Chapter 7
SEVEN
TESSA
Misty Mountain is starting to feel like… Well, I don’t know what exactly.
It’s not quite home. Not yet. But not just a pit stop, either.
I take a deep breath as I walk the dirt path to Gage’s cabin. The air is cool against my skin, the sky painted in watercolor streaks—that golden hour glow that makes everything seem a little softer.
After making another trip to town to check on my car—which is “close, but not quite done”—I made my way back to the cabin, but I took myself for a walk to think. I worry about getting in Gage’s way. He’s never made me feel like a burden, but I don’t want to be one all the same.
Still, I know what’s really going on, why I’m really dragging my feet.
I don’t know where things stand between Gage and me, and it’s driving me crazy.
I knock lightly on the screen door, heart fluttering like I’m sixteen and showing up to pick up my date for the night.
The door opens a few seconds later, and there he is.
Gage Holloway. All six-foot-four of him. Shirt rumpled, hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through it, and that scar on his jaw catching the last of the day’s light. He looks at me with those storm-gray eyes—quiet, unreadable—and his face softens.
He arches an eyebrow. “You know, you don’t have to knock on the door.”
“It feels rude to just barge in. You could have been… naked.” I point at his wet hair.
His lips curve into a smirk. “And you wouldn’t like that?”
“Oh…” My cheeks burn hot. “Out of the way. I’m here to see Whiskey.”
“He’s in my chair. Again. He refuses to move.”
“That sounds about right.”
The cabin is warm. Cedar and smoke linger in the air, mixed with something faintly sweet. Not cologne. Not cleaning supplies. Just… him.
Whiskey is curled dead-center in the worn armchair, purring like the spoiled prince he is on his flannel throne.
“You okay?” Gage asks, voice low.
I turn to him. “Yeah. Just… long day. My car isn’t done yet.”
He nods toward the kitchen. “You hungry?”
“I could eat.”
“I’ve got leftover stew. And pie.”
“Pie?”
“Blackberry. My neighbor left me one to thank me for fixing her fence.”
I smile. “You should do more chores for her if she’s going to show up with pie.”
While he heats up dinner, I sink onto the couch, tucking my feet under me. I hear the hum of the stove, the clink of silverware, the small sounds of comfort. Of something settling.
“This is nice,” I say after a minute.
He glances over his shoulder. “The quiet?”
“All of it.”
I don’t say the rest—that this is the steadiest I’ve felt in months. Maybe in my whole life.
That I didn’t realize how dramatic and loud my old life used to be.
We eat in front of the fireplace. Deep bowls of thick stew, warm bread with butter, and the pie, which is so delicious I want to cry.
“This place,” I say after the first bite, “might be magic.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Pie’s that good?”
“Pie. Cat. View. Company.”
His eyes catch mine. Something in his expression shifts—just slightly. Like maybe he heard what I didn’t say out loud.
I set my plate down. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why animals?”
His hand rests loosely on his bowl. “I used to be a smokejumper. Wildfire firefighter. I did it to pay for school.”
I blink. “You fought forest fires?”
“Mostly.” His eyes darken. “It was a tough job. So when I was done, I came back home. This used to be our grandparents land, but Jesse gave me his blessing to turn it into a rescue.”
“I’m glad you did.”
His jaw twitches like he’s holding something back. Guilt, maybe. Or pain. “It was a good place to hide out.”
“You’re not hiding,” I say. “You’re healing. There’s a difference.”
He blinks like I’ve caught him off guard.
Whiskey stretches, then hops into his lap without a second thought.
I laugh. “Wow. That’s new.”
“He’s been watching me. Waiting for his moment.”
“He doesn’t sit with just anyone.”
Gage scratches behind Whiskey’s ears. The cat purrs like they’ve been best friends forever.
“He likes you,” I say softly.
He glances at me. “That makes two of you.”
The air changes again.
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t shift.
I can feel it humming between us. That pull we keep pretending isn’t there.
I set my glass down. “I should probably go to bed.”
We both look at the clock. It’s barely seven. “You don’t have to.”
“But I should.”
“Do you want to?”
I look at him.
He’s still, like the forest before a storm. Controlled. But his eyes are anything but.
“No,” I say.
He turns toward me, crossing the space between us like it’s nothing. Like we’ve always been on our way to this moment.
He stops with his thigh close to mine, close enough that I feel the heat of him. His hand brushes mine.
I tilt my face up. “We’re not talking about this.”
“Seems like we’re doing a lot of not-talking lately.”
“Are you going to kiss me again?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Liar.”
He leans in slowly. Deliberate. His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing lightly under my jaw.
Then he kisses me.
It’s worse this time. Worse because it’s better.
Because I don’t just want it. I need it. Like air, I need to inhale him. Because his mouth is warm and rough and gentle and mine all at once.
My fingers twist in his shirt. He groans softly into my mouth, the sound sparking heat low in my belly.
I feel his hands slide around my waist, tugging me against him. One hand moves to the small of my back, the other skimming just under the hem of my shirt. His fingers graze skin—barely—but it sends a jolt of desire through me.
My own hands drift up his chest under his shirt. I find his warm, hard skin beneath cotton. I feel the steady thrum of his heart pounding beneath my palm.
I kiss him like I can’t stop. And I don’t want to.
Until the radio crackles on the shelf behind him.
He pulls back instantly, breathing hard.
“Shit,” he mutters, turning toward it.
A familiar voice—Jesse’s—fuzzes through the static. “Gage, you there? Got a hit on that injured owl by the grocery lot. You around?”
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
I sit back on the couch, heart hammering, lips swollen, breath shaky.
He turns to me. “I have to go.”
I nod, unable to find my voice just yet.
He grabs his coat and pauses at the door.
“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he says. “Again.”
“But you don’t regret it?”
He meets my gaze. “Not even a little.”
Then he’s gone.
And I’m sitting in his cabin with the cat, lips still tingling, heart still unraveling, wondering just how deep I’m already in.