Chapter 9
NINE
TESSA
I wipe down the bar at the Rusty Elk with a rag that’s lived nine lives and still refuses to die.
How the hell has a town barely bigger than my old apartment building taken up so much space in my head and heart?
Or rather… how one man in it has.
You’re not hiding. You’re healing.
I’d said it to Gage without really thinking. But the way he looked at me afterward—like I’d seen something he hadn’t meant to show anyone? That look is lodged in my brain now.
Right next to the memory of his hands on mine as we freed Archie. Or when we cared for the kit.
His breath against my neck when he leaned in.
The feel of his lips, soft but hungry, like kissing me was both a mistake and a relief.
“I don’t even know what I’m doing,” I mutter.
“Talking to yourself now?” a voice teases.
I look up to find Jesse leaning on the counter with that crooked smile he always wears—like he knows something you haven’t figured out yet.
“Deputy,” I say, setting down the glass. “Here for a free drink?”
“You wound me,” he says. “I came to check on my brother’s new favorite stray.”
“Stray?” I arch a brow.
“You. Misty Mountain’s very own rom-com heroine. The lost girl stranded by fate, rescued by a grumpy mountain man with a tragic past and surprisingly good cooking skills.”
I laugh. “He’s just... being nice.”
Jesse lifts an eyebrow. “Nice? Gage doesn’t do nice. He does quiet. He does practical. But nice? That’s new.”
I busy myself rearranging napkins. “Okay, fine. He’s broody. Grumbly. And maybe kind of amazing.”
“Keep talking like that and the whole town’s gonna start planning your wedding.”
I throw a coaster at him. He dodges it easily and sets it back on the counter.
“Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. He’s... different around you. Different in a good way.”
I’m still thinking about that when the happy hour crowd dies down and the guy from the other night saunters in. The one Gage almost slugged.
I think his name was Ben.
There’s something in the way he watches me that makes my skin crawl.
“You got any real whiskey?” he asks, voice low and slick. “Or just the sweet stuff Hank likes to pretend is a manly drink?”
“It sounds like you already know the answer.”
“You really do have a mouth on you.” He smiles—slow and sour. “Give me a Jack. Make it a double.”
I pour him a shot, and start to step away.
He grabs my wrist.
“What are you still doing here?”
“Working,” I say evenly, though my heart is pounding. “I’m really just passing through.”
“Too bad. Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be alone out here.”
The bar goes quiet.
And then?—
The door creaks.
Boots pound on the hardwood.
Gage.
Dust on his jeans. Shirt clinging to broad shoulders. Hair a mess. And a look in his eyes that could start a fire.
“I’d let go of her,” he says, voice flat and dark.
Ben releases me.
Fast.
Gage’s eyes don’t leave him. Not until he slides off the stool and slinks toward the door.
Gage lowers his voice. “You keep this shit up, and you’re going to have a problem. One more mark on your record, and you won’t be in the town’s jail either.”
Ben shrugs him off, but increases his pace.
Then Gage turns to me. “You alright?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just another jerk with boundary issues.”
“You want me to stay?”
And it’s that question that hits me in the chest. Not the rescue. Not the anger. The offer. Like I get to decide how this ends.
“I’m good now,” I say quietly. “Thanks.”
He leans in, voice low. “You need me, you call.”
“I will.”
Then he’s gone.
Just like that.
But I’m still standing there, flushed and shaky and wanting to chase after him like a damn fool.
***
Later that night, the bar is quiet. Empty. Just the hum of the fridge and the low creak of wood settling.
I lock the front door, flip the sign to CLOSED, and start the final sweep.
Which is when I hear the knock.
I turn.
It’s Gage.
Still in those boots. That same flannel. Looking at me like he’s not sure he should be here, but he couldn’t stay away.
I open the door and step aside.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I… couldn’t sleep.”
I nod, understanding him all too well.
We stand in silence for a beat too long.
Then he breaks the silence. “I keep showing up.”
“You do.”
“I’m not sure why.”
I look up at him. “I think you are.”
Another beat. Another breath.
Then he kisses me.
Right there, in the middle of the empty bar, surrounded by old wood and whiskey and whatever this thing is between us.
His hands slide to my hips, pulling me closer, and mine twist into the collar of his shirt. The kiss is different this time. Deeper. Hungrier. Less uncertain.
More yes .
More please.
He backs me toward the bar, lips trailing down my neck, and I feel everything in me lean toward him—toward the warmth, the weight, the want.
This shouldn’t happen.
It also has to happen.
It’s going to happen.
My hands are under his shirt. His fingers are on my skin. And we’re both past the point of pretending.
He grips the hem of my shirt and pulls it up my body. His knuckles graze the smooth skin of my belly, leaving tingles in their wake. I gasp into his mouth. Tossing my shirt aside, he pulls back to look me over.
I wish I was wearing something sexier than a sports bra and leggings. But based on the heat in his stare that’s scorching my body, I don’t think he minds.
“Damn it, Tessa. You’re gorgeous.”
He presses his mouth to my chest, sucking lightly on the skin. The hairs stand on the back of my arms. As he nibbles his way around my chest and closer to my hard nipples, I grip onto his shoulders more tightly.
“Gorgeous.” He says against my skin, pushing the bra down from my chest. He takes my nipple into his mouth.
I cry out, and my legs wobble.
“Oh no. You’re not going anywhere.” He tightens his arm around my waist and effortlessly lifts me so I’m perched on the edge of the bar. “We’re just getting started.”
He re-latches to my breast, cupping it with is calloused palm. Massaging it with his hand and tongue.
His other hand explores the rest of my body. He makes long, leisurely strokes up and down the curve of my waist and hips.
Quickly losing my ability to think straight, I slide my hands down his chest. “I want to feel you too.”
I flip open the buttons on his flannel shirt. I trace the lines of his muscles up his chest until I once again reach his shoulders. I force him to stop his torment of me, just long enough to push the shirt off of his shoulders.
“At last.” I pull him back close, digging my fingers into his skin and pulling his mouth back against mine.
Our tongues tangle, teeth clash. He seemingly can’t get enough of me. I know I’ll never get enough of him.
With every touch and every temptation, I want more.
I won’t be denied. Not after this sensual game of will we or won’t we that we’ve been playing from the second he brought me home. I wrap a leg around his ass, pulling him closer until his throbbing shaft is pressed against my pussy. I move against him, exchanging groans as he grows harder and I get wetter.
“Damn, but I want you,” he says, when we pull apart to breathe.
“So take me.”
His smoldering stare flickers. He reaches into his back pocket and retrieves a foil square. I rip it open as he tugs down my leggings and panties.
I reach for the button at the top of his jeans and lower the zipper. Reaching in, I find his cock. I wrap my hand around him and give a playful squeeze.
His eyes narrow. “Stop playing around.”
“Yes, sir.” I slide the condom down his length and pull him back toward me. “Are you ready to fuck me?”
With a growl he thrusts forward. I cry out and he stills.
Panting, he rests his forehead against mine. “Are you okay?”
I nod, and lift a leg to wrap around his backside. “Don’t stop.”
And he doesn’t. As we ride each other, galloping to the peaks of our desire, I feel like heaven. He feels like home.