Chapter 3
Ellie
Well.
That escalated quickly.
Micah’s mouth is still on my lips when my brain finally decides to catch up to the moment—and panics accordingly. Not that I stop him. Not that I want to.
Because, holy emotional whiplash, the man kisses like it’s a combat skill. Like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s spent his whole life holding back, and suddenly decided… not to.
Now I’m sitting in the world’s coziest wooden kitchen, legs crossed at the table like a lady while the same man who just devoured my mouth is making me dinner, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, and completely unfazed. Like he didn’t just short-circuit my brain.
He chops vegetables with surgical precision. Tosses them in a cast iron pan like he’s preparing for war. And I'm sitting here trying to remember how breathing works.
He's different.
Not just from the guys I’ve dated—but from anyone. He doesn’t talk unless it matters. He’s quiet in that way people usually mistake for cold. But it’s not. Not with him. With Micah, the quiet is full. Intentional. Everything he does feels like a decision made three steps ahead.
Which makes the kiss even more unhinging.
He chose that.
And now he’s choosing to act like it never happened. Cool as the snow falling outside. Stirring a pan like it owes him money.
“I wasn’t expecting this,” I say, trying to fill the space with something that isn’t me staring at his forearms.
He looks over his shoulder. “Dinner?”
I smirk. “That kiss.”
He pauses for half a second before flipping a pepper with extreme focus. “You started it.”
“I did not.”
“You sat on my lap.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘I’m not going to stop at kissing.’ That’s not exactly a deterrent.”
He grunts, but I catch the edge of a smirk. A rare sighting. Practically a miracle.
After a beat, his tone shifts—quieter. “Tell me about the packages. The threats.”
I straighten, the heat of the moment simmering down under the weight of reality. “It started two weeks ago. I got a box at work—no return address. Just a vintage ornament and a card that said You’re next. I thought it was a prank. Until the next one came.”
Micah sets a plate in front of me—chicken, roasted potatoes, and whatever those veggies are that smell like heaven. He sits across from me, watching me with that deadly stillness that says he’s listening too closely.
“Next one?” he prompts.
“Broken partridge ornament. A photo of my car. Then a receipt from a coffee shop I was at two days before, with my name scrawled on it in red ink. I reported it. The local police shrugged. That’s when I called Nate.”
Something in Micah’s jaw ticks.
“How do you know Nate?” he asks, tone clipped.
I blink. “He used to volunteer at the teen center. We did an outreach event with veterans. He helped a lot of the boys open up. Why?”
“No reason.” He stabs a potato like it owes him answers.
I tilt my head. “Micah… are you jealous?”
“I’m not jealous,” he says, a little too fast. “I just think it’s interesting that he sends you here.”
“Because you’re good at what you do,” I say, softening. “And he trusts you. That’s all.”
He doesn’t reply, but I see the tension ease in his shoulders.
“Besides,” I add, smiling, “if I had any interest in Nate, I wouldn’t have kissed you.”
His eyes flick to mine, dark and unreadable. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Say things like that.”
“Why not?” I challenge, half teasing.
“Because I’m trying to focus, Ellie.”
“On dinner?”
“On keeping you alive.”
Right. The threats. The reason I’m here and not sipping eggnog with my coworkers at our annual "Ugly Sweater and Ugly Gossip" party.
“Sorry,” I say, tucking a piece of chicken into my mouth and instantly moaning. “Oh my God, what is this? This isn’t food. This is a religious experience.”
Micah’s mouth twitches again. “Family recipe.”
I point my fork at him. “You’re not allowed to look like that and cook like this. It’s too much. I’m losing focus.”
He leans back in his chair, gaze locked on me, serious now. “We need to make a rule.”
I arch a brow. “That sounds ominous.”
He sets his fork down. “I can’t protect you if I’m distracted. If I’m thinking about your mouth when I should be watching the door.”
My cheeks flush, and not from the potatoes. “So what are you saying?”
“No kissing. No touching. No more... distractions.”
My stomach flips in protest, but I nod. He’s right. “Okay. No kissing.”
“Good.”
“Or lap sitting,” I add, mock-grave.
He glares. “Especially no lap sitting.”
We lock eyes.
And then we both laugh.
For a second, it’s light. Warm. Human.
“Deal,” I say, holding out my pinky.
He stares at it like it might explode. “You’re not serious.”
“I am always serious about pinky promises.”
He rolls his eyes but links his pinky with mine, holding it there just a second longer than necessary.
And just like that, the rule is made. No kissing. No touching. No distractions.
Which is fine.
Totally fine.
Except the way he looks at me across the table makes me really want to break the rule.