19. Jack
Chapter nineteen
Jack
I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel, watching as Silas locked Tidal Grounds' front door, then double-checked it, then triple-checked it. His brow furrowed with each tug on the handle, like a parent reluctant to leave their child at kindergarten for the first time.
"Sarah has the spare set," he called over his shoulder, still not moving from the door. "And I left the vendor contact list on the bulletin board. And the instructions for the new espresso machine are—"
"In the drawer beneath the register," I finished for him, unable to keep the amusement from my voice. "You've mentioned it. Three times."
Silas's shoulders slumped as he finally turned away from the café. "It's hard."
"It's your baby." We'd agreed to take a 3-day weekend away for just the two of us, but that was easier said than done for Silas.
He slid into the passenger seat beside me, immediately adjusting the heating vent toward himself. Late winter in Maine had teeth, and today they were particularly sharp.
"I've never left the café for a full weekend," he admitted, rubbing his palms together. "Not since I opened."
"Sarah's more than capable." I started the engine, the SUV humming to life beneath us. "And if disaster strikes, Whistleport is only three hours away."
"That's reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be." I reached across the console and covered his fidgeting hands with mine. His skin was cool from the brief walk but warming quickly. "It was meant to remind you that we're genuinely getting away. No hockey gear, no coffee beans, no Dottie appearing with town gossip when we least expect it."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Poor Dottie. She'll have to redirect her investigative efforts elsewhere this weekend."
"I'm sure Brooks and Rory will suffice as temporary targets."
I gave Silas's hand one final squeeze before shifting into reverse, pulling away from the curb. In the rearview mirror, Tidal Grounds receded, its blue and white sign swinging gently in the winter breeze.
Silas exhaled as we turned onto Route 1, heading north. He didn't say anything about it, but the tension in his frame eased. He was like a sailor finally beyond the harbor's confines, discovering the open water isn't quite as treacherous as he imagined.
The coastal highway unfurled before us, a ribbon of asphalt against the backdrop of steel-gray ocean. To our right, frozen waves had crystallized mid-crash, suspended in time against the rocky shoreline. It was winter's artwork, stark and beautiful in its severity.
"Cody get off to Tyler's alright?" Silas asked, breaking the comfortable silence.
"Packed enough snacks and games to survive a nuclear winter. Shannon mentioned they're working on a science project together—something about how different wood types burn." I grimaced. "I'm trying not to think too hard about the implications."
"Shannon has a fire extinguisher. I gave her one for Christmas."
I glanced over, raising an eyebrow. "Thoughtful gift."
"Practical. Her oven mitt collection was becoming a fire hazard."
The radio murmured quietly, some indie folk song I didn't recognize. My right hand rested on the gear shift out of habit, though the SUV handled the shifting automatically. Silas eyed it, then slowly—like he was approaching a wild animal—laid his palm over mine.
"This okay?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant.
Instead of answering, I turned my hand over, interlacing our fingers. His palm pressed against mine, warm and solid.
As Whistleport disappeared in our wake, its familiar harbor and centuries-old buildings fading to memories, something inside me unwound. The carefully constructed boundaries I'd maintained since arriving in town—professional architect, devoted father, polite neighbor—softened at the edges. Here, on this stretch of empty highway with Silas beside me, I was Jack, nothing more.
"Tell me more about this cabin," Silas said, his fingertips rubbing the back of my hand.
"It belongs to a client from Portland. Architectural trade—I helped redesign their office space, and they offered their family cabin for a weekend. It's nothing fancy, just a single-room A-frame with a loft. But it's remote. Quiet."
"Sounds perfect."
The landscape gradually shifted as we drove further north—the coastal cliffs giving way to dense pine forests, branches heavy with undisturbed snow. Occasional breaks in the trees revealed glimpses of frozen lakes, their surfaces gleaming like polished silver under the winter sun.
"When I was a kid, my grandfather would take me ice fishing on a lake up this way. We'd bring thermoses of hot chocolate and sit for hours without saying a word."
"Sounds lonely."
"It wasn't. That was the strange part. We didn't talk, but I never felt alone." He shifted in his seat, watching the scenery pass. "There's something about sharing silence that feels more intimate than filling it with words."
