3. Hawk
3
HAWK
I t’s official. I’m an idiot.
Hours of staring at my cabin’s ceiling from this lumpy couch haven’t changed that conclusion. Sleep has been impossible with all of my mistakes playing on repeat in my head.
Yesterday was a disaster from the moment Paige arrived. Years of steady hands and careful control abandoned me the second she mentioned wanting kids. I foolishly retreated to my workshop, running from the reality of what I’d done—brought a woman to this mountain, promising her a life I’m not even sure I know how to give.
I was already in a foul mood from ruining weeks of work with one careless cut of my chisel. But walking back into a house I barely recognized broke something in me. Every surface was cleaned and organized, showing me exactly what a disgrace I’d become.
And instead of gratitude, I gave her anger.
My teeth ache from grinding them all night. That soup—what kind of jackass serves a bride three-day-old game stew? I couldn’t even look at her across the table, couldn’t manage basic conversation. No wonder she got sick.
I know I should have taken more time getting to know her before asking her to be my bride. But something in her messages worked its way under my skin. And in all of her profile photos, her smile shone right through the screen. Guess I was worried if I waited too long, someone else would see what I saw.
I check my watch. 7:15. Haven’t heard a sound from the bedroom yet. The memory of how pale Paige looked last night, and how unsteady she was on her feet, twists in my chest.
Maybe there’s one useful thing I can manage.
I pull myself up from the couch, muscles stiff from the long sleepless night. Dew wets my boots as I step outside and gather what I need: nettle leaves, yarrow, and wormwood, all hardy and flourishing.
Back in the kitchen, I add some black walnut bark from my stash, and brew it strong. I wait until the tea has steeped dark before carrying it down the hall.
I knock gently against the bedroom door. After a pause, I hear rustling from within, then her groggy voice softly calls out.
“Come in.”
I push the door open. She’s sitting up in my bed, her auburn hair mussed from sleep. Dark circles shadow her eyes, telling me she slept as poorly as I did. Even exhausted, she’s beautiful.
“Made you something.” I hold out the mug. “For your stomach.”
“Oh. Thank you.” She accepts it with uncertain hands. When she breathes in the steam, her nose wrinkles before she can catch herself.
“My stomach is still a little unsettled,” she says, moving to set the mug aside.
“The tea will help,” I say, and list off its ingredients.
She studies the mug for a long moment, then raises it to her lips and takes the smallest possible sip.
I lower myself into the chair beside the bed, wincing at my stiff joints. The silence stretches between us until I clear my throat. Yesterday was a disaster, but I need this arrangement to work. The loneliness has gotten too deep.
“About what I said yesterday.” My voice comes out gravelly. I’ve already spoken more in the last twenty-four hours than I have in months. “About not touching my things. Forget I said that.”
She watches me over the rim of her mug, waiting.
“It was nice of you to clean. Place needed it.” I drum my fingers against my knee. “Not that you have to. I don’t expect—” I cut myself off. Start again. “I usually spend most of the day in my shop. Sometimes I don’t eat until late. But we can work out whatever schedule suits you better.”
“Don’t change your routine for me.” Paige sets the mug aside. “I’m a three-meals-a-day kind of person, but I don’t mind eating alone. Would it be okay if I did some of the cooking?”
“Fine by me.”
Her shoulders relax.
“You should keep a list,” I tell her. “For things you need. I only go into Fairhope every few months, so we can stock up then.”
Her eyebrows lift. “I didn’t think Fairhope was that far of a drive?”
“It’s not about the distance.”
“Right.” She studies me, a hint of challenge in her gaze. “Are you saying you don’t want me going into town on my own?”
The question catches me off guard. “What? No, that’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Just checking. The way you phrased it made me wonder.”
And there I go, fumbling things again. “I only meant that’s how often I like to make the trip. If you want to go more than that, you can go whenever you want.”
She gives a satisfied nod. “What else should I know about living up here?”
I straighten. This, at least, I know how to handle. “If you see a bear, don’t run. And if you see a cub—” I stop. She’s pressing her lips together, fighting a smile. “What?”
“Nothing.” Her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Please, tell me more about how I shouldn’t try to pet the cute baby bears.”
The back of my neck goes hot. Of course she knows basic mountain safety. She’s not some helpless girl who needs me to explain every damn thing.
But that smile of hers also does something dangerous to my insides. For a split second, I can actually picture this working out. I can see the two of us together. Happy.
That glimpse of a good marriage reminds me of something we need to settle. “Yesterday, when you mentioned having kids…” I pause and clear my throat. “I want to be upfront with you. I’m not so sure that’s for me.”
Her smile fades. “Are you saying you definitely don’t want any?”
The question deserves more thought than I’ve ever given it. Living alone, I never had reason to consider it beyond that first gut reaction. Even now, trying to imagine children in my quiet world feels wrong, but something stops me from making it final.
“I don’t think it’s for me,” I say carefully. “But I guess it’s not a hard no, either. Is that a problem?”
She takes a long breath. “I’m not sure yet. I need more time to think about it.”
Fair enough. I push to my feet. “Okay. We’ll talk about it again later, then. I have work to do in my shop.”
“I’m going to take a shower, if that’s okay?” She gestures toward the bathroom door on the other side of the bedroom.
I nod. “Clean towels are in the cabinet under the sink.”
I’m only a few steps out the bedroom door when I remember the shower’s quirks. Turning back, I open the door without thinking. “Watch out for the?—”
The sight before me halts my breath. Paige stands beside the bed, clothes halfway off, smooth skin and bare curves exposed. I snap my eyes away, but not before the image burns itself into my memory—the lush curves of her waist, the swell of her breasts against fabric.
“The water gets scalding hot if you turn it too far right,” I manage to say, facing the hallway.
“Thanks,” she calls after me, voice higher and tighter than before.
I pull the door shut, cursing myself. Some gentleman I’m turning out to be.