Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
SAVANNAH
"This is literally all you have in your refrigerator?" I stare into the barren wasteland that is Colt's kitchen. Two beers, a half-empty bottle of ketchup, something green I don't want to identify, and a package of bacon that expired last week. "How are you alive?"
Colt leans against the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest. "I eat at the diner most nights. Or order pizza."
I close the fridge with a shudder. "That's horrifying. You know that, right?"
"It's efficient." He shrugs those impressive shoulders. "I don't see the point in cooking just for myself."
"The point is not dying of scurvy." I open his pantry, which isn't much better. A few cans of soup. Some protein bars. A lonely box of pasta. "This is sad. Deeply, deeply sad."
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being a culinary school graduate looking at food crimes."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Well, you did say you were a chef. Prove it."
The challenge lights something in me. "With what? Air and expired condiments?"
"Main Street is ten minutes away." He reaches for his keys. "Let's go."
Twenty minutes later, we're back with bags full of fresh ingredients.
I insisted on paying, pointing out that I'm essentially inviting myself over for dinner in his house.
He relented after I reminded him we're supposed to be equals in this arrangement. But later he slipped the money back into my bag when I wasn’t looking.
I cook a simple but delicious pasta with a sauce I create from the limited pantry options and fresh ingredients we bought. His obvious appreciation as he takes the first bite makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
"So," I say as we settle at his small table with our food, "we need a story."
He raises an eyebrow. "A story?"
"Our love story." I twirl pasta around my fork. "People are going to ask how we got together. When we fell in love. All the details. We need to have our stories straight."
"Ah." Understanding dawns on his face. "The cover story."
"Exactly. We can't tell people we met two days ago when I proposed a marriage of convenience after you were harassed by my father."
He chuckles, the deep sound doing strange things to my insides. "Probably not the most romantic beginning."
"So let's create one." I sit forward, warming to the task. "How did we meet? When did we fall in love?"
Colt considers this, taking a sip of his water. "We could say we met when I was delivering a commission to the café where you work. You served me coffee, we got to talking."
"That's plausible," I nod. "And when did this fictional meeting happen?"
"Three months ago?" He suggests. "Long enough to be believable but short enough that we could have kept it quiet."
"Perfect." I'm impressed by his quick thinking. "So, I served you coffee, we talked, and then what? You asked me out?"
Something flashes in his eyes. "No. You asked me out."
"Me?" I press a hand to my chest in mock offense. "Why would I be the one to make the first move?"
"Because you're fearless." His gray eyes hold mine, suddenly intense. "Because when you want something, you go after it without hesitation. Like you did on Main Street."
Heat creeps up my neck. "Fair point. So I asked you out. Where did we go on our first date?"
"My workshop." His answer comes without hesitation. "I showed you what I was working on. You were impressed."
"I would be," I admit, remembering the beautiful metalwork I saw that first day. "Then what?"
"Then I cooked you dinner."
I nearly choke on my water. "You cooked? Have you seen your kitchen?"
A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "In this fictional scenario, I made an effort. Wanted to impress the beautiful woman who was brave enough to ask me out."
Beautiful. The casual compliment makes me smile.
"What did you cook?" I challenge, enjoying this game more than I should.
"Steak." He shrugs. "It's the only thing I can make without burning down the house."
"And was I impressed by this culinary masterpiece?"
"Impressed enough for a goodnight kiss." His eyes drop briefly to my lips before meeting mine again. "Just a short one. Testing the waters."
The air between us grows electric. I take another bite of pasta to hide my reaction. "And then?"
"Then we started seeing each other. Quietly. Because of who your father is. Because we knew people would talk." His voice drops lower. "Secret meetings. Late night phone calls. The excitement of something forbidden."
The scenario he's painting stirs something in me. The thrill of secrecy. The rush of wanting someone you shouldn't.
"When did you know it was serious?" I ask, my voice softer than intended.
He considers this, eyes never leaving mine. "When you showed up at my workshop after a fight with your father. You were upset, but you came to me instead of your friends. That's when I knew you trusted me. That it was more than just attraction."
The fictional scenario feels so real, I can almost see it. Me, turning to him for comfort. Him, offering quiet strength when I needed it most.
"And when did I know?" I prompt.
"You tell me." His gaze is steady, curious. "In our story, when did you realize you were falling for the town bad boy?"
I don't have to think about my answer. "When I saw how you were with those kids you teach welding to. How patient you were. How you saw their potential instead of their mistakes." I swallow. "That's when I knew you weren't who everyone thought you were."
A vulnerability fills his face I haven't seen before. "That's... specific."
"Good stories have details." I try to keep my tone light. "So we fell in love, secretly dated for months, and then you proposed yesterday?"
"Not yesterday," he corrects. "Last week. I've been planning it. The ring wasn't a rush job."
The ring. I look down at my hand where his creation glints in the kitchen light. He's right—it's too intricate, too perfect to have been made in one night.
"Have you been working on this for someone else?" The thought makes my stomach twist uncomfortably.
"No." His answer is immediate. "I made it because I wanted to. Because creating beautiful things is what I do." He pauses. "But it was always meant for someone special."
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight. "It's perfect," I whisper.
"It suits you." His eyes hold mine. "Almost like it was made for you all along."
We sit in charged silence for a moment before I shake myself back to reality. "So that's our story. Secret romance, proposal plans last week, and now we're done hiding."
