Chapter 10
Silas
She was going to undo me. I knew it already.
The cabin felt too small, too warm, and it wasn’t the fire’s fault.
She’d wrapped herself in my sweater like it belonged to her, sleeves falling past her hands, the hem skimming her thighs.
Nothing beneath it, not that I was trying to look.
It was just… impossible not to know. Every time she moved, the wool shifted against her skin, soft against soft, and I caught myself thinking things I shouldn’t. About the perfect curve of her breast—
Stop it, Silas.
She was twenty-eight. Old enough to know what she was doing. Young enough that I should have known better.
When she smiled at me from across the room, it wasn’t even a smile — more like the ghost of one. A spark. Something that reached straight through my ribs and twisted.
I turned back to the fire, pretending to mind the logs, pretending to breathe evenly.
“You’re still staring,” she said again. She wasn’t wrong. I’d been staring since she slipped the blanket around her shoulders and looked at me like I was part of her next adventure — temporary, fascinating, disposable.
She deserved better than a man who’d forgotten how to be interesting. But God help me, for the first time in years… I might just want to be interesting again.
I reached for the coffee tin, trying to think of anything ordinary — measurements, the smell of beans, the scrape of metal — anything that didn’t sound like the way she said hotshot.
Behind me, the floor creaked. Bare feet on wood. Light steps. I could feel her getting closer before she even spoke.
“Do you always grind your coffee?” she asked, voice easy, unbothered.
I glanced over my shoulder. “Helps me think.”
Her hair caught the firelight, a faint blush of pink against gold and shadow. “About what?”
You, I almost said. “About writing,” I managed instead.
“Sure,” she murmured. But her eyes didn’t look convinced.
The smell of coffee filled the room, sharp and grounding. I focused on it, letting it hold me in place while she leaned one hip against the counter, too close. Too warm.
If I’d had any sense left, I’d have asked her to step back. Instead, I just poured the grounds slowly, carefully, pretending my hands weren’t shaking.
She leaned a little closer, her sleeve brushing my arm. I tried to ignore it. I really did.
I swallowed, aware of every inch of her near me, the heat radiating from her in a way that made my sweater feel suddenly restrictive. My pulse had picked up, and I had to remind myself to breathe.
Breathe. You’re not supposed to…
She tilted her head, grin teasing, and let her hand drift to the counter, just close enough that her fingers brushed mine when I shifted.
Just close enough.
“Silas?” Her voice cut through the whirl of thoughts in my head. “Are you actually thinking about anything except how much I make you sweat?”
I wanted to tell her that yes, that was entirely true, and that it was unbearable and impossible all at once. But I said, carefully neutral, “I’m considering the coffee.”
“Sure,” she murmured, eyes sparkling, but I knew better. She was testing me, seeing how far she could push before I cracked.
And the truth? I was cracking.
Her smile widened. “You like that I notice, don’t you?”
I tried not to answer. Tried to convince myself she couldn’t see the way my pulse had sped, the way my hands itched to do nothing at all. But she did. She always did.
“You can look,” she whispered, leaning just a fraction closer. “I won’t stop you.”
I didn’t move. My hands still gripped the tin like it was a lifeline. My brain screamed don’t, but my chest betrayed me, tightening around the fact that she knew exactly what she was doing.
Her sleeve brushed again, this time grazing my hand. I froze. Just a brush, and yet it felt deliberate. My pulse kicked faster than it had any right to, and I realized I had to look.
I did.
The movement was slow, careful, almost reverent, and the moment my eyes landed on her, everything else in the room — the fire, the snow, even the sound of the wind — faded into a soft blur.
She wasn’t just standing there; she was there, leaning into the counter, bare arms pale against the wool that swallowed her, eyes daring me to notice.
My sweater, stretched across her chest, hardened nipples visible even through the thick wool. It swallowed her whole, falling well past her hips and landing mid-thigh. How many times had she rolled the sleeve? Three? Four?
I swallowed, the sound too loud in my own head. My chest felt tight, aware, suddenly too aware of everything: the heat radiating from her, the subtle tilt of her head, the way she wasn’t even trying to hide that she knew exactly the effect she had.
“There. That’s not so bad now, is it?” she said softly, almost a whisper, but the teasing was unmistakable.
I couldn’t deny it. I wanted to look away. I tried. But my eyes betrayed me. They stayed. Fixed. And I saw her noticing, smiling faintly at how effective it was.
“You do like that, don’t you?” she murmured.
I opened my mouth, closed it, cleared my throat, and finally admitted it to myself in the quietest way possible: Yes.
The fire flickered, casting moving shadows across her features. I could feel the warmth — and the warmth of her — pulling me closer even as every sensible part of me screamed, don’t.
Her hand reached out before I could register movement, wrapping her fingers around my wrist.
My chest jumped, and heat pooled where the contact met me.
Oh my god. Not this.
Every rational thought screamed, shouted at me to do something as she pulled my hand towards her breast.
I tried to pull back subtly, but she didn’t budge. Instead, her hand guided mine — slowly, deliberately — until it rested over her chest. My eyes widened, and my pulse thundered in my ears.
“You… Colette…” I whispered, voice low, caught between panic and disbelief.
She tilted her head, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, totally. Feel that?” She pressed my hand lightly over her heart. “That’s the beat of a professional broken heart, Silas Reed. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel that coming.”
I froze, exhaling a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. A professional broken heart? My mind scrambled. Relief, shock, and lingering heat all tangled into a knot that had my knees feeling weak.
I decided not to acknowledge the little seed of disappointment that sprouted in my stomach.
She laughed softly at my expression. “Relax, hotshot. I said professional broken heart, not instant chaos maker. Though, to be fair…” Her grin widened. “…that’s a bonus, isn’t it?”
I opened my mouth, closed it, and cleared my throat again. My gaze flicked to her, then the fire, then back to her, utterly disarmed. “Have some self-control, Colette.” I spat harsher than I intended.
But the truth? It didn’t dampen her grin even in the slightest bit.