Chapter 5
I sit at the table a moment longer, letting the last of his words settle in my bones. Then I push my chair back and stand, the wood legs scraping softly against the floor. My body still feels heavy, but steadier than it did an hour ago.
Sam’s at the sink, sleeves rolled to his elbows, steam rising as he scrubs a dish. There’s something oddly grounding about the way he moves, like this is just what you do when the world slows down.
I step up beside him.
“Need help drying?” I ask.
He glances over, the barest flicker of something like surprise in his eyes. Then he nods.
“I never turn down help in the kitchen.”
I grab a dish towel and take the plate he rinses and hands to me. We fall into rhythm, passing plates and bowls, wiping them dry, stacking them on the counter.
We don’t speak. But it isn’t awkward. The silence feels earned. Like neither of us wants to ruin it by trying too hard.
The window above the sink is fogged, but beyond it, the storm still swirls, white and wild. Inside, the kitchen glows golden. Warm. Quiet. It’s domestic in a way that feels too intimate, too dangerous for people who are supposed to be strangers. And yet here we are.
Sam rinses a mug, fingers steady beneath the stream of water, and hands it to me. Our hands brush. It’s just a graze, skin to skin. But it’s enough to send a jolt of heat up my arm. Enough to make me pause, towel in hand, breath caught somewhere between my ribs.
I glance at him.
He’s not looking at the mug. He’s looking at me.
Something shifts in his expression. Something quiet and unreadable and far too tender. Like maybe he’s been watching me longer than I realized. Like maybe that silence between us wasn’t silence at all, but space waiting to close.
His hand lingers for a moment longer than it needs to. Just enough to make sure I notice.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says softly, barely above the hum of the water.
I swallow. “Thanks to you.”
He shrugs one shoulder but doesn’t pull away. “It’s a miracle you made it across the bridge in that car.”
“I thought the same thing somewhere around the time the water started creeping through the door.”
That earns a smile from him—crooked, a little tired, but real. And then, gently, his fingers brush mine again as he lets go of the mug.
The contact is brief. But deliberate.
My breath stutters.
This isn’t just about gratitude anymore. Not just about saving someone from a flood. It’s something slow. Something quiet. Something that feels like it could ruin me if I’m not careful. For the first time in a long time I don’t want to be careful .
But then I think of Kurt. His name slips in like a splinter beneath the skin. A man I trusted. A man I thought I loved. I remember the way he smiled when he lied. The casual cruelty. The way he took everything I gave him and then used it to climb higher while I watched from the ground.
The betrayal still lingers in my chest like a bruise that never fully healed.
And suddenly, Sam’s closeness feels too dangerous. Too soon. Too good.
Slowly, I take a step back.
“My head’s hurting,” I murmur. “Would it be okay if I go sit in the living room?”
His hands still in the sink, and when he looks at me, his expression shifts. Concern softens the edges of his features.
“Need help?”
My pulse spikes.
I force a small smile and shake my head. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”
He watches me for a moment longer, then dips his head. “Alright.”
I turn and walk out of the kitchen, heart thudding, feet moving toward the living room like they have to. Like if I stay one second longer, I’ll make a mistake I can’t take back.
It’s not exactly a lie.
My head is hurting.
But it’s not just the cold. Or the storm.
It’s the ache of remembering how it feels to be let down by someone you let in. And the terrifying pull of what might happen if you try again.
In the living room, I settle into a chair near the window, tucking one leg beneath me.
From here, the world feels quieter. Safer, somehow.
The windowpane is cool against my cheek as I lean slightly toward it, watching the snow fall soft, slow, and relentless.
The sky is still heavy with clouds, thick as wool, pressing down on the landscape like a held breath.
The snow’s drifted in places, piling up in sculpted ridges along the fence line and the base of the trees. A wind picks up and carries the flakes sideways, blurring the view like the world’s turning to static.
And beyond that is the creek. I can see the glint of it even from here. Wild, fast, full of fury.
It hasn’t calmed.
Neither have I.
I press a hand against my chest, not even sure what I’m trying to settle. My heartbeat, maybe. Or that fluttering ache just behind my ribs. The one that started the second Sam touched my hand. The one I stepped away from.
Even now, looking out at the storm still raging across the Wyoming countryside, I can’t tell if I regret that step or if it saved me.
But thoughts of Kurt linger, heavy and uninvited. He was charming, much like Sam, and he swept me off my feet without even trying.
I wince. Maybe that was the problem.
Kurt didn’t try to win me over. Not really.
He just offered me pretty words, the kind that sound sweet in the moment but rot the second they hit daylight.
Words that meant nothing. Empty praise. Promises without weight.
And I, god, I was so eager to believe them.
I was young, ambitious, hungry to belong in an industry where everyone was replaceable.
I thought being wanted meant being valued.
That his attention was something I’d earned.
I ignored the red flags. The way he kept me a secret.
The way he always made me feel like I was lucky to be near him, as if he were the prize.
But in the end, all he did was use me. My connections.
My research. My instincts. He took everything I gave him and made it his like I was just a stepping stone he never planned to look back on.
I blink hard, my throat tightening.
The thing that stings most isn’t the betrayal. It’s the fact that I saw it coming and still let it happen.
