Chapter 3
Chapter three
Brenna
Ipress the soft towel against my face, inhaling the clean soap scent while Graham disappears back into the storm.
The warmth of his living room wraps around me like a hug.
And it’s not just the temperature. Everything here has been handcrafted.
There’s a massive oak coffee table with an edge still covered in bark.
Built-in bookshelves that follow the natural curve of the log walls.
Even the couch appears worn soft in all the right places.
This is what earned looks like. What real feels like.
Back home, all of the furnishings selected by my mother’s interior designer are perfectly coordinated, impossibly expensive, and completely soulless. But this place has heart in every corner.
A few minutes later, the front door swings open.
Graham shakes the water from his thick dark hair as he sets down my suitcase.
Watching him move with such quiet confidence makes my stomach tingle like it’s filled with champagne bubbles.
His demeanor is unlike the city boys from my world, who swagger with an unearned sense of entitlement and expect me to swoon.
“Bathroom’s down the hall.” Graham’s voice is rough as he eyes me standing by the fire. “Get out of those wet clothes.”
The way he issues the order, like a command rather than a suggestion, in that deep, no-nonsense tone, sends heat spiraling through me. I’m quick to obey, crossing the room to grab the handle of the suitcase.
Minutes later, when I emerge from the bathroom in cozy leggings and a cream sweater, he’s changed, too.
Gone is the soaked flannel, replaced by a dark green henley that stretches across his broad shoulders.
He’s at the stove, stirring something that smells incredible.
Even his bare feet peeking out from the bottoms of his jeans look strong and masculine.
God, he’s beautiful. Rugged and real and built to win in a bar fight. Not that any scuffle would get that far. Not after one glare from those dark stormy eyes.
“Is that soup?” I ask, eyeing the pot.
He doesn’t respond.
I wait a beat then step up beside him. “It smells amazing.”
His eyes glance sideways to find mine, and there’s a flicker of embarrassment. “Sorry. Deaf in my left ear.”
I open my mouth to ask, but as if to cut off the questioning, he offers, “IED in Afghanistan,” before ladling the soup into two bowls.
Oh. That explains some things.
My stomach rumbles audibly, and I wonder if he heard it. When he shoots me a disapproving look, I get my answer.
“When’s the last time you ate?” he demands, offering me a bowl.
“This morning.” I slide onto one of the tall stools at his kitchen island and pick up the spoon. “I was too nervous to eat during the drive.”
The soup is incredible, rich and hearty, with chunks of vegetables and tender beef.
It tastes nothing like the takeout from the five-star restaurants that line my block.
I devour the meal, while Graham watches with something like satisfaction, setting down a cloth napkin and a glass of water without me having to ask.
Outside, the wind howls through the trees, but in here, with this man, it feels like a sanctuary.
Which is crazy because he’s a stranger.
But the bone-deep certainty I felt outside earlier is even stronger now. This veteran, who could easily snap me in half, would never hurt me. There’s something about him I can’t put my finger on, but whatever it is, I trust him completely.
“This is delicious,” I say, sure to face him fully when I speak.
He slides onto the stool next to me. “Why were you nervous to eat during the drive?”
My heart hammers against my ribs. I can’t tell him about my search for a father I’ve never met. One who doesn’t know I’m coming. Not when I don’t know what I’ll find when I locate him. Instead, I say, “My family thinks I’m crazy for coming here.”
Something shifts in his expression. Understanding, maybe. “Families don’t always know what’s best.”
That doesn’t make going against them easy. “Yours doesn’t either?”
“Don’t have much family left.” His voice goes flat, distant. “Lost my parents young.”
My heart goes out to him. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs, but I catch the way his shoulders tense.
“You said your family,” he says after a moment, setting down his spoon as he studies me for a long moment. Those storm-gray eyes scan my face as wrinkles crisscross his brow. “What’s your last name?”
My stomach clenches tight. But this man won’t immediately place me on a peg in Manhattan’s hierarchy of wealth and privilege the second he hears my last name. Here, I can be myself rather than a disappointment. Or an asset with a carefully managed reputation.
“Buchanan.”
Sure enough, not a flicker of recognition crosses his face. Rather, the wrinkles release from his brow as he picks his spoon back up. The relief that floods through me is so overwhelming my shoulders drop.
He notices. “Should I know that name? Buchanan?”
“God, I hope not.”
And I find I don’t mind telling him about my family. Especially because there’s no way this mountain of a man, all the way up here in Wildwood, Vermont, has heard of, much less gives a shit about, my family. “My father’s in finance. Old money, very traditional.”
Stepfather, actually, but before I can clarify, he continues, “And your mother?”
“Professional socialite.” The words taste bitter. “An expert at looking perfect and saying the right things.”
His eyebrows lift. “And you?”
I fiddle with my napkin as heat creeps up my neck. “I’m more like the dutiful daughter performing in a play I never auditioned for.”
Understanding flickers in those storm-gray eyes. “People don’t see the real you.”
It’s not a question. He understands. Gets me.
“Never,” I whisper.
“And who are you when you’re not performing?”
No one’s ever cared enough to ask me that. But what do I say? That I don’t know who I am? That I’m here searching out my father to help me figure it out?
When I don’t continue, he dips his chin toward the living room. “See that coffee table?”
My gaze follows his, noticing now, from a distance, how the woodgrain flows like water frozen in time.
“Did you make it?”
A grunt is confirmation, and I can picture him working on it. Those large, capable hands shaping raw timber into something beautiful. The patience it required. The skill. My pulse kicks up at the thought of those hands on me with the same careful attention.
“It’s perfect,” I breathe.
“It’s not.” He points to one corner. “See the knot?”
“Yeah.”
“Most people would have cut around it.”
My gaze flicks back to him. “But you didn’t.”
“The imperfection gives it character.” His voice is quiet, thoughtful, as he watches me intently.
The words make my throat tight. I’ve spent my entire life trying to be perfect, polished, acceptable. But this man sees beauty in flaws. Hell, he’s imperfect with invisible wounds, too. Just like me.
There’s a marked shift in the air.
“You’ll find yourself here, in the woods,” he murmurs, so low I barely hear it.
“I hope so.” I lean closer, emboldened by the heat he can’t hide in those stormy gray eyes. Heat I’m drawn to like a moth to a flame.
He studies my face for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression. I think he’s going to offer more wisdom. Or maybe—just maybe—lean forward and kiss me.
Instead, he says, “Any chance you know how to play Gin Rummy?”