Chapter 10 Rhett
Chapter ten
Rhett
I'd lit candles like a romantic cliché and immediately regretted it.
I blew half of them out. Then relit two.
My Bluetooth speaker hummed quietly in the corner—Clapton's Slowhand.
Dire Straits had felt too slick, and Massive Attack was too heavy.
This one had room to breathe between the notes, like us.
My apartment had never felt smaller. Every surface was too close and breakable. The couch where we'd kissed three days ago. The kitchen where I'd made him hot chocolate. The hallway that led to my bedroom.
I'd been pacing for twenty minutes when headlights swept across my window—a Prius—compact, efficient, completely wrong for someone Hog's size. I watched him unfold from the driver's seat like origami in reverse, all shoulders and elbows and careful maneuvering around the door frame.
He stood beside his car momentarily, looking up at my building. From three stories up, I watched him take a breath—steel himself.
Then I saw the bag.
It was faded canvas, with leather handles worn smooth. His grandmother's project bag—the one he'd mentioned that first day in my workshop, softly talking about peppermint and needles and hands that had taught him everything that mattered.
He hadn't hidden it, left it in the car, or made excuses. He'd brought it with him, to me, like he was done keeping pieces of himself separate.
When he knocked, my mouth was dry and my hands were shaking. I opened the door, and he filled the frame—shoulders nearly brushing both sides, feeling the need to duck slightly even though my doorway was standard height.
Hog stepped inside, setting the bag down carefully beside my boots. His eyes swept the apartment—taking in the candles, the music filtering through the room, and how I'd straightened up for once.
"Fancy," he said, grinning. "You expecting company?"
"Something like that."
"Anyone I know?"
"A banana-bread-baking enforcer." I stepped closer. "Guy with a reputation for chaos on the ice who knits an alarmingly large collection of tiny animals."
"Sounds like trouble."
"The best kind."
He laughed. "I came here because—" He stopped and ran a hand through his hair. "Margaret offered me the shop. Teaching classes, eventually buying it. Making it mine."
"And?"
"And I'm terrified I'll fuck it up. That I'm not who she thinks I am, and fifteen years from now, I'll be standing in that shop wondering why I thought I deserved what she left me."
I reached for his jacket and helped him out of it. Hung it on the hook beside mine.
"You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think Margaret sees exactly who you are now. And I think you're the only one who doesn't see it yet."
His mouth opened slightly. Closed. "Rhett—"
"You came here with her bag," I said quietly. "You didn't hide it. You brought it with you."
He glanced at the canvas bag like he'd forgotten it was there. "Yeah. I did."
"That's choosing, Hog. That's not being afraid of who you are."
He was quiet for a moment, and then he redirected the conversation. "The candles are a nice touch."
"You noticed."
"Hard to miss. Very romantic. Very—" He gestured vaguely. "Intentional."
"It is intentional." I stepped close enough to smell mint tea clinging to his breath. "It's what I want, Hog. This. You. Here with me."
He swallowed hard. "Just so we're clear about what this means—"
"We're clear."
"Because I—" His voice dropped. "I want it too. All of it. I just don't want to fuck it up."
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
I reached up and touched his beard. He leaned into the contact like he'd been waiting for it.
"No," I said. "I don't. But I want to find out anyway."
I led him to the couch, and he perched on the edge like he was waiting for a bus—back straight, hands on his knees, ready to bolt at the first wrong move.
"You can sit back, you know." I settled beside him, close enough that our thighs touched. "The couch won't break."
"You sure? I'm not exactly built for delicate furniture."
"It's not delicate. And neither am I."
His fingers drummed against his knees—restless energy with nowhere to go. I could hear his brain spinning, thinking about everything that could go wrong.
"Hog, look at me."
He turned, and his eyes were wider than usual. Nervous but hungry.
I reached over and stopped the drumming of his fingers with my hand. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do."
"That's not—" He swallowed. "That's not the problem."
"What is the problem?"
"I want to do everything. All of it. Right now. And I'm afraid you'll change your mind if I don't move fast enough."
I shifted closer, our knees bumping, and watched him track the movement.
"I'm not going anywhere," I said. "And I'm not changing my mind."
"But what if—"
I kissed him. Soft, deliberate, cutting off whatever spiral he might slide into. He froze for a second, then his hands started to work on the buttons of my shirt, and he kissed me back like he was drowning.
