Chapter 2
ROWAN
The filing cabinet smells like dust and old paper. I've been hunched over it for two hours, and my back is screaming, and Everett Cole is still an insufferable ass.
City girl.
I yank open the third drawer with more force than necessary.
The metal screeches. Outside the window, I can see the logging crew wrapping up for the day, their voices carrying across the clearing.
Laughter. The thunk of equipment being secured.
Normal end-of-shift sounds from people who didn't just get condescended to by a flannel-wearing mountain man with sawdust in his beard.
His very attractive beard.
I shove that thought down where it belongs and flip through another stack of harvest plans.
The records are surprisingly organized for the last three years.
Clear documentation. Proper permits. Replanting schedules that exceed the state minimum.
Either Cole Timber runs a tight ship, or someone cleaned house before my arrival.
My phone buzzes. A text from my supervisor, Greg.
How's the audit going?
I type back:
Just started. Records look clean so far.
Good. Don't let the locals charm you. These family operations always have skeletons.
I stare at the message. Greg has been with the compliance office for twenty years. He's seen every trick in the book. But something about his assumption rubs me wrong. Maybe because the records in front of me tell a different story than the one I expected.
Or maybe because Everett Cole is anything but charming.
The office door opens. I straighten, tucking my phone away, already composing a professional response to whatever accusation he's about to throw.
It's not Everett.
A woman stands in the doorway. Silver hair, bright blue eyes, a basket hooked over one arm. She's tiny. Probably five feet in heels. And she's looking at me like I'm the answer to a question I didn't hear.
"You must be the compliance officer."
"Rowan Cafferty." I extend my hand. "And you are?"
"Patty Cole. Ev's mother." Her grip is warm, her smile warmer. "I heard you might need a place to stay."
Of course he told his mother. Of course he did.
"I appreciate the concern, Mrs. Cole, but I'll figure something out."
"Patty, please. And honey, I've lived in Whisper Vale for forty years.
There's nothing to figure out. The festival's got every room from here to Reno.
" She sets the basket on the desk, pulling back a checkered cloth to reveal sandwiches and what looks like homemade cookies.
"I spoke with Everett. He's going to offer you the guest room at his cabin. "
I blink. "He is?"
"He doesn't know it yet."
"Mrs. Cole—"
"Patty."
"Patty. I can't stay with the man I'm here to audit. That's a conflict of interest."
"You can't audit anything if you're sleeping in your truck." She pushes the basket toward me. "Eat. You look hungry. And don't worry about my son. He's grumpy, but he's harmless."
Harmless is not the word I would use.
The word I would use is dangerous. The kind of dangerous that comes wrapped in broad shoulders and calloused hands. The kind that looks at you like you're both a problem and a prize. Everett Cole made me feel like I was standing too close to a fire, and I hate him for it.
"I'll find a hotel in the next town," I say.
"Forty-five minutes each way. On mountain roads. In the dark." Patty clicks her tongue. "That's not practical, and you strike me as a practical woman."
She's right. I hate that she's right.
"The records I need are at his cabin anyway," I hear myself say. "The older files."
Patty's smile widens. "Perfect. I'll let him know to expect you."
She's out the door before I can argue. I stare at the space where she stood, then at the basket of food, then at the filing cabinet full of meticulously kept records.
What the hell just happened?
Everett's cabin sits at the end of a dirt road, half a mile from the main operation. The trees close in as I drive, Douglas firs tall enough to block the fading sunlight. My headlights catch the reflective markers someone nailed to the trunks, guiding the way.
The cabin itself is bigger than I expected. Two stories, a wide porch, smoke curling from the chimney. It looks like something from a magazine. The kind of place people pay thousands to rent for a weekend of "rustic living."
I park next to his truck and sit for a moment, gripping the steering wheel. My suitcase is in the back. My laptop. My carefully organized case files. Everything I need to do my job professionally and thoroughly and then get the hell out of this town.
His mother set me up. I know that. But she's also right.
I called six hotels on my drive out here.
All booked. The Mountain Bloom Festival has turned Whisper Vale into a madhouse, and I'm stuck in the middle of it with nowhere to sleep except the guest room of a man who thinks I'm here to destroy his livelihood.
The porch light flicks on. He's watching.
I grab my bag and walk toward the cabin like I own the place. Fake it till you make it. The story of my life.
Everett opens the door before I knock. He's changed out of his work clothes into jeans and a thermal that stretches across his chest in a way I refuse to notice. His hair is damp. He showered. I can smell soap and something woodsy underneath.
"My mother called," he says.
"I gathered."
"She doesn't take no for an answer."
"I noticed."
