw tightens, but his voice stays maddeningly calm. “I don’t want you to owe me. I want you to believe me.”
He leans in close enough that his breath warms my cheek. “This is a mistake,” I whisper, too soft.
“Then tell me to stop.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He inches closer, his gaze dipping to my mouth, his presence filling every inch of space.
“Willow! Oh good, you’re here!”
We both jerk apart so fast a stack of holiday cookie tins wobbles behind him. Rosie barrels into the bakery holding a box of candy canes, breath puffing from the cold she carried in.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she chirps. “Spencer needs your approval on the vendor placement map.”
Graham clears his throat, turning away. His control slams back into place like a steel door.
“Please look over the updated plan,” he says quietly. “And Willow … this isn’t finished.”
The bell over the door jingles as he leaves, the morning light catching on the hard line of his jaw as he disappears down Main Street. My knees nearly go out. Rosie watches him go, then turns to me with a wicked grin.
“Not finished, huh?”
I glare. “Don’t.”
She backs down, knowing I’m dead serious. Because whatever this is … it’s nowhere near finished.