I squeezed his hand gently. "Is that why you're good at running a café? You've mastered the art of comfortable silence?"
"Maybe. Or maybe I just make a damn good cup of coffee."
The drive continued, conversation flowing easily between topics—hockey strategies for Cody's team, the antique display case we were still restoring, and a debate about the merits of different syrup grades that was far more passionate than I'd anticipated. We learned the rhythm of each other outside our usual settings.
"Turn here," I said, spotting the narrow access road I'd been watching for. It was barely visible, marked only by a weathered wooden sign half-buried in snow. The SUV handled the unplowed drive admirably, its tires crunching through the fresh powder.
The trees closed in around us, creating a tunnel of pine boughs. After a half-mile of winding through the dense forest, the cabin appeared—a classic A-frame nestled in a small clearing, its steeply pitched roof designed to shed snow efficiently.
"This is it," I announced, pulling to a stop beside the cabin's covered porch. "Middle of nowhere, as promised."
Silas peered through the windshield, taking in the rustic structure. "It's perfect," he said softly, and I detected genuine appreciation in his tone.
We unloaded quickly, eager to escape the biting cold. The temperature had dropped as we'd driven north, and now our breath billowed in thick white clouds with each exhale. I fumbled with the keys, my fingers stiff despite my gloves, while Silas stamped his feet on the porch to keep warm.
The lock finally yielded, and the cabin door swung open with a creak of protest. Inside, the cabin smelled of pine and woodsmoke from its last occupants—clean but distinctly rustic, nothing like the polished vacation homes that dotted the coast.
"Generators already running," I noted, flicking on the lights. "Olivia must have had the caretaker come by."
The interior was simple but thoughtfully laid out. A stone fireplace dominated the far wall, flanked by a well-worn leather couch. The kitchen, little more than a compact lineup of basic appliances, occupied one corner. A wooden ladder led to the sleeping loft above, where I could make out the edge of a queen-sized bed covered in plaid flannel.
Silas set down his duffel bag, surveying the space with an appreciative eye. "Cozy."
"Too small?" I asked, suddenly aware of how compact the quarters were. We'd never spent forty-eight uninterrupted hours together, let alone in a space barely larger than his apartment.
"No." He removed his coat, hanging it on a peg by the door. "It's perfect."
While Silas explored, opening cabinets and examining the bookshelves, I tackled the fireplace. There was already a neat stack of split logs beside the hearth, along with kindling and newspaper. The familiar process of building a fire—arranging the kindling, stacking the logs just so—steadied my nerves.
I was aware of Silas moving behind me, the soft pad of his footsteps across the wooden floorboards. When I struck the match, the sudden flare illuminated the cabin in a brief flash of yellow. I held my breath as the kindling caught, exhaling only when I was certain the fire had taken hold.
"You're good at that." Silas's voice came from directly behind me, closer than I'd expected.
I stood, brushing wood chips from my hands. "Eagle Scout. Some skills stick with you."
When I turned, he was so near I could count the individual flecks of amber in his eyes, now reflecting the dancing flames. The usual barrier of the coffee counter, hockey bleachers, or Tidal Grounds tables was conspicuously absent. Nothing separated us—only air and slight hesitation.
"I brought wine," Silas said, clearing his throat. "Red. It seemed appropriate for a cabin in the woods."
"Excellent thinking." I stepped back, creating space between us. "I'll get the groceries from the car."
The blast of cold air as I stepped outside cleared my head. I'd been the one to suggest this getaway, yet now that we were here, truly alone, I found myself uncharacteristically nervous. It wasn't a stolen moment after hours at Tidal Grounds or a quick kiss in my kitchen while Cody was at practice. This was deliberate, intentional time carved out of our lives specifically to be together.
When I returned with the grocery bags, Silas had opened the wine and was rummaging through the kitchen drawers. "No corkscrew," he explained sheepishly, holding up a butter knife. "I had to improvise."
The cork was mangled but removed, and he'd managed to find two mismatched mugs. "Glasses are also in short supply."
"Very resourceful," I chuckled, setting the bags on the counter. "Between your MacGyver skills and my Eagle Scout training, we'll survive the wilderness easily."
"This barely qualifies as wilderness," he pointed out, gesturing toward the electric stove. "But I appreciate the vote of confidence."