"Seems believable." He nods. "Now tell me something true."
The request catches me off guard. "What?"
"We've spent all this time creating fiction. Tell me something real." He leans forward, elbows on the table. "Something about you that isn't in our made up story."
I could deflect. Keep things superficial. But something about the quiet intensity of his gaze makes me want to offer truth.
"I'm terrified of never being good enough." The confession slips out before I can stop it. "My mom left when I was eight. Just walked out one day. And part of me has always wondered if it was because of me. If I wasn't worth staying for."
His expression softens. "Savannah..."
"Your turn." I cut him off, not wanting his pity. "Something real."
He doesn't hesitate. "I'm scared of being alone. Not just single, but truly alone. Like my mother was. Bitter, drunk, isolated and convinced the world was against her after our dad disappeared. I was seven. Our mother took it out on me and my brothers until we ended up in the system."
The naked honesty in his admission steals my breath. "Is that why you keep plants?" I ask softly. "To have something to care for?"
A small smile touches his lips. "Maybe. Your turn."
And suddenly we're playing a new game. Truth for truth. Real secrets instead of fictional romance.
"I've never been in love," I admit. "Not really. I've dated, but I've never felt that overwhelming thing people talk about."
"I have." His voice is quiet. "Once. Long time ago. It didn't end well."
"What happened?"
"Prison happened." He says it matter-of-factly. "Hard to maintain a relationship through three years and bars."
I nod, uncertain what to say. "I'm sorry."
"Ancient history." He clears his throat. "Your turn."
"The real reason I broke up with Brett wasn't just because he didn't support my culinary dreams." I trace patterns on the tablecloth. "It was because when he kissed me, I felt nothing. No spark. No heat. Nothing."
Colt's eyes darken slightly. "And earlier? In the coffee shop?"
My face burns hot. "That was... different."
"Different how?" His voice drops lower.
I should stop this conversation. Should keep things professional. But the way he's looking at me makes truth spill from my lips. "It wasn't nothing. It was... a lot of something."
The corner of his mouth lifts in a half smile that does dangerous things to my insides. "Glad it wasn't just me."
The air between us grows pregnant. With want. With the acknowledgment that whatever sparked between us in that kiss was real, not just for show.
"It's getting late," I say, though I make no move to stand. "We should probably get some sleep."
"Probably." He doesn't move either. "One more truth."
"Okay."
"I didn't plan to kiss you like that." His eyes never leave mine. "But I've been thinking about doing it again ever since."
My breath catches. "Now? We're in private. That's not part of our arrangement."
"No." He agrees, voice rough. "It's not."
We stare at each other across the table, the moment stretched taut with possibilities neither of us anticipated when we made our deal.
"I should take the couch," I finally say, breaking the spell. "It's your house."
"Not happening." He stands, collecting our plates. "You take the bed. I insist."
Ten minutes later, I'm alone in his bedroom, wearing his t-shirt that falls to my mid-thighs. His scent surrounds me, masculine and oddly comforting. The bed is surprisingly comfortable, the sheets clean and soft.
I toss and turn, unable to quiet my racing thoughts. That moment in the kitchen plays on repeat in my mind. The intensity in his eyes when he admitted he wanted to kiss me again. The heat that flooded my body at his words. The desire I'm still trying to suppress.
This is insane. We barely know each other.
Our relationship is a business arrangement, not a romance.
But my body doesn't seem to care about those logical arguments.
All it remembers is the feel of his mouth on mine earlier today.
The strength in his arms when he pulled me against him.
The way he looked at me across the dinner table, like he wanted to devour me.
I press my thighs together, trying to ignore the pulsing need building between them. This isn't part of the deal. Physical attraction wasn't supposed to be a factor. But every time I close my eyes, I see his face. Feel his hands. Imagine what might have happened if I hadn't backed away.
Maybe if I just... relieve the tension, I can think clearly again. Get this out of my system so I can approach our arrangement with the professional detachment it requires.
My hand slides beneath the covers, under the hem of his borrowed t-shirt. I bite my lip as my fingers find slick heat, already embarrassingly wet from just thinking about him. I should feel guilty using thoughts of him this way, but I'm too far gone to care.
I imagine it's his large, calloused hands touching me instead of my own. His mouth trailing down my neck, my chest. His weight pressing me into the mattress.
My breathing quickens as I work myself closer to release. In my mind, it's Colt whispering in my ear, telling me how beautiful I am. How much he wants me.
The tension builds faster than I expected, my hips rising to meet my hand. So close already, just from thinking about him. What would the real thing be like if just fantasizing about him does this to me?
The orgasm takes me by surprise, crashing over me in waves so intense I can't help the sound that escapes my throat. A moan that forms itself into a name without my permission.
"Colt."
As the pleasure recedes and my breathing steadies, mortification crashes in. Did I say that out loud? How loud was I? The house isn't that big. What if he heard?
A soft knock at the bedroom door answers my question.
"Savannah?" Colt's voice is rough, deeper than usual. "You okay in there?"
I freeze, face burning with embarrassment. What do I say? What do I do?
"Savannah, open the door."
It's not a request. The authority in his voice sends a fresh wave of desire through me, even as panic sets in. I scramble to pull the covers up, to find some dignity in this utterly mortifying situation.
"Savannah." His voice drops even lower. "I know you’re awake."