Never again.
“You look lost in thought.”
The voice is soft, familiar now. I glance up to find Sam standing beside me, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed but eyes sharp. Watching me the way he has from the beginning, like he’s trying to read the spaces between the words.
“Just thinking.”
He nods once, then runs a hand over the stubble lining his jaw. “Phern doesn’t mean anything by what she said. She’s just protective.” He hesitates, then adds, “Especially after what happened with Gwen.”
Gwen. The name hangs there, heavy. Untouched. His ex-wife.
I stand, needing to level the field on the height difference.
“Please don’t feel like you have to explain,” I blurt. “I’m the one who should be explaining.” I let out a quiet laugh, but it’s thin and frayed. “I kind of dropped myself into your life, didn’t I? Literally.”
His lips curve slightly. “Pretty dramatic entrance.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve made one of those.”
“Oh?” Sam tilts his head, amused. “Can’t imagine anything more dramatic than nearly being swept away in a flood.”
I shudder slightly, the memory of the water crawling up my legs still far too vivid. “Fair. But I did accidentally crash a royal wedding once. ”
His eyebrows shoot up. “For work?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “I needed to go to the bathroom and ran into the nearest hotel.”
He gives me a look.
“Hotels always have the best bathrooms,” I defend. “Anyway, I took a left when I should’ve taken a right and walked in just as the prince was saying ‘I do.’”
Sam barks out a laugh, the sound rich and unexpected. “No shit? What happened?”
“I was promptly escorted out by two scary looking men in suits and asked a million questions. None of which I had suitable answers for, by the way.”
He’s grinning now, shaking his head. “That’s incredible. Who even does that?”
“Apparently me.” I shrug. “I like to make an entrance.”
He looks at me for a second longer than necessary, that smile lingering just at the edges of his mouth.
“Yeah,” he says, voice a little lower now. “I’m starting to see that.”
“What about you?” I ask, nudging him with my elbow.
His lips twitch. “I can honestly say I’ve never crashed a royal wedding.”
“You know what I mean. Surely, you’ve done something embarrassing. Had spinach in your teeth while meeting the Pope?”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Nothing like that.” He pauses, glancing out the window as if he might find the answer drifting somewhere in the snow.
Then, softer, “I did once fall off the stage. During a show in Dallas. Lost my footing during the encore, landed flat on my ass in front of about twenty thousand people.”
My eyes widen. “No. ”
“Oh, yeah. Ripped my jeans, bruised my ego, and gave the internet meme material for months.”
I laugh, picturing it. “And the crowd?”
He chuckles, eyes warm. “They loved it. Thought it was part of the act. I had to bow afterward just to sell it.”
I shake my head, still smiling. “That’s impressive. I probably would’ve run right out of there and cried my eyes out.”
His gaze lingers on mine. “Yeah, well. Falling’s not the worst thing. It’s the getting back up that really counts.”
The room goes a little quieter. Not tense. Just heavier. Like something unspoken just passed between us. I tuck that moment away carefully. Gently. Like a page I’ll come back to later.
“Getting up is always hard,” I agree quietly. “That’s how I ended up in LA.”
“Oh?” Sam asks, gently prompting.
“I had big dreams,” I say, eyes drifting back out to the snow. “Of becoming a serious reporter. Thought I had everything figured out.”
The memory pulls at me. My bright-eyed ambition, those early mornings with coffee and adrenaline, the way I used to chase live shots like they were gold.
“I moved up from a job in Oklahoma City to one in Denver. I was the morning reporter at the big station there. I was set to move up. National desk, field assignments, maybe even international stories if I kept climbing.”
But my voice fades as the memories turn heavier. The politics. The backstabbing. The burnout. The way I started disappearing inside the machine.
“I wasn’t cut out for that life,” I finish, shaking my head. “Too many rules, too many walls. So I dusted my butt off and went to LA to try entertainment reporting.” I glance at him. “Things took off. And, well, the rest is history. ”
Sam’s quiet for a beat, but not distant. His eyes are still on me, steady and thoughtful.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he says gently.
I give him a half-smile. “Most people don’t think what I do is real journalism.”
“Most people don’t know what it costs to chase the truth,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that’s sharp around the edges that tells me he understands far more than he lets on.
“Yeah.” I pause. “Would it be okay if I go lie down? My head is hurting even more.”
“Of course. Need any help getting back?”
I shake my head, already putting space between us. “I’m fine.”
But the words hang in the air, almost transparent.
Because I’m not fine. Not even close. The laughter, the quiet moment, the glimpse of something human between us should’ve been comforting.
Should’ve made me feel closer. Safer. Instead, it cracked something wide open.
Too many memories. Too much truth. Too many feelings I haven’t earned the right to have.
Sam doesn’t push. He just nods, eyes following me with that same unreadable expression that always makes me feel a little too seen even though we’ve just met.
I slip out of the room, each step feeling heavier than the last. By the time I reach the bedroom and close the door softly behind me, it’s not just exhaustion that makes me sink into the bed. It’s the weight of guilt. The pull of something I didn’t come here to find.
And the growing fear that when the storm outside clears the one inside me still won’t be over.