3. Chapter 3
Outlaw
I should've kicked her out.
Hell, I meant to kick her out.
Instead, she's sitting on my damn couch wrapped in my damn blanket, sipping tea from my favorite mug like she belongs here.
Lark.
Even her name sounds like trouble. Sounds like music. Sounds like something that could break a man wide open if he's not careful.
She told me her name while trying to explain the busted app, the ditch, and her "therapeutic getaway.
" I didn't say much. Just listened, scowled, and tried not to notice the way her lips wrapped around the edge of that ceramic mug.
Or how soft she looked with flushed cheeks and damp hair curling at the edges.
Or how those dark eyes kept darting to mine like she was trying to solve a puzzle.
She has absolutely zero survival instincts.
"You sure you didn't hit your head?" I mutter, leaning against the kitchen counter with my arms crossed. The granite is cold against my palms, grounding me. "Booking a rental that doesn't exist?"
"It exists," she insists, and I can hear the smile in her voice even when I'm not looking at her.
"Just… not here, apparently." She waves her free hand at the cabin, and I catch the faint scent of vanilla and rain that clings to her skin.
"Though to be fair, you've got the aesthetic. Rustic and remote. Slightly murdery."
I raise an eyebrow. "That supposed to be funny?"
She lifts a brow right back at me, and damn if it doesn't make my chest tight. "Did you laugh?"
No.
But I didn't throw her out, either.
Because underneath all the sass and sarcasm, she looks exhausted.
Like she's been running from something for a long time and this was supposed to be her safe place to land.
The shadows under her eyes are deep, her sweatshirt is wrinkled like she's been sleeping in it, and there's a tremor in her hands that has nothing to do with the cold.
She picked the wrong mountain for her refuge.
And definitely the wrong mountain man.
"You got cell service?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Nope. Not even one bar. And I'd call it charmingly off-grid if I weren't lowkey terrified of being ax-murdered in my sleep."
"I don't own an axe." A lie. Of course, I own a fucking axe.
She tilts her head, studying me. "That's not really the reassuring part of that sentence."
I turn to hide the smirk I didn't mean to let slip. Damn it. She's got a mouth on her, and it's doing things to my head that I can't afford.
"You can stay tonight," I say gruffly, the words coming out rougher than I intended. "Spare bedroom's down the hall."
Her eyes widen, and I catch the way her breath hitches. "Wait—you're not kicking me out?"
"It's dark. You'd never make it to the road on foot." I grab the kettle from the stove, needing something to do with my hands. "And you said your car's stuck?"
She nods slowly, teeth worrying her bottom lip. "I don't even know if it'll still be drivable once it’s pulled out of the ditch. It hydroplaned off the gravel and into some very aggressive bushes."
"Then you'll need help in the morning."
She shifts on the couch, adjusting the blanket, and I catch a glimpse of smooth skin where her sweatshirt has ridden up. My mouth goes dry.
"Why are you being nice about this?" she asks.
"No one ever accused me of being nice,” I growl. I grab a clean mug from the cabinet, focusing on the simple task of pouring hot water. "Look, you broke into my house and drank my tea. I'm just trying to make sure you don't die before I have the energy to properly yell at you."
She laughs.
The sound hits me square in the chest—bright and unexpected and warm enough to heat the entire cabin. It's the kind of laugh that could ruin a man if he let it, the kind that makes him want to hear it again and again until it becomes the soundtrack to his life.
"You always this grumpy?" she asks, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
"Only when strange women break into my cabin."
She hums, a low sound that goes straight to my gut. "Well then. Guess we're both off-script this weekend."
I watch her as she settles deeper into the couch cushions, still damp from the rain, and clearly still rattled but doing her best not to show it. The firelight catches in her hair, turning it to dark honey, and when she looks at me, I see something that makes my chest tighten.
Trust.
She shouldn't trust me. She shouldn't be here, shouldn't be looking at me like I'm something other than the man who spent six years behind bars. Like I'm someone worth knowing.
I sigh and run a hand through my damp hair. “You hungry?”
“I could eat.”
“I’ll warm up some food. You stay here. And don’t snoop. I live way out here for a reason: I like my privacy. Got it?”
She blinks up at me with big, innocent eyes. “Of course.”
I really should have kicked her out.