We fell into an easy rhythm as we unpacked the groceries and prepared dinner. The cabin's kitchen was compact but functional, forcing us to navigate around each other in a careful dance. Each time we brushed shoulders or reached past one another, the contact lingered a fraction longer than necessary.
"What are we making?" Silas asked, examining the ingredients I'd laid out.
"Nothing fancy. Pasta aglio e olio. Simple but satisfying."
"Garlic, olive oil, red pepper flakes," he identified, running his fingers over the ingredients. "The holy trinity of quick cooking."
"Plus parsley and good parmesan," I added, filling a pot with water. "My grandmother's recipe. It's my go-to comfort meal."
Silas leaned against the counter, wine mug in hand, watching as I worked. "I wouldn't have pegged you for an accomplished cook."
"Don't be too impressed. My culinary skills are limited to about five dishes, but I've perfected those five."
"Still, that's five more than most single fathers master. Edward didn't cook?"
The question was casual, but I knew better. Silas rarely brought up Edward unprompted. "He cooked extravagantly but rarely. Special occasions only. I handled the day-to-day meals."
"And now?"
"And now Cody and I take turns choosing dinner. His preferred rotation leans heavily on anything with excessive amounts of cheese."
Silas laughed. "A ten-year-old with sophisticated tastes."
As the pasta water came to a boil, Silas moved beside me, cutting the parsley with precise, chef-trained movements. His knife work was impressive, reducing the herb to a fine, uniform chop in seconds.
"Now, who's hiding culinary skills?" I teased.
"Basic knife technique. You don't go through culinary school without learning to chop properly." He swept the parsley into a neat pile with the back of the blade. "Though I haven't used these skills much lately. Baking is more my domain now."
"What happened to your restaurant dreams? Before Tidal Grounds?"
The question hung in the air, heavier than I'd intended. Silas's hands paused momentarily before resuming their work.
"Nico happened," he said finally. "Or rather, Nico un-happened. Disappeared. Took our business plan and contacts with him."
"To Colombia, right?"
He nodded. "Last I heard, he was running a coffee plantation tour business in Medellín. Very Instagram-worthy, according to mutual acquaintances."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. If he hadn't left, I'd never have come back to Whistleport. Never opened Tidal Grounds." He glanced up, meeting my eyes. "Never met you and Cody."
We ate at the small table tucked against the cabin's front window, watching as darkness settled over the forest. The simple meal tasted better than expected, elevated by the wine and the company. Conversation flowed easily, punctuated by comfortable silences and an occasional crackle from the fireplace.
Silas poured what remained of the wine into our mugs, the deep red liquid sloshing against the ceramic sides. "Tell me something you've never told anyone in Whistleport."
I considered the request, swirling the wine thoughtfully. "I almost became a professional baseball player."
His eyebrows shot up. "You're joking."
"Not at all. I was scouted in high school and offered a spot at a development camp. It would have been a long shot for MLB, but potentially good enough for the minors."
"What happened?"
"Broke my wrist during a senior year tournament: bad break, required surgery. By the time it healed, I'd lost too much training time. The opportunity passed." I shrugged, though the old disappointment still echoed faintly. "It worked out. I found architecture, which suits me better anyway."
"Does Cody know?"
"Not the details. He knows I played but not how close I came to pursuing it professionally. I don't want to put that expectation on him."
Silas nodded, understanding immediately. "Your turn," I prompted. "Something you've never shared."
He hesitated, fingers toying with the rim of his mug. "I write poetry."
"I know that. I heard you at the reading."
"No, I mean, I write a lot of poetry. Notebooks full. I've been doing it since high school. It's how I process things—through words, images, metaphors." He looked almost embarrassed by the admission. "I've submitted work to journals under a pseudonym."
"Published?"
"A few pieces. Nothing major."
"Silas, that's incredible."
He waved off the compliment. "It's private. Something just for me. Or it was, until the poetry night."
"Thank you for sharing it with me."
"We should clean up," Silas said abruptly, gathering our empty plates. The moment receded like a wave pulling back from the shore, leaving damp impressions in the sand.
