Chapter 3
THREE
TESSA
I wake to sunlight streaming in through the window and the sound of birds.
Real ones. Not the fake chirping on the alarm clock my ex used to have. There’s also no sound of traffic. Considering I thought I’d spend the foreseeable future in Vegas, that’s a sound I expected.
Instead, I’m surrounded by the sound of peace and the smell of fresh air. And Whiskey batting my nose, because he’s ready for his first breakfast.
Blinking up at the ceiling—wooden beams, faintly golden in the morning light—I give myself a minute to sink in where exactly I am.
I’m not in my old apartment.
I’m not my car.
I’m not in the cheap motel I stayed in my first night on the road.
Instead, I’m in a cabin.
On a wildlife reserve.
Run by a brusque mountain man.
Who is probably not a serial killer.
I hope not.
I sit up slowly, stretching beneath a handmade quilt that smells faintly of cedar. The bed is surprisingly soft. The room small but clean. Safe. Surprisingly cozy despite its near Spartan cleanliness.
Whiskey is curled on a folded flannel shirt at the foot of the bed, purring like a motorboat. I stare at him.
“You woke me up just so you could go back bed,” I whisper. “Rude.”
He opens one eye, stretches, then flops dramatically to one side. Completely unbothered.
Typical.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pad barefoot into the hallway, still wearing Gage’s too-big flannel over my shirt and leggings. I’d meant to give it back before bed, but it smelled too good—like forest and fresh air.
The cabin is quiet and cozy, with a fire burning in the hearth. The scent of fresh coffee wafts from the kitchen, but I don’t hear anyone inside.
I follow the smell to the kitchen, where there’s an empty cup sitting next to a mostly full pot of coffee. I pour myself a cup and wander to the window. I spot Gage outside.
He’s standing beside a makeshift pen in the yard. His back is to me as he adjust a tarp over one side. His broad shoulders flex with the motion, that’s even and steady.
Even from here, I can see the careful way he moves, like everything has purpose.
I press a hand to the counter, watching him.
What’s his deal?
He’s quiet, but not cold. He’s reserved, but he’s not like the men who use silence to punish. Gage’s quiet is different. Everything about him is different.
Like the way he looked at me last night. Even when I was being cold, it was like he saw something more in me. Something that made my heart skip a beat.
I top off my mug of coffee, and slip out into the morning chill. The air is sharp with pine and rain. The grass is still damp from last night’s rain, and it sticks to my feet as I move.
Whiskey trots after me with his tail high.
I frown at him. “You know you aren’t supposed to be outside.”
He just flicks his tail as if to say, “You forced me to talk through the woods yesterday, now I can do whatever I want.”
As we approach, Gage looks up. His gaze flicks to me, then down to my bare feet. His eyebrow shoots up.
“Morning,” he says, turning back to his work.
Inside the pen, a pair of young raccoons peek from a small wooden box. One blinks sleepily. The other hisses and ducks away.
“Well hello to you too,” I say.
“They were orphaned,” he says.
My heart clenches, and I look at them more closely. “Poor things. Are they okay?”
“They’re still adjusting.”
“I can appreciate that.” I sip my coffee. “What time is it?”
“Not quite seven.”
I groan. “And you’re already out working? That’s gross.”
“Didn’t take you for a morning person.” He smirks. “I guess I was right.”
“I guess so.”
“But you’re out of bed.”
“Because someone else likes to start his day early.”
Whiskey meows from behind us, as if letting Gage know who calls the shots in our relationship.
Gage scratches his cheek. The scar there catches the early light, drawing my eyes. I’m curious about it, but of course, I say nothing.
Instead, I say, “Thanks for letting me crash here.”
“It’s no problem.”
“Well, I hope we’re not in your way. I know having two guests wasn’t part of your plan.”
“I don’t usually plan beyond what happens next.”
We fall silent, and I shift from one foot to the other.
“Still. You didn’t have to help me.”
He shrugs. “You looked like you needed it.”
I look down, then back up at him. “I did.”
He’s silent for a beat, watching the trees. Then he says, “You okay?”
The question’s gentle, but it lands like a punch. Not because I’m not okay, but because I’m not used to anyone asking.
“I will be,” I say.
I maybe even mean it.
He looks at me again—really looks—and the air between us shifts. It practically sizzles and snaps between us.
He clears his throat. “You heading to town today?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “Assuming my car hasn’t been washed away, I should get it to the mechanic.”
“I can drive you,” he offers. “My truck’s gassed up.”
My eyes widen. “You’d do that?”
“I’m heading in anyway.”
Somehow, I suspect he wasn’t. But I’m not going to argue with him. “Thanks.”
We walk back to the cabin, our shoulders nearly brushing as we fall in step. At the porch, he opens the door for me. Our hands touch as I step through. Barely. But the skin on skin sends a jolt through me. My breath catches.
He doesn’t pull away right away.
I hold my breath until he steps back. I move forward, putting more distance between us. But the moment lingers and follows us inside.
