Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
CLAIRE
Three days.
Three days of Max avoiding me like I carry the plague.
I see him everywhere in this tiny town. At Maggie's Diner, where he grabs coffee to go and pretends not to notice me sitting in the corner booth.
On Main Street, where he crosses to the other side when he sees me coming.
At Hilda's General Store, where he turned around and walked out the moment I stepped inside.
It would be insulting if it weren't so obvious.
He's not avoiding me because he doesn't want me around. He's avoiding me because he does.
I saw it in his eyes that night after dinner. The hunger he tried so hard to hide. The way his whole body went rigid when I stepped close, like he was fighting a war against himself.
I know that war. I've been fighting it too.
Because the man who walked me through the dark streets of Grizzly Ridge is nothing like the Uncle Max of my childhood memories. This Max is intense and brooding and so devastatingly attractive that I can barely think straight when he's near.
Which is a problem.
A big problem.
I came here looking for safety. For answers. For the steady presence that held my hand through the worst moment of my life.
I didn't come here to fall for my dead father's best friend.
But apparently, my heart didn't get that memo.
"You're thinking too loud."
Sarah slides into the booth across from me, two cups of coffee in her hands. She's become my unofficial guide to Grizzly Ridge over the past few days, showing up at the inn every morning to drag me somewhere new.
"I'm not thinking," I lie. "I'm brooding. There's a difference."
"Brooding is Max's territory." She pushes a cup toward me. "You're too sunny for brooding."
"Maybe I'm trying something new."
She laughs and takes a sip of her coffee. "Let me guess. A certain green eyed blacksmith is the source of all this attempted brooding?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"Honey, the whole town is taking bets on when you two will finally crack." She grins at my horrified expression. "Small town. No secrets. Remember?"
I groan and drop my head into my hands. "This is a disaster."
"Why? Because you're attracted to him?"
"Because he's..." I struggle for the right words. "He was like family, Sarah. He was at every birthday party, every holiday. He taught me guitar chords and brought me souvenirs from his deployments. And now I look at him and I don't see any of that. I just see..."
"A man?"
"A very attractive man who looks at me like he wants to devour me and then runs away like I'm on fire."
Sarah's grin softens into something more understanding. "Max has been through hell. I don't know all the details, but Miguel says whatever happened overseas changed him. Broke something fundamental. He's been putting himself back together piece by piece, but he's not all the way there yet."
"I know he's struggling. I'm not trying to push him."
"Aren't you?"
The question makes me pause.
Am I pushing him? Showing up at his shop, inserting myself into his community, demanding answers he's not ready to give?
"I just want to understand," I say quietly. "Why he left. Why he stayed away. Why he's so determined to keep me at arm's length when I can see in his eyes that it's the last thing he wants."
Sarah reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "Then maybe stop waiting for him to come to you. Sometimes men like Max need someone to meet them where they are, not where we want them to be."
I think about that as I finish my coffee. Think about it as Sarah leaves to meet Miguel for lunch. Think about it as I walk through town, past the bakery and the bookstore and the cheerful bustle of Main Street.
Then I turn my feet toward the edge of town.
Toward Max's shop.
The forge is cold when I push through the door. No heat, no ring of hammer against metal. Just silence and the smell of iron and ash.
"Max?"
No answer.
I should leave. He's clearly not here, and wandering through his space without permission feels like an invasion.
But curiosity pulls me deeper inside.
His sculptures are everywhere. Eagles with wings spread wide, caught mid flight. Bears rising on hind legs, all power and ferocity. Abstract shapes that seem to twist and flow like living things.
They're beautiful. Haunting. Full of an emotion so raw it makes my chest ache.
I trail my fingers over the curve of an eagle's wing and imagine Max bent over his forge, sweat gleaming on his skin as he coaxes beauty from raw metal. The image sends heat pooling low in my belly.
Stop it, Claire.
I force myself to keep moving. Past the forge, past the workbenches, to the stairs that lead to his apartment.
