Chapter 3
Cassie
I should not be driving up this gravel road.
The thought runs on repeat the whole way to Silas Whitaker's cabin, a loop in my head keeping time with the crunch of leaves under my tires.
My little sedan wasn't built for mountain roads like this—narrow, rutted, climbing steadily through trees that arch overhead and filter the late afternoon light into something golden and hazy.
It's not like I don't have other things to do.
Important things. My festival schedule still needs finalizing.
I'm supposed to do a reading tomorrow afternoon, and I haven't even decided which passage to use.
My most recent manuscript needs another polish before I send it back to my editor.
I should probably eat something with actual nutritional value, too, instead of subsisting entirely on caramel apples and kettle corn and whatever free samples the vendors are handing out.
But the second Silas Whitaker invited me out here, I was already mentally rearranging my entire day to make it work. For story research.
Yeah, right.
Like my characters care about the precise angle of a marshmallow skewer or the proper way to arrange kindling. My readers want dead bodies and red herrings and cozy settings with quirky characters. They don't care about technical accuracy in fire-building.
But I wanted to see him again. I wanted to see him up close, away from the crowd, in his own space. I wanted to understand what makes Silas Whitaker tick, this man everyone knows but no one knows.
And maybe, just maybe, I wanted to see if the way he looked at me yesterday was real or something I imagined.
His cabin comes into view through the trees, and I have to slow down to take it in. It's not what I expected, though I'm not entirely sure what I expected. Something rough and temporary, maybe. A hunting cabin with peeling paint and a sagging porch.
Instead, it's solid. Tucked into the hillside like it grew there naturally, all clean lines and river stone, smoke curling from a chimney. The kind of place that will be standing long after both of us are gone.
He's outside by a firepit, sleeves shoved up his forearms, and I can see the muscles in his arms shifting as he works.
He's stacking split wood with the same precision most people reserve for surgery or art—each piece placed with purpose, creating a structure that's both functional and somehow aesthetically pleasing.
He looks up when I park, and that steady gaze finds me through the windshield. Even from here, I feel the impact of it.
I grab my tote bag—the one I threw together in a rush before leaving, stuffed with a notebook and pens and my phone and a water bottle I forgot to fill—and climb out of the car. The air up here is different than down in town. Cleaner. Sharp with pine and wood smoke.
"You came," he says simply.
Not a question. Just a statement of fact, like he knew I would.
"Of course." I hoist my tote bag higher on my shoulder, trying to look professional and writer-like instead of nervous. "An author never turns down free learning opportunities. That's practically in our code of ethics."
His mouth almost quirks at that. Almost a smile, but not quite. The kind of expression that makes me want to work harder to see the real thing.
He gestures toward the firepit, where logs are arranged in a rough circle and the structure of unlit wood sits waiting.
"Lesson one. Fire's not about how fast you strike the match.
It's about the foundation. You build it right, and it'll burn steady all night.
You rush it, it'll die out when you need it most."
I sink onto one of the logs, pulling out my notebook like I'm actually going to take coherent notes instead of just watching the way his hands move. "That sounds like a metaphor."
"Maybe it is." He kneels beside the firepit, and I watch as he arranges kindling and tinder with the kind of attention that speaks to years of practice. "Or maybe fire is just fire."
"Occupational hazard," I admit. "Authors are always looking for hidden meaning in everything.”
He strikes a match and holds it to the tinder. The flame catches, spreads, grows. Within minutes, he's coaxed a small fire into being, and then carefully, systematically, he feeds it larger pieces of wood until it's crackling steadily.
"How long have you lived up here?" I ask, pen poised over paper like I'm conducting an interview.
"Built the cabin six years ago. Bought the land a year before that." He settles back on his heels, watching the fire. "Needed space after I got out."
"The military?"
He nods once. "Army. Did my time, got out, realized I wasn't built for civilian life in the conventional sense. Couldn't handle living in subdivisions or having neighbors thirty feet away or following someone else's schedule."
It's the most he's ever said to me at once, and I write it down not because I need it for my book, but because I want to remember. "So, you came here."
“I looked all over the country for the best deal on land. I almost bought a couple hundred acres in Montana, but the winters are too long and harsh there for me.”
The fire crackles between us, sending sparks up into the early evening air. Above us, the sky is shifting from blue to purple, the first stars beginning to appear.
"All right," he says, standing and reaching for a bag I hadn't noticed before. "You said you wanted to know about campfires and roasted marshmallows."
He pulls out a package of marshmallows. The good kind, I notice, not the cheap ones. Then he reaches for a couple of long sticks that look like they've been whittled smooth. He spears a marshmallow on one and holds it out to me.
"Show me what you've got," he says.