We washed dishes side by side, his elbow occasionally bumping mine as we worked. The domesticity of the scene struck me—how natural it felt to share these mundane tasks with him, how easily we'd fallen into a rhythm that accommodated both our movements.
When the kitchen was clean, we migrated to the couch in front of the fire. The flames had died down to a steady glow, casting the cabin in warm amber light. Outside, the woods had gone completely dark, the only illumination coming from the stars visible through the A-frame's high windows.
Silas sat at one end of the couch, legs tucked beneath him. I settled at the other end, aware of the deliberate space between us. The wine had left me pleasantly relaxed but not impaired, my senses heightened rather than dulled.
"This was a good idea," Silas said, gazing into the embers. "Getting away."
"Worth abandoning Tidal Grounds for forty-eight hours?"
He smiled, eyes still on the fire. "Jury's still out. Ask me Sunday."
I stretched my arm along the back of the couch, not quite touching him but narrowing the gap between us. "What would tip the scales in favor of 'worth it'?"
It was a bold question, more direct than I typically allowed myself to be. But here, away from Whistleport and its watchful eyes, the usual caution felt unnecessary.
Silas turned to face me fully, his expression thoughtful. "I'm already here, aren't I? That's a pretty significant verdict."
"True. You did pack an overnight bag and willingly drive three hours from your café. That's practically a declaration."
"Of what?"
"Intent. Interest." I paused, feeling my way through unfamiliar terrain. "Willingness to see where this goes."
The fire popped loudly, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Silas watched them rise, his profile illuminated in gold and shadow. "I don't usually let myself want things," he said. "It's safer that way."
"And now?"
His hand found mine in the space between us, fingers slipping between my own with deliberate care. "Now I'm tired of safe."
"What are you thinking?" Silas asked.
I considered deflecting but chose honesty instead. "That I want to kiss you. But I won't unless you say it first."
His eyes widened slightly, surprise giving way to something darker, more certain. Instead of speaking, he shifted forward, rising onto his knees on the couch cushion. One hand came up to rest against my jaw, thumb brushing lightly over my cheekbone in a touch so gentle it almost undid me.
When our lips finally met, it wasn't the desperate, hungry clash I'd imagined in my weaker moments. It was measured, deliberate—a question followed by an answer, an offering accepted.
I kept my own movements restrained, letting him set the pace. My fingers found the fabric of his sweater, gripping lightly at his waist. The kiss deepened gradually, his mouth opening under mine with a soft sound that reverberated through my entire body.
When we finally separated, Silas remained close, his forehead resting against my cheek. His breathing was uneven, matching my chest's rapid rise and fall.
"You okay?" I murmured, not pulling away.
"Yeah, a long way from just okay."
"We can stop—"
"I don't want to stop."
The certainty in his voice eliminated any remaining hesitation. I kissed him again, more insistently this time, one hand sliding beneath his sweater to find warm skin. He responded in kind, fingers working at the buttons of my flannel shirt with surprising dexterity.
We stayed there on the couch for what could have been minutes or hours, learning each other with increasingly urgent touches. Each new discovery—the sensitive spot at the base of his throat, the way his breath caught when I traced his collarbone—was an exciting journey to discovery around his body.
Eventually, by mutual, unspoken agreement, we made our way to the ladder leading to the loft. Silas climbed first, his movements slightly clumsy with desire. I followed, pausing at the top to see him sitting on the edge of the bed, hair mussed from my hands, eyes dark in the dim light filtering up from the main room.
"Last chance to reconsider," I said, voice rough with wanting.
Silas reached for me, pulling me down beside him on the bed. "I've reconsidered enough for one lifetime, don't you think?"
His words collapsed the final barrier between us. We fell together onto the flannel-covered bed, hands and mouths urgent now, guided by instinct and growing familiarity. Clothes were discarded with little ceremony, each new expanse of skin greeted with reverent touches.
In the half-light, I traced the contours of his body—the solid breadth of his shoulders, the softness at his waist, the strong lines of his thighs. He explored me with equal attention, his touch confident yet questioning.
When he finally moved above me, his weight a perfect anchor, I pulled him down for another kiss. "I've wanted us to be like this together from the beginning."
He smiled, the expression changing his entire face, softening the usual guardedness. "Liar. You were too busy worrying about Cody's hockey tryouts to notice me."
