Chapter 2
KAI
The sound of a motor grinding and failing to catch drifted through my kitchen window.
I set down my coffee and listened. There it was again—the unmistakable sound of someone trying to start a generator and failing miserably.
Not my problem.
I picked up my mug and took a sip. Eunice kept to herself. Most days, I had no idea she was even home. I’d gotten used to the silence.
Then yesterday happened. The blonde with the yoga mat and the sports bra and the curves that made me forget how to swallow.
Emory. That was her name. She’d told me at least six times while I fixed her hot water heater, along with approximately four hundred other facts about her life. Law school. Three roommates. Thin walls. Midterms.
The motor ground again. Coughed. Died. I should stay right here. Drink my coffee. Let her figure it out on her own.
The generator tried again—another grind, another failed catch—followed by a frustrated sound that might have been a word but came out more like a growl.
Damn it.
I set down my mug and headed for the door.
The morning air was cool, that early-spring crispness that would burn off by noon. I crossed the yard between our cabins, telling myself I was just being a good neighbor. Eunice would expect me to help. She’d asked me to keep an eye on things while she was in Italy.
This was just keeping an eye on things.
Emory was crouched next to the generator, blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She wore leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that kept slipping off one shoulder, revealing a thin strap underneath. Her brow was furrowed as she studied the machine like it had personally offended her.
“You’re flooding it,” I said.
She jumped, one hand flying to her chest. “Oh my God, you scared me.”
“Sorry.”
I wasn’t sorry. Watching her startle did something to me—a warmth spreading through my body that I didn’t want to examine too closely.
“The generator,” I said, nodding toward it. “You’re holding the start too long. You’re flooding the engine.”
She stood, brushing off her knees. “I have no idea what that means, but I believe you. This thing hates me.”
“It doesn’t hate you. It’s just temperamental.”
Like me, I thought. But I didn’t say it.
I crouched where she’d been and checked the choke. She’d left it in the wrong position. I adjusted it, gave the cord a short, sharp pull, and the generator roared to life on the first try.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” She stared at the machine, then at me. “I tried that exact thing like fifteen times.”
“Choke was in the wrong position.”
“There’s a choke?”
I almost smiled. Almost.
“This lever.” I pointed to it. “Full choke to start when it’s cold. Once it catches, move it to run.”
She leaned in closer to look, and I caught a faint scent—shampoo, maybe, or lotion. Something clean and slightly sweet. It made me want to lean closer. Breathe deeper.
I stood too fast and took a step back.
“Thank you,” she said, straightening. “Again. You must think I’m completely helpless.”
“Generators are tricky if you’re not used to them.”
“That’s generous of you.” She smiled, and there it was again—that warmth, that openness. Like she hadn’t noticed I’d barely spoken ten words to her yesterday. Like my silence didn’t bother her at all. “Do you want to come in for coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
I should say no. I said no yesterday when she offered dinner. Saying no was smart. Safe.
“Sure,” I heard myself say.
What the hell was wrong with me?
Her smile widened, and she turned toward the cabin, gesturing for me to follow. I watched her for a moment—the sway of her hips, the way her sweatshirt moved with each step—before forcing my feet to go.
Inside, her laptop sat open on the kitchen table, surrounded by thick textbooks and yellow legal pads covered in handwriting. Highlighters in four different colors were lined up in a neat row. She’d turned Eunice’s kitchen into a study command center.
“Sorry about the mess,” she said, sliding a few papers aside. “I’m kind of in crisis mode with midterms coming up.”
“When are they?”
“Two weeks.” She poured coffee into a mug and handed it to me. “Which sounds like a lot of time, but trust me, it’s not. Property law alone is going to kill me.”
I took the mug and leaned against the counter, keeping space between us. “Why law school?”
The question came out before I could stop it. I didn’t ask people about themselves. I didn’t want their stories, their dreams, their reasons. Knowing things about people meant caring, and caring meant—
I shut that thought down hard.
“Honestly?” She poured her own coffee and wrapped both hands around the mug. “I like arguing.”
That pulled a sound out of me. Not quite a laugh, but close.
“I’m serious,” she said, grinning. “I was that kid who always had to know why. Why can’t I stay up late?
Why do I have to eat my vegetables? Why is that rule a rule?
My parents thought I’d grow out of it, but I only got worse.
By high school, I was on the debate team, and by college, I figured I might as well get paid for being argumentative. ”
“So you’re going to be a lawyer so you can argue professionally.”
“Basically.” She took a sip of her coffee. “What about you? What do you do?”
The question landed like a punch to the gut. Simple. Normal. The kind of thing people asked all the time.
But for me, it wasn’t simple.
“Construction,” I said. “Handyman work, mostly. Whatever needs doing around here.”
It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t all of it.
Three years ago, I’d been a foreman for one of the biggest construction companies in Denver. I’d had a crew of twenty guys, a reputation for running a tight site, and a future that looked like steady promotions and corner offices.
Then Kevin died.
Kevin, twenty-two and eager and reminding me too much of myself at that age. Kevin, who I’d taken under my wing, who I’d been training to move up. Kevin, who trusted me when I said conditions were fine—when I said we could keep working—when I made the call that put him on that scaffold.
The scaffold that failed.
I could still hear it. The crack of metal giving way. The shout that cut off too quickly. The silence after, which was somehow worse than any scream.
“You okay?”
Emory’s voice pulled me back. She was watching me with concern in those blue eyes, her head tilted slightly.
“Fine,” I said. “Just thinking.”
“You looked like you went somewhere else for a second.”
I did. I went there a lot. Every time I closed my eyes, every time I let my guard down, every time someone asked a simple question about my life.
“Just tired,” I said.
She didn’t push. I appreciated that.
Instead, she moved to the counter and picked up a plate covered in plastic wrap.
“These are for you,” she said, holding it out. “I made cookies last night. Chocolate chip. I figured since you won’t stay for dinner, the least I can do is send you home with dessert.”
I stared at the plate.
She’d made me cookies. This woman I’d met yesterday—who I’d barely spoken to, who I’d been gruff with—had made me cookies.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. I wanted to.” She nudged the plate closer. “Take them. Please. Otherwise, I’ll eat them all myself, and then I’ll have to do extra yoga to work them off, and then you’ll have to watch me do yoga again, and we’ll both be uncomfortable.”
I took the plate. “I wasn’t uncomfortable.”
The words were out before I could stop them. Her cheeks flushed pink, and she looked down at her coffee.
“I mean—” I started.
“It’s fine.” She was smiling now—a small, private smile. “I’m glad I didn’t traumatize you with my downward dog.”
I should leave. Right now—before I said something else stupid. Before I let myself get any more tangled up in a woman who talked too much and smiled too easily and made me feel things I’d spent three years trying not to feel.
“I should go,” I said. “Let you study.”
“Right. Midterms.” She glanced at her laptop like she’d forgotten it existed. “Thanks for the generator help. And for not laughing at me.”
“I don’t laugh.”
“Ever?”
“Not much.”
She studied me, and I felt seen in a way I didn’t like. Like she was looking past the one-word answers and straight through the walls I’d built.
“I bet I could make you laugh,” she said. “Eventually.”
“Don’t count on it.”
Even as I said it, the corner of my mouth twitched. Her smile widened.
“I saw that,” she said. “That was almost a smile. I’m counting it as progress.”
I turned and headed for the door before she could see more. Before I did something worse than smile—like stay. Or before I told her the truth—that she was the first person in three years who’d made me want to.
“Kai?”
I stopped, hand on the door. “Yeah?”
“Will you come check on me tomorrow?” she asked. “Make sure I haven’t accidentally set the cabin on fire or flooded the basement or something?”
I should say no. I should tell her Eunice’s place was solid, that nothing else would go wrong, that she didn’t need me hovering.
“Yeah,” I said instead. “I’ll come by.”
“Good.” I could hear the smile in her voice. “See you tomorrow, neighbor.”
I walked back to my cabin with the plate of cookies in my hand, feeling like I’d just made a promise I had no business keeping.
That night, I sat on my couch and ate three of her cookies.
They were good. Better than good. Soft in the middle, crisp at the edges, with just the right amount of chocolate.
I pictured her in that kitchen, measuring flour and cracking eggs, thinking about me. Making something for me. It had been a long time since anyone had made me anything.
I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t deserve her warmth or her smile or her determination to make me laugh.
I was a man with blood on his hands—maybe not literally, but close enough. Kevin was dead because of me. Because I made the wrong call. Because I was careless.
I’d come to Iron Peak to disappear. To punish myself with solitude. To make sure I never got close enough to anyone to hurt them again.
And now there was a blonde law student next door who looked at me like I was worth knowing.
I needed to keep my distance. I needed to find reasons not to go over there tomorrow. I needed to let her study in peace, finish her house-sitting, and go back to her life without ever learning what kind of man I really was.
I lay in bed that night staring at the ceiling, listing every reason this was a bad idea.
Then I thought about the way she’d said, “See you tomorrow, neighbor.” The warmth in it. The certainty.
She was expecting me.
I closed my eyes and let out a long breath. I was going to go over there tomorrow. I knew it like I knew my own name. And the day after that. And the day after that.
I should keep my distance.
I wasn’t going to.