I take the stick from him, trying to remember the last time I actually roasted a marshmallow. Summer camp, maybe? I was eleven or twelve.
I hold it over the flames the way I vaguely remember, and within thirty seconds, the marshmallow is completely engulfed in flames.
"Yikes,” I yelp, jerking it back as the marshmallow blazes like a tiny torch. "I think I ruined this one.”
Silas takes the stick from me, blows out the flames with one steady breath, and shakes his head. "Amateur move."
"Hey! I told you I needed a teacher,” I protest, laughing.
"Clearly,” he answers, sounding amused.
He prepares another marshmallow, spearing it on the stick with care. Then he holds it not over the flames, but over a burning ember along the edge of the fire, rotating it slowly, patiently, until the outside turns the color of honey, golden brown and perfectly even.
"It's about patience," he says, still rotating the stick. "And distance. Too close, it burns. Too far, nothing happens. You have to find the right spot and hold it there."
He pulls the stick back and offers the marshmallow to me. "Go on."
I lean forward and bite into it, and sweetness floods my mouth—warm, gooey, perfection. A drop of it clings to my lip, sticky and sweet.
He's watching me, and something in his gaze has darkened in a way that makes my pulse stumble and then start racing.
"You've got..." He gestures to the corner of his own mouth.
I swipe at my lip with my thumb, but his expression doesn't change.
"Still there," he murmurs, voice lower than before.
He leans in, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth, rough skin against sensitive flesh, warm and gentle.
The air between us crackles hotter than the fire.
Something flashes in his eyes. A moment of indecision. As quickly as it appeared, it’s gone, and then Silas’s mouth is on mine.
His lips are hungry. Certain. Like he's been thinking about this for as long as I have, like he's been holding himself back and finally decided to stop.
My fingers curl into his shirt without conscious thought, tugging him closer, and heat floods through me in a rush that has nothing to do with the fire.
When we finally break apart, I'm dazed, lips tingling, my entire body humming. He clears his throat, and I can see his jaw working like he's trying to decide something.
Then he pulls back just enough to nod toward the cabin. "Come inside.”
He rises, holds out a hand for me, and pulls me to my feet. I follow him up the two steps to his porch, my legs feeling oddly unsteady, like the kiss rewired something fundamental in my nervous system. He opens the door for me, gesturing me to go inside.
The cabin's interior is exactly what I should have expected and somehow still surprising. It's spare but not austere. Clean lines. Wood and stone and exposed beams. Everything in its place, but in a way that suggests this is a space that works, that serves its purpose.
A kitchen area with simple cabinets and a wood stove. A table with two chairs. A comfortable-looking couch facing a stone fireplace. And along one wall, a bookshelf.
My breath catches.
There is an entire shelf dedicated to my books. All of them. Every single one I've ever published. Spines creased, pages soft with reading, the kind of wear that comes from actually being opened and loved rather than sitting pristine on a shelf for show.
I turn to him, and I can feel my eyes going wide. "I thought you said your mother was a fan of my books.”
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping in his cheek, but he doesn't look away. Doesn't make excuses. "I’m the fan. Mom prefers romances.”
"You..." I move closer to the shelf, running my fingers along the spines. A Graveyard Gala. A Latte to Die For. Autumn’s End. Murder Most Cozy. The shelf goes on. He really has all of them. "You’ve read all my books?”
"More than once." He's moved to stand behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him. "First one I picked up was A Latte to Die For. Found it at Joy's store three years ago. Figured I'd give it a shot since you were local."
I turn to face him, and there's maybe six inches between us. "And?"
"And I read it in one sitting." His voice has gone rough, lower than before.
"Then bought the next one. And the next one.
You spin whole worlds out of nothing, Cassie.
Make them feel real even though they're completely made up.
Created characters I actually cared about.
Gave me something to think about that wasn't..." He trails off, jaw working again.
"Wasn't what?" I prompt softly.
"Wasn't the things I spent too much time thinking about after I left the Army.
" He's looking at me with an intensity that should probably frighten me but doesn't. "Your books kept me sane when I didn't have much else to hold onto.
Something bad happens in every book, but the mystery always gets solved. Everything is all right in the end."
Something in my chest cracks open at that. This man—this quiet, self-contained man everyone whispers about—has been reading my books. My cozy little mysteries about pumpkin patches and small-town secrets. And they meant something to him.
"Silas," I breathe, and I don't even know what I'm trying to say.
He steps closer, erasing those last six inches between us, his hand coming up to cup my jaw. His palm is warm and rough, callused from work, and I lean into the touch without thinking.
"I'm not good at this," he says quietly. "Not good at pretty words or knowing the right thing to say. But I know what I want. And what I want is you."
My heart is pounding so hard I'm surprised he can't hear it. "Then take me."