Chapter 7
Harper
The fire casts dancing shadows across Dean's face as he adds another log, his movements precise and practiced. I curl deeper into the corner of the couch, wine glass forgotten on the coffee table, watching the play of firelight on his shoulders.
"Cold?" His voice is low, rough around the edges.
"No." The answer comes too quickly, too breathless. The truth is, I'm burning up, but not from the fire.
He settles on the other end of the couch, careful to maintain distance between us. Always so careful. Every move calculated to protect me – from the storm, from gossip, from himself.
"Tell me about your book," he says, surprising me. "The one you're writing."
Heat creeps into my cheeks that has nothing to do with wine or flames. "It's silly."
"Try me."
I study his profile, the strong line of his jaw, the way his eyes reflect golden in the firelight. "It's about a woman who runs away to start over. Finds herself in a small town, trying to build a new life."
His mouth quirks. "Sounds familiar."
"Pure coincidence," I say, but we both know better. "Anyway, she meets someone unexpected. Someone who challenges everything she thought she knew about love."
"And does she?" His voice drops lower. "Find love?"
"I haven't written that part yet." My heart pounds so loud I'm sure he can hear it. "Still figuring out if she's brave enough to try again."
"And the man?" Dean turns to face me fully, and the intensity in his eyes steals my breath. "Is he worthy of her trust?"
"He thinks he isn't." The words come without thought, pure instinct. "He's spent so long alone, convinced himself he's better that way. But when he looks at her..."
"How does he look at her?"
"Like that," I whisper. "Exactly like that."
The space between us crackles with tension. Dean's hands flex on his thighs, like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for me.
"Harper." My name is a warning, a prayer, a question.
"I'm not scared of you." I shift closer, drawn by something stronger than gravity. "I probably should be. But I'm not."
"You should be." His voice is strained. "I'm not... I don't know how to be gentle anymore."
"I don't want gentle." Another inch closer. "I want real."
His eyes darken. "Don't say things like that unless you mean them."
"I mean everything when I'm with you." The confession slips out, honest as a heartbeat. "That's what scares me."
He moves then, one hand coming up to cup my face. His palm is rough with calluses, but his touch is devastatingly tender. "Tell me to stop."
"No."
"Harper." His thumb traces my bottom lip, and my eyes flutter closed. "Look at me."
I open my eyes to find him inches away, close enough to count his eyelashes, to see the flecks of gold in his blue irises.
"I need you to be sure," he says roughly. "Because once I kiss you, everything changes."
"Maybe I want everything to change." I lift my hand to his chest, feel his heart thundering under my palm. "Maybe I'm tired of being careful."
A sound like a growl rumbles through him. His other hand slides into my hair, tilting my face up.
"Last chance," he whispers against my lips.
Instead of answering, I close the final distance between us.
The first brush of his lips is gentle, questioning. But when I make a small sound in my throat, something in him breaks.
The kiss turns fierce, desperate, like he's trying to pour years of solitude into a single moment. His beard scratches my skin, his hands tighten in my hair, and I feel it everywhere, sparks of electricity racing down my spine.
I've been kissed before, but never like this. Never like I'm being claimed and worshipped and devoured all at once. Never like I'm precious and dangerous and as necessary as breathing.
When we finally break apart, we're both shaking.
"Harper." He rests his forehead against mine, his breath uneven. "Tell me this is real."
I touch his face, trace the scar on his jaw, feel him tremble under my fingers.
"The realest thing I've ever known," I whisper, and pull him down to kiss me again.
"Wow," I breathe when we finally break apart again. "So that's what Emma meant by 'mountain man intensity.'"
Dean's chuckle rumbles through his chest where I'm pressed against him. "You really need to stop talking about Emma while I'm kissing you."
"Would you prefer I quote Jane Austen? Because I'm getting serious Mr. Darcy vibes here. You know, brooding, mysterious, surprisingly good at kissing—"
He silences me with another kiss, shorter this time but no less devastating. "I'm nothing like Darcy."
"Please. You literally rescued me in a snowstorm and took me to your estate."
"Cabin," he corrects, his fingers tracing patterns on my spine that make it hard to think. "And Darcy didn't cook dinner."
"True. He probably had servants for that." I pull back enough to see his face, drinking in how relaxed he looks, how the constant tension around his eyes has softened. "Though I bet he didn't know how to build furniture either. You're definitely winning in the useful skills department."
"High praise from a romance novelist."
"Speaking of..." I bite my lip, trying not to smile. "This is totally going in my book."
His eyebrows shoot up. "Excuse me?"
"Well, not exactly this. But the general vibe. Rugged mountain man, cozy firelight, life-changing kisses..." I wave my hand dramatically. "It's literary gold."
"Life-changing, huh?" His smirk should be illegal.
"Don't let it go to your head." But I'm grinning too hard to sound stern. "I still think you need more practice."
"Practice." He shifts us so I'm practically in his lap, one large hand cradling my face. "That your professional opinion as an author?"
"Absolutely. For research purposes, of course."
"Of course." His thumb brushes my bottom lip, and my heart skips. "Any other literary insights I should know about?"
"Well..." I pretend to think about it. "The strong, silent type usually has a secret soft spot. Like, I don't know, naming their coffee maker or something equally adorable."
"I do not name appliances."
"No? So that ancient coffee maker in your kitchen isn't named Boris?"
His silence is telling.
"Oh my god." I sit up straighter. "It is! The big bad mountain man names his coffee maker!"
"Harper." My name comes out as a warning, but his eyes are laughing.
"No, no, this is perfect. Wait until Emma—"
He cuts me off with another kiss, deeper this time, until I forget what I was teasing him about. When he pulls back, I'm breathless and dizzy.
"That's cheating," I mumble against his lips.
"Strategic negotiation."
"Mm. Keep negotiating."
His laugh is soft and warm. "You're dangerous, you know that?"
"Says the man who probably has an axe collection."
"It's a perfectly reasonable collection."
"Of course it is." I trace the line of his jaw, marveling that I can touch him like this now. "Next you'll tell me you actually wear flannel to bed."
His eyes darken. "Harper..."
"Right. Sorry." I'm not sorry at all. "Too soon for bedroom wardrobe discussions?"
"Way too soon." But he's smiling as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "You need sleep. Real sleep, in a real bed."
"Alone?" The word slips out before I can stop it.
His whole body tenses. "Yes."
"Because...?"
"Because," he says roughly, "I'm trying very hard to be a gentleman here."
"What if I don't want a gentleman?"
He groans, pressing his forehead to mine. "You're killing me."
"Dramatically dying is more Mr. Rochester's thing, don't you think?"
"That's it." He stands suddenly, taking me with him. I squeal as he sets me on my feet. "Bed. Now. Alone."
"Fine." I stretch up to kiss his cheek, delighting in how his breath catches. "But just so you know, in my book, the mountain man definitely has flannel pajamas."
"Goodnight, Harper."
"With little axes on them."
"Go."
"Maybe some bears..."
"Harper." But he's laughing now, a full, rich sound that makes my heart soar.
I back toward the stairs, unable to stop smiling. "Sweet dreams, mountain man."
"Sweet dreams, troublemaker."