I head for the kitchen, trying to steady myself by keeping busy.
“I can make breakfast,” I offer. “If you have eggs or bread.”
“I have both. In the fridge. Help yourself.”
I do. He disappears down the hall while I get to work.
There are eggs, bread, and some jam labeled Blackberry with last fall’s date in the fridge. I make scrambled eggs and toast, heating up a pan and getting into the rhythm of something normal.
Gage returns as I’m plating the food. He’s also barefoot now. His hair is damp and a clean T-shirt clings to his chest. I try not to stare.
“Wow. This looks great.” He takes the plate. “You didn’t have to cook for me too.”
“It’s the least I could do.” I take my own plate and settle across from him at the table. “Don’t get used to it, though.”
“I won’t.”
“I’m not that easy.”
His eyes flick to mine, amused. “Believe me, I didn’t think you were.”
We eat mostly in silence, but this time it feels… companionable. Familiar. Comfortable, even. When I reach for the jam, his hand grazes mine again.
Warm. Rough. Intentional? Or was it just a coincidence?
I feel it all the way up my arm.
“This is really good,” I say, gesturing at the jam. “Did you make this?”
He nods. “The berries grow out back. I picked them last summer.”
I shake my head in wonder. “What else do you make? Sourdough from scratch? Beeswax candles?”
“I built the table,” he says.
I blink. “Seriously?”
He nods.
“Of course, you did.”
His mouth twitches again. Every smile, no matter how small, feels like a win.
We tidy up the kitchen together. Our hands bumping in the sink. It’s subtle, the way we move around each other. But it already feels synchronized.
Like we’ve been doing this forever. Whatever this is.
I shake my head, quickly dismissing the thought.
“My car…” I say.
“Right.” He clears his throat. “I’ll take you to town and the shop will have a look.”
* * *
When we pull into town, it’s the definition of quaint. It looks like something out of a postcard. The mechanic comes out to meet us, and Gage introduces us, and I introduce Whiskey, who is in an extra carrier that Gage had. She tells me she’ll send out her tow truck and bring it to the shop for a look.
“You can wait at the diner, if you want,” Gage says
“And what about you?”
“I’ve got errands,” he says.
I don’t ask what kind. We’re already getting too close for comfort.
“I think I’ll walk around town and explore,” I say.
“If you like.”
We walk to the corner and each face a different direction. “I guess this is where we part ways.”
“Guess so.”
We stand there a beat too long. I shift my weight, almost ready to turn when he steps forward just slightly. His hand brushes mine again—on purpose this time.
“Well.” I swallow past a lump. “Thank you for everything.”
He nods.
“If you need anything,” he says, “I’m out there most days.”
“Out where?”
“The rescue. If you need a place to stay a while longer, the spare room is yours.”
I smile. “I might take you up on that.”
He nods, then heads back to the truck.
As I watch him drive off, I press my hand to my chest, right over the part that suddenly feels lighter.
And heavier.
All at once.
* * *
Whiskey and I wander the town until I check back at the mechanic’s office. Unfortunately, the issue with my car doesn’t sound as simple or straight forward as any of us would like. It sounds like Whiskey and I might be sticking around for a few days.
Not wanting to get down in my dumps, I continue our walk through Misty Mountain.
It’s cute and exactly what you’d expect from a small Colorado town. It’s more Hallmark than Tombstone, including the people who seem friendly enough offering curious waves as we cross paths.
I pass a cozy-looking bar tucked at the end of the block. Wood-paneled, a little weathered, with flower boxes under the front windows and a hand-painted sign swinging overhead: The Rusty Elk Tavern.
It smells like hickory smoke and whatever heaven would serve as a side dish.
Out front, a man in a faded baseball cap and cargo vest is taping a sign to the window.
HELP WANTED — SUMMER SHIFT
The man catches me looking and straightens up. Broad shoulders. Weathered hands. Yet his eyes betray a hint of kindness behind his otherwise gruff exterior.
“You new in town?” he asks.
“Just passing through,” I say, offering a half-smile. “Car trouble.”
He nods like that explains everything. “Name’s Hank. I own the place.”
“Tessa,” I say, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You bartend before, Tessa?”
I blink. “Yeah, actually. A couple summers in college. And some weekend shifts back home.” I give a little laugh. “I actually named my cat Whiskey.”
“A cat named Whiskey. That’s pretty legit.” He jerks his chin toward the sign, “We’re short-handed this season. The tourist rush is picking up, and I need someone who can pour a beer and not take crap from the regulars.”
I laugh. “I do have experience in both.”
He grins. “It’s just for the summer. So, if your ‘passing through’ turns into something longer, come see me.”
I nod, surprised by how the offer makes my chest feel somehow lighter.
“Thanks,” I say. “I might just take you up on that.”
“Door’s always open,” he says, heading back inside.
I glance once more at the sign, then at the warm glow spilling through the tavern’s windows.
Just for the summer.
That doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe there’s a reason my car chose to stall out here rather than anywhere else.