Chapter Nineteen
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lanie
I should have just gone straight to Eliza’s.
That was the plan.
Wine, researching wedding favors, and choosing a color scