Chapter 2 - Jace
I hear gravel shift and ice crack under tires just as I set a thick log into the fireplace. The flames snap and spit softly, not roaring, just steady and warm. The heat will build soon enough.
The place is ready. Water is running, the power is solid, and I stacked a full load of wood on the porch so Layla will have plenty for the next few days.
Heading to the porch, I see her carefully getting out of her car.
I blink a few times. This is a far cry from the doe-eyed sixteen year old that liked to be involved in everything.
She has on suede winter boots, white wool socks that curl over the top of her boots, black leggings, a bit of blue and white flannel peaking out around her hips from under her fitted white winter coat that emphasizes her figure.
Her black knitted scarf makes her blonde hair look almost white as it waves over her shoulders.
Beautiful is not enough for what she is. Gorgeous barely touches it. I think unashamed.
It’s a little more shameful that I can’t look away from her.
It’s like my eyes are glued to every detail of her body.
She’s … stunning, near magical and the fact that she’s walking around, doing normal things seems wrong in my mind.
She’s the kind of woman that belongs in a painting and seeing her scraping ice off the handle of her back door doesn’t mesh in my mind properly.
Layla’s light blue eyes land on me as she goes to her backseat. The white puffs of air leaving her lips stop for a moment, then pick up faster. I clear my throat and try to make this petite, curvy, effortlessly elegant woman fit in the box I’d managed to put little Layla in seven years ago.
She walks up and blushes slightly. “Jace … you’re … well, hi!” She shakes her head, then hugs me tightly, bathing me in a scent that belongs in spring, a scent I want to hold onto. I rub her back slowly before she backs away. “It’s so good to see you! It’s been so long.”
“Layla,” I breathe, then clear my throat, trying to focus on the moment rather than studying every shockingly astounding detail of her. “I hope the drive was easy, good.”
“It was pretty close to perfect,” she says with a light laugh. “Made me wonder why I moved away for a second, but ...” She pats her bag, then seems to realize she forgot something. “Sorry, my backpack. It’s in my trunk.”
“I will get it,” I say quietly when she reaches for her keys, and she pauses, then nods with a grateful softness.
“Thank you, Jace.” Not casual. Not thoughtless. Real.
She hits the unlock button and I cross the porch, boots crunching over snow, the cold cutting through the heat in my chest. I pull her bag from the trunk and remind myself why I am here. She is my best friend’s daughter. I said I would make sure the house was ready for her, and that is all this is.
Do the job. Leave.
Simple.
She waits on the porch for me, hands tucked into her coat, breath misting in the air. When I reach her, I nod toward the door. “Everything is ready inside.”
Her eyes warm again. “I appreciate it. Really.”
Inside, she takes a few steps and stops, gaze drifting over the room like she is seeing pieces of her life stitched into the walls. The place looks different now with the updates, but the bones are the same, and she finds them.
“That couch… I used to do my homework there.”
She touches the armrest, almost like greeting an old friend, then laughs softly when she spots the dent in the fridge door. “I did that when I was eight.”
Her voice is light, but full of something else too. Memory. Belonging. Heart.
She backs gently against the island, eyes traveling around the kitchen as if she is letting the house settle around her again.
She treats me to a smile that makes me forget the plummeting temperatures outside as she takes off her hat. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad I didn’t turn around.”
My brow furrows.
“With dad stuck at the airport…” she says, voice a little breathy. She bites her bottom lip and releases it slowly, and the soft curve of it pulls at me more than it should. “I thought about staying at the B&B in town instead. I did not want to trouble you.”
I look at her, steady and quiet. I knew her father was stranded before she even landed. That is why I came early, why I made sure everything was ready. But hearing her say it, hearing that hint of hesitation, it settles something in me.
“You are not troubling me,” I say. Calm. Certain. True.
A faint blush warms her cheeks, snowflakes catching in her hair like someone placed them there on purpose. Layla makes winter look soft. Almost enchanted.
She glances down at her coat and gives a small laugh. “I should take this off. With the fire going like that, it feels like stepping into a hug. You always make places warmer than they should be. It would be freezing without you.”
Her tone is playful, sweet, almost testing. Is she…flirting? No, it can’t be…
I hold her gaze a beat longer than I should.
She bites her lip again, eyes flickering over me, and then she turns toward the back hallway to take off her coat and boots.
Without the lift from her shoes she loses a little height, settling around five foot three, delicate and small in all the ways that ask to be protected.
Once the scarf and coat come off, there is no hiding the shape of her. The gentle curve of her waist, the softness of her hips. It hits me with quiet force, and I do not let it show. I should not notice. I tell myself not to notice.
But I do.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel the sharp pull of something I thought I had long outgrown: want, sparked fast and deep.
I anchor my feet on the solid floor, spine straight, breath slow. Control is not a thing I ever lose. Not for anyone. She does not need to know she tested it.
She adjusts the buttons on her shirt, then smooths it out. Nibbling her bottom lip, she looks up at me from under her lashes. “Thank you for doing this, Jace. I’m sure you’re busy with plenty of things, so … so thank you for making time to prepare the house.”
“I’m happy to do it, you don’t need to keep thanking me” I answer, trying to pull my gaze away, but failing.
She clears her throat and looks around. “I’m starving. Are you starving?”
Before I can answer, she’s already moving things around the kitchen like she never left. Every move speaks to her quiet confidence. Which makes it even harder to ignore exactly how sexy she is.
As she cooks, she tells me about college, how fun it was, how much she enjoyed the art program she was in alongside the marketing classes she took.
I don’t have to ask what she does since she tells me she’s a marketing coordinator for some small businesses and she also works for authors, beta reading and promoting content online.
It’s a world removed from mine. I don’t have much to do with social media.
I work on the ranch, help people out around town, get paid for doing odd jobs (generally in beer and favors) and enjoy working with my hands.
Seeing Layla talk about it though shows exactly how passionate she is, how happy she is.
It warms my chest in a way I don’t want to admit.
“I’m glad the city is treating you well,” I say honestly.
She beams. “It is. Everything happens fast which is nice, but …”
My shoulders stiffen in response.
She thinks for a moment and sighs. “Everyone’s so focused on the next project, the next thing. It can be hard to get to know people the same way, I guess. It can be hard to tell if someone really cares or if they’re checking something off their list.”
I lean towards her, expecting a story that demands retribution, but she shrugs and serves me a plate of pasta. “I guess if that’s what’s agreed on, it’s fine. But sometimes I would like a deeper connection, you know?”
“Sounds like you.” I take the plate, I take a slow bite, letting the warmth settle me. “I will head out once we finish eating. You must be tired from the drive. Better if you get some rest.”
She pauses mid-chew, then blushes as she swallows. She looks around the kitchen and the attached living room, then shifts on her feet repeatedly. I wait for her to tell me exactly what’s on her mind.
Layla’s an adult, even if that seems impossible based on the memories I have of her. Finally, she speaks, voice low. “I know that this is a safe place, Jace, but being here alone with half a mile to your ranch and this house being empty for so long …”
She wants me to stay.
And I should not want to stay for every logical reason I own.
But logic feels thin right now.
If she were anyone else, I would have walked out after dinner.
If she were not my best friend’s daughter, I would not be fighting this quiet pull in the first place.
I clear my throat, trying to build a little distance, trying to remind myself of all the lines that exist for a damn reason.
Yet for once, I do not reach for the easy answer.
I do not rush to tell her no. I just stand there, caught in that soft uncertainty she brings into the room.
Her blue eyes lift to mine with that warm, open way she has always had, and the look hits harder than I expect.
There is trust there. Real trust. And something gentler, something that feels like invitation, even if she does not mean it that way.
“I’d feel a lot safer if you stayed,” she says quietly, the honesty in her voice settling deeper than I am ready for.
The room feels warmer, the fire louder, the quiet between us alive in a way I have not felt in a very long time.
I should step back, say something responsible and simple, remind her she is safe here without me hovering.
But it is hard to think about distance when she looks at me like that, when she trusts me like that, when she says she feels safer with me here.
And the truth sits heavy and undeniable:
I do not want to leave her alone tonight.