Too hard. Too fast. All teeth and desperation.
I pulled back, breathing hard. "Hey."
"What? Did I—was that wrong?"
"Not wrong." I pressed my hand flat against his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath my palm. "Just... we've got time."
He blinked. "Time?"
"All night. Tomorrow. However long this takes." I traced my thumb along his collarbone through his sweater. "I'm not going anywhere, remember?"
His shoulders lowered, tension fading slightly. "Right. Time."
"So we can take it slow. Figure it out as we go." I leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. "No rush."
"I don't know how to go slow."
"I'll show you."
A sound came out like a laugh mixed with a groan. "Fuck, Rhett. You can't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because—" He gestured vaguely. "Because it makes me want to do things that probably aren't slow."
I grinned. "What kind of things?"
"Things involving significantly less clothing and possibly your bedroom."
"Well." I settled back against the couch cushions, pulling him over me. "When you put it like that."
Our legs tangled together, with his solid weight on me, the warmth radiating through his sweater.
"Better?" I asked.
"Yeah." He touched my face with a beefy thumb. "You're really okay with this? With me being here, taking up half your couch, and probably about to wreck your entire evening plan?"
"My evening plan was you, Hog."
"Me?"
"You."
The candles flickered, throwing shadows across Hog's face. He looked younger in the low light, less guarded.
"I've never been anyone's entire evening plan before," he said quietly.
"Their loss."
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm lucky you've got terrible taste in men."
I stared up into his eyes and kissed him again. Slower this time, tasting the mint tea still lingering on his tongue.
When we broke apart, he was smiling.
"So what now?" he asked.
I stood and offered him my hand. "Now I show you the rest of the apartment."
He let me pull him up from the couch. His fingers were warm, slightly rough from hockey tape. I led him through the apartment—past the kitchen with its organized chaos and past the bathroom where I'd hung a towel for him next to mine.
Down the short hallway to my bedroom.
He stopped in the doorway like he'd hit an invisible wall.
"Rhett, this is—" He gestured vaguely at my room, at the queen bed that suddenly looked small with him standing beside it. "I'm gonna destroy your apartment."
"What?"
"Look at me." He spread his arms, taking up even more space. "Look at your bed. I'm gonna break something. The frame, the mattress. Hell, probably you."
His voice had that self-deprecating edge again, making him smaller and easier to dismiss.
"Hog."
"My body isn't designed for—" He gestured at my carefully made bed, the neat nightstand, and the room that fit someone my size, not his. "For delicate situations."
"You're not going to break anything."
"But—"
"And you're not going to break me." I stepped closer. "You think I haven't thought about this? About you, here, in my bed?"
He blinked. "You have?"
"Every night for two weeks. Ever since that first kiss." I touched one of his eyebrows. "I know how big you are. Lucky for me. More of you. I've dreamed of a man like you."
"What if I'm too rough? What if I get carried away and—"
"What if what? You take up space?" I moved even closer, backing him against the doorframe. "What if you're exactly as much as you are? What if I like that?"
He was breathing harder, hands hovering near my waist like he wasn't sure he could touch.
"Touch me. You're not going to break me," I said quietly. "I don't want you like this."
"You sure?"
"Dead sure."
"Because once we cross this threshold—" He gestured at the space between hallway and bedroom. "There's no going back. You'll have officially let Thunder Bay's most chaotic beast into your personal space. Your bed. That's a big commitment."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. "You realize you've already been in my personal space, right? My workshop, apartment, and my entire life since that first conversation at The Drop."
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because—" He stopped, color rising in his cheeks. "Because this is your bedroom. Where you sleep. Where you—where you do bedroom things."
"Bedroom things?"
"Don't make me spell it out."
"I think I need you to spell it out."
He groaned, tipping his head back against the doorframe. "Where you touch yourself thinking about people. Where you have dreams. Fuck it, Rhett—probably where you watch porn on a laptop computer."
The honesty in his voice sent electric sensations throughout my body. I wanted the man.
I wanted to take him in with my arms and legs and whatever else I could use—fingertips, teeth, and my damn sense of humor.
He ducked his head, and I edged closer, touching the hem of his sweater.
I didn't ask permission when I slid my fingers under the fabric, finding bare skin, warm and soft with a scatter of rough hairs.