3. Kate
Chapter three
Kate
I ’ve been around gentlemen who know how to introduce themselves and never ignore a lady, yet none of them intrigues me the way he does.
I mean, seriously. How can someone appear like he was carved from rugged mountain stone, affect me like a thunderclap straight to the chest… and still manage to be the rudest person I’ve ever met?
I watch the screen door remain shut behind him, the thud of it oddly final. Like punctuation. A period at the end of a very confusing sentence.
Still, I refuse to let the man with stormy eyes and zero conversational skills ruin this day. Not when the sun’s out, the air smells like wildflowers and old wood, and this little cottage, my cottage, feels like something out of a dream.
I wipe my palms on my jeans, take a deep breath, and step inside again, but this time, I allow myself to properly take it all in. It smells faintly of lavender and lemon polish. The kind of clean that’s been taken care of. Not sterile, just… loved.
The floors are wide-plank pine, worn in places, creaking slightly under my weight. There’s a small fireplace in the living room, the bricks painted soft white with a mantle that’s chipped on the corner like someone once bumped into it laughing.
The furniture’s simple, classic linen cushions in soft creams and dusty blues, the kind of textures that make you want to curl up barefoot with a good book.
There’s a tiny kitchen tucked in the back, complete with vintage green cabinets, a butcher block counter, and an old porcelain sink beneath a window that affords a look over the meadow.
It’s perfect, like something out of a Nancy Meyers movie.
All it’s missing is the warm scent of cinnamon rolls and perhaps a golden retriever asleep by the door.
I press my hand to the cool wood of the doorframe and breathe for a second.
It’s not the house I ran from. It’s not marble floors and cold chandeliers and staff that hover like ghosts. This is warm. Real. Mine.
I pass the hallway, catching sight of two small bedrooms, one already made up of soft gray linens that smell faintly of cedar and another that’s been left bare, waiting. I make a mental note to let Parker pick out some new bedding. Dinosaurs, maybe. Or space rockets.
Speaking of…
My feet still, a chill skittering down my spine. Where is Parker?
I call his name once, then again. My voice echoes back through the house, too quiet. A third time, louder now. My throat tightens as silence greets me again.
“Parker?”
Nothing.
A low buzz of panic coils beneath my skin. My heartbeat kicks up, thudding against my ribs like it’s trying to punch its way out. I whip around, moving from room to room, checking closets, behind doors, and under the beds. He’s not here.
He was here. I saw him with the dog.
I bolt for the front door, bare feet slapping the wood floor, the screen door squealing on its hinges as I throw it open and race out into the blinding sun.
“Parker!”
Then I hear it.
A sharp cry. High-pitched and broken. “Mommy!”
My eyes snap toward the sound, and my stomach drops straight through the earth.
He’s in the tree.
At least ten feet up, clinging to a branch that gives every indication of being too thin for comfort. His face is blotchy with tears, and one sneaker is dangling precariously from his foot. His lips trembling, his hands locked around the bark like he’s frozen in place.
Oh God. No, no, no.
I sprint toward him, heart pounding. “Parker! Oh, sweetheart, don’t move! Stay right there, Mommy’s coming, okay?”
My voice is too high. I hear it crack. I’m shaking, hands fluttering uselessly at my sides because I can’t climb that high. I can’t reach him.
He’s sobbing harder now, knees bent, body rocking as the branch sways.
I scream.
I don’t mean to. It rips out of me, raw and panicked and helpless.
And then,
He’s there.
He. The man with the storm cloud eyes. The same man who barely said three words to me earlier is suddenly beside me, barefoot, dripping wet, and wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips.
But I hardly register that because he doesn’t ask questions and doesn’t say a word. He looks once, really checking out Parker’s position, then at the tree, and moves.
His body coils, muscles tensing, and in one fluid motion, he grabs the lowest branch and hoists himself up. Fast. Efficient. Like he’s done this a hundred times before.
His shoulders ripple under the morning sun, bronzed skin damp and glistening, the faint shimmer of water still tracing lines down his spine as he climbs higher. There’s power in every movement, but also purpose. Focus. Control.
When he’s a few feet below Parker, he slows and speaks for the first time.
“Hey, bud.”
His voice is calm. Gentle and steady, like the quiet hum of thunder in the distance.
Parker sniffles, hiccupping. “I, I’m stuck.”
“I know,” he says, and even I feel the reassurance in those two words. “You climbed up. That was brave.”
Parker clings tighter. “I can’t get down.”
“That’s okay. I got you.”
His hand reaches up, but not too fast. Not enough to spook. He crouches, balancing easily like he was born in trees.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do, alright? I want you to let go. Just let go. I’ll catch you.”
My heart lurches. “He’s so high, ”
He doesn’t look back at me. Just lifts a hand, arms steady in the air.
“Trust me.”
Something in his voice makes even me go still.
Parker blinks, sniffling again. His little fingers loosen. “Okay…”
“On three, okay?” the man says. “One… two…”
Before he can say three, Parker lets go.
And he catches him like he promised; he doesn’t move right away.
Noah stays up there, balanced on that thick branch like he’s nothing but muscle and quiet certainty. His arms cradle Parker to his chest, one big hand stroking slowly along his little spine.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “You’re safe, buddy. Got you now.”
Parker’s body sags into his chest, trembling breaths against sun-warmed skin, and I let go of a breath I didn't realize I was holding. My shoulders sag in relief.
Noah holds him like he’s made for it, and nothing in the world could pry him from those arms.
His hand moves slowly along Parker’s back, tracing circles with his thumb, anchoring him with nothing but calm and quiet strength. The branch creaks beneath them, but he doesn’t flinch. He speaks again, to his ear, like a secret.