The door at the top is cracked open.
"Max?"
Still no answer. But I hear something. A low sound, almost like a moan.
Fear spikes through me. I take the stairs two at a time and push through the door.
He's on the floor.
Knees drawn up, back against the wall, hands pressed over his ears. His whole body is shaking, and his eyes are squeezed shut like he's trying to block out something only he can see.
I've seen this before. Not in person, but in videos from my father's support group. In the pamphlets the military gave us about what to expect when our loved ones came home.
PTSD. A flashback or an episode of some kind.
"Max." I keep my voice soft as I kneel beside him. "Max, it's Claire. You're safe. You're in Grizzly Ridge, in your apartment. You're safe."
He doesn't respond. Just keeps shaking, that terrible low sound escaping his throat.
I don't know what to do. Every instinct screams at me to touch him, to gather him in my arms and hold him until the shaking stops. But I know enough to understand that touch can make these episodes worse. Can pull someone deeper into the nightmare instead of out of it.
So I do the only thing I can think of.
I sit down beside him. Back against the wall, shoulder almost but not quite touching his. And I start to talk.
"When I was thirteen, right after my dad died, I used to have nightmares every night.
I'd wake up screaming, convinced I could hear his voice calling for me.
" My own voice shakes, but I push through.
"My mom didn't know what to do. She was drowning in her own grief.
So I learned to deal with it alone. I'd sit in the dark and count my breaths until morning. "
Max's shaking starts to slow. Just slightly.
"The nightmares stopped eventually. Or at least, they got less frequent. But sometimes I still wake up in the middle of the night and reach for my phone to call him. Just to hear his voice. And then I remember."
A ragged breath escapes him. His hands drop from his ears.
"I remember too," he says hoarsely. "Every fucking day."
"I know."
We sit there in silence. The light through the window shifts from gold to amber as the afternoon fades toward evening. I don't move. Don't speak. Just stay beside him, our shoulders finally touching, warmth seeping through layers of clothing.
"You should go," he finally says.
"I'm not leaving."
"Claire."
"No." I turn to face him. His eyes are open now, red rimmed and exhausted. "You sat with me at my father's funeral for two hours. You didn't try to fix me or tell me it would be okay. You just stayed. Let me do the same for you."
Something cracks in his expression. A wall crumbling, just a little.
"I'm not the man you think I am."
"I don't think you're anyone." I hold his gaze. "I'm trying to see who you actually are. If you'd stop running long enough to let me."
His jaw tightens. I watch the battle play out across his face. The push and pull of wanting and resisting.
Then he moves.
His hand comes up to cup my face. Rough calluses against my cheek, the touch so gentle it makes my breath catch.
"I can't give you what you need," he rasps.
"You don't know what I need."
"I know what I am. Broken. Fucked up. Barely holding myself together most days."
"Maybe I don't want someone who's perfectly together." I lean into his touch. "Maybe I want someone who understands what it means to fall apart."
His eyes drop to my mouth.
The air between us thickens. Charges. Every nerve in my body sings with anticipation.
"Claire." My name is a warning and a prayer all at once.
"Max."
He closes the distance.
His lips meet mine, and the world ignites.
The kiss is desperate. Hungry. Ten years of distance and grief and longing compressed into the press of his mouth against mine. He tastes like coffee and something darker, something that makes me want to crawl inside him and never leave.
I fist my hands in his shirt and pull him closer. He groans against my lips, and the sound vibrates through my whole body.
Then he's pulling back.
Breathing hard.
Eyes wild.
"We can't do this," he says.
But his hands are still on my face. His forehead is pressed against mine. And his whole body is trembling with the effort of holding back.
"Tell me to stop," I whisper. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll walk away right now. I'll go back to Virginia and you'll never see me again."
Silence.
His thumbs trace my cheekbones. Slow, reverent.
"I can't," he admits. "God help me, I can't."
And then he's kissing me again.