"I noticed. Trust me."
We moved together with increasing urgency. Silas's usual reserve dissolved completely, replaced by an openness I'd only glimpsed in fragments before.
My hands roamed over the broad expanse of Silas's shoulders, tracing the defined muscles that tensed and relaxed with each movement. I marveled at his muscular waist and the power in his thighs as they pressed against mine. His own exploration was equally thorough, his touch both confident and inquisitive, leaving trails of fire across my skin.
When he positioned himself above me, the weight of his body grounding me, I pulled him into a fierce kiss.
Our movements became more urgent, driven by primal needs. I gripped his hips, pulling him closer, feeling the hard length of him against me.
I pulled a condom packet from my jeans and sheathed his cock. He groaned, his forehead resting against my cheek as he rocked into me, the friction sending waves of pleasure coursing through my body.
Clothes were hastily discarded, our bodies eager to eliminate any barriers between us. The cool air of the cabin did little to dampen the heat that radiated from our skin as we came together, limbs entwined, mouths fused in a desperate dance.
Silas's hands were everywhere, mapping out my body with a touch that was both reverent and possessive. I mirrored his actions, my own hands exploring the dips and curves of his form, committing each gasp and shiver to memory. His body was a landscape of desire, and I was determined to leave no part unexplored.
His eyes never left mine as he positioned himself at my entrance. My body trembled in anticipation.
The first thrust was slow, deliberate, a promise of what was to come. I gasped at the sensation, my body stretching to accommodate him, the slight burn quickly giving way to pleasure. He paused, giving me a moment to adjust, his eyes searching mine for any sign of discomfort. I answered with a roll of my hips, drawing him deeper, a silent plea for more.
Our lovemaking was a give-and-take of pleasure that left us both breathless. Silas moved with a rhythm that was both powerful and graceful, each thrust hitting that perfect spot deep within me. I met each one, my body arching off the bed, my fingers digging into his back muscles.
The world outside the cabin ceased to exist, leaving only the two of us lost in the rhythm of our desire. The sound of our ragged breaths and the slap of skin against skin filled the air, a primal melody that drove us both closer to the edge.
My orgasm built a coil of tension in the pit of my stomach that grew tighter with each thrust. Silas's name fell from my lips, a plea for release that I knew he could answer.
His own movements became more erratic, his breath coming in short gasps as he chased his own climax. He swelled even tighter within me, his body tensing as he neared the edge.
"Come with me," he growled, his hand wrapping around my length, stroking in time with his thrusts. The added sensation was my undoing, the coil of tension snapping as waves of pleasure crashed over me.
I cried out, my body convulsing as I came, the warmth of my release spilling onto my stomach. Silas followed soon after, his body going rigid as he thrust deep one last time, a groan of pure ecstasy tearing from his throat.
We collapsed together, our bodies slick with sweat, our breaths coming in ragged gasps. Silas's weight was comforting, anchoring me to him and the moment. His heart pounded against my chest, a mirror of my own as we both came down from the high of our shared climax.
Later—much later—we lay tangled in the flannel sheets, a fine sheen of sweat cooling on our skin despite the winter chill outside. Silas rested his head on my chest, his breathing slowly returning to normal, one hand splayed across my ribs as if verifying my continued presence.
"You're thinking too loudly," I murmured, stroking a hand down his spine.
He laughed softly. "Professional hazard. Night baker's brain doesn't shut off easily."
"Regretting the café abandonment yet?"
"Strangely, no." He propped himself up on one elbow, studying my face in the dim light. "I should be tallying up everything that could go wrong in my absence. Instead, I'm—"
"What?"
"Happy," he said.
I pulled him down for another kiss. "Good. That was the general goal of this getaway."
"Very goal-oriented, aren't you?"
We drifted into comfortable silence, the only sounds the occasional pop from the dying fire below and the whisper of wind in the pines outside. Silas's breathing eventually deepened, his body growing heavier against mine as sleep claimed him.
I remained awake a while longer, thinking about all of the different sensations—the weight of his arm across my chest, the tickle of his beard against my shoulder, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. After months of careful distance and measured interactions, the sudden abundance of contact was overwhelming in the best possible way.