“You’re alright, buddy. I’ve got you.”
The hush of his voice settles into my bones like a balm. Even from down here, I feel it. That deep, rich timbre, not loud, not showy. Steady. Like the world could fall apart, and he’d still hold it together.
That voice settles the sharp edges inside me, and I press my hand flat against my stomach like I could pin down the wild, stuttering pulse rioting there.
Parker nods against his chest slowly, and his little arm tightens around Noah’s neck. And then he melts into him. Curls right into the bare skin of his shoulder like it’s the safest place in the world.
And somehow, at the moment, I know it is.
My breath stutters, caught between relief and tears.
The fear that holds me in its iron grip finally eases, replaced by something softer.
The rush of relief leaves me weak, my knees barely holding.
I sag where I stand, my chest rising and falling rapidly as I watch the way he cradles my son.
As if he’s the most precious thing in the world.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t shift his weight or speak. He lets Parker burrow in, steady arms strong around him, holding him through the last of his fear.
I follow the line of his shoulder, tracing the way the light plays across the damp skin. A flicker of motion catches at the corner of my eye, and my gaze slides lower fast, too easy, and it lands on the sharp, unmistakable curve of bare flesh.
My breath stalls.
The towel slung around his hips barely hangs there, loose and wet, and beneath it, there is nothing. Nothing at all. From where I stand, the angle leaves nothing to the imagination. The towel gaps at one side, pulled taut across his hip and clinging to the shape of him.
His firm buttocks flex under the shifting weight of my son, muscles tightening and easing like a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
The deep V of his hips vanishes beneath the terrycloth that looks seconds away from giving up the fight. There’s no waistband, no barrier, just damp skin and the soft brush of shadow hinting at the man beneath it.
My lips part, but air refuses to come.
There’s only one word to describe him…glorious…magnificent.
A bead of water traces a slow, unhurried path from his chest, gliding down the hard ridges of his stomach, following the groove of his abs until it disappears into that fraying towel. The sight sets off a spark deep in my belly, sharp and sweet, leaving me unsteady on my feet.
He shifts again, adjusting Parker’s weight against him, and the movement pulls my attention back to my son.
The sharp lines of his back and the curve of his hips belong to a man built for strength, but his hands cradle my son like Parker’s the most fragile thing in the world.
I hear the soft scrape of his feet against the frame of the treehouse as he moves. When he finally climbs down, Parker is still tucked safe against his torso as he lands quietly, knees bending to absorb both of their weight like it’s nothing.
I focus my eyes on Parker and on how grateful I am this man was nearby.
His arms tighten briefly around my son, keeping him close for one more breath, then another.
Then, gently, he lowers Parker to the grass.
My knees nearly give out from relief.
“Mommy…” Parker sniffles, reaching for me.
I fall to my knees and scoop him into my chest, hugging him so tightly his little arms can barely wrap around me. I press kisses into his hair, whispering over and over, you’re okay, you’re safe, I’ve got you now; but part of me knows I didn’t get him.
He did.
And he’s still standing there.
Bare chest rising and falling in the heat. His hand is braced on his hip, hair mussed from the wind and the climb, and that wet towel hangs scandalously low.
And his eyes, those impossibly deep, serious eyes, are locked on me.
Watching.
Waiting.
Like he’s trying to decide if I’m going to yell or faint.
I clear my throat, heart thundering somewhere behind my ribs, and stand slowly with Parker cradled against me. My legs feel like they’re made of water.
“Thank you,” I say, breathless.
It’s not enough. The words don't scratch the surface of what I feel: panic, gratitude, and the realization that the situation may have been worse if he hadn’t shown up when he did. But it’s all I have.
He nods once, like it was nothing. Like saving small children in a towel with nothing underneath is just… his Tuesday.
And then, he steps forward and offers his hand. “I’m Noah,” he says, voice gravel-thick. “Noah Bennett.”
I stare for a half a second too long.
Calloused. Tanned. Strong. Damp. Enormous.
Everything about it is male, real, and dangerous in a way that makes my breath catch. I shift Parker against my hip, tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and take it.
And dear God.
The second our palms touch, my whole body flares to life like a struck match.
There’s heat in the center of my palm. A jolt, fast, subtle, and hot, flickers down my arm and straight to the place between my ribs that’s already been humming since I stared up into that tree.
His hand is warm, firm, and not too tight. But the hold lingers.
As if he presumably feels it, too.
My skin burned where he touched me.
“I’m Kate,” I manage, my voice a little too breathy, a little too full of things I can’t say. “Kate Montgomery."
He hums deep in his throat, and I turn back to Parker, not willing to take my eyes off him for more than a moment. I mean to thank him again. I mean to say something smooth or witty, or maternal.
Instead, I regard him again, “You didn’t even hesitate.”
His brow lifts slightly. “Didn’t have time to.”
Simple. Direct. Masculine in that rugged, effortless way that makes my stomach clench.
The breeze stirs the trees behind us. A bird calls out somewhere in the distance. My heart pounds like it’s trying to climb out of my chest. Noah stares down at my hand again, the one he’s still holding. His jaw tightens before he drops it and takes a half step back.
“Well… welcome to Porthaven,” he says and turns toward the house.
“Thank you,”
I watch the towel sway as he walks away, clinging precariously, defiant, and scandalous, and realize I am officially not okay.
My son almost fell out of a tree.
And I am now absolutely, totally, and inconveniently aware of every inch of the man who saved him.
I need a cold drink.
Or a shower.
Or a lobotomy.
Maybe all three.