He steps aside, gesturing me in. The cabin is warm, a fire crackling in a stone hearth. The furniture is solid wood, clearly handmade. Bookshelves line one wall, crammed with paperbacks and old forestry manuals. A kitchen opens to the living room. It smells like coffee.
"Guest room's upstairs. Second door on the left." He moves toward the kitchen, pulling a mug from the cabinet. "You eat dinner?"
"Your mother brought sandwiches."
"That's not dinner."
"I'm fine."
He turns, leaning against the counter. Crossing his arms. Looking at me like I'm the most frustrating thing he's encountered today, which is saying something given his job involves heavy machinery.
"Ms. Cafferty. You're staying in my house. The least I can do is feed you."
"I don't need you to take care of me."
"I'm aware. You've made that clear." He gestures to the stool at the kitchen island. "Sit."
"That's not—"
"The records you need are in the basement. I can show you after we eat, or I can let you wander around in the dark looking for the door. Your call."
I sit.
He pulls containers from the refrigerator, moving around the kitchen with an ease that surprises me. Within minutes, something sizzles in a pan. Garlic. Onions. The smell makes my stomach clench.
"You cook," I say, immediately feeling stupid.
"I live alone."
"Most men who live alone survive on frozen pizza."
"Most men who live alone don't work fourteen-hour days doing manual labor." He doesn't look up from the stove. "You need fuel for that. Real food."
I watch him work. The way his forearms flex when he stirs. The concentration on his face. The small line between his brows that I'm starting to suspect is permanent.
"Why do you hate me?" I ask.
The question surprises us both. He goes still, spatula hovering over the pan.
"I don't hate you."
"You've been hostile since I arrived."
"I've been direct." He plates the food. Pasta with vegetables. Sets it in front of me. "Hostility would be offensive."
"You called me a city girl."
"You're from Portland."
"That doesn't make me incapable of understanding your operation."
He leans against the counter again, watching me. The firelight catches the silver at his temples. I didn't notice that before. The way the brown fades to gray, just at the edges. It makes him look older. Experienced. Like he's seen things and survived them.
"How long have you been doing this job?" he asks.
"Two years with the county. Six years total in environmental work."
"And before that?"
"Research. Forest ecosystems. Funding dried up."
Something shifts in his expression. Softens. "You're a scientist."
"I'm a compliance officer."
"Who used to be a scientist." He picks up his own plate, settling onto the stool beside me. Close enough that I can feel his warmth. "That's different than the paper pushers who usually show up."
"Careful. That almost sounded like respect."
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. "Don't let it go to your head."
We eat in silence. The pasta is good. Better than good. I finish the whole plate before I realize I was that hungry, and when I look up, he's watching me with an expression I can't read.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing." He stands, taking our plates to the sink. "Come on. I'll show you the records."
The basement is exactly what I expected. Boxes stacked floor to ceiling, labeled in faded marker. Decades of paperwork from a time before digital records. He pulls a chain, flooding the space with harsh light.
"Anything before 2020 is down here," he says. "It's organized by year. Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"My father wasn't the most detail-oriented guy." He moves to a shelf, pulling down a box. "But he cared about this land. Everything he did was in its best interest, even if the paperwork didn't always reflect it."
I hear the defensiveness in his voice. The same tone from earlier, but rawer now. More honest.
"I'm not here to punish your family," I say.
He turns. We're standing closer than I realized. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. The rise and fall of his chest. The way his gaze drops to my mouth for just a second before snapping back up.
"Then why are you here?"
"To do my job."
"Which is what, exactly?"
"Making sure operations like yours are sustainable.
That the land is protected. That fifty years from now, there's still something left.
" I lift my chin. "You think I want to shut you down?
I don't. I want to find reasons to let you keep operating.
But I can't do that if the records don't support it. "
He stares at me. Something in his expression cracks open. I see exhaustion. Worry. The weight of generations pressing down on his shoulders.
"Three generations," he says quietly. "My grandfather built this. My father bled for it. I'm not going to be the one who loses it."
"Then help me prove you deserve to keep it."
The basement is silent except for our breathing. He's so close. I could reach out and touch the stubble on his jaw. Feel whether it's rough or soft. Let my fingers trace the line of his neck to his chest to the hem of his shirt.
His hand lifts. For a moment, I think he's going to touch my face.
His phone buzzes. Loud in the quiet.
He steps back like I burned him, pulling it from his pocket. Frowning at the screen.
"I have to take this." His voice is rough. "Your room's upstairs. There are towels in the closet."
He's gone before I can respond, climbing the stairs two at a time, leaving me alone in the basement with thirty years of records and a heartbeat I can feel in my throat.
I press a hand to my chest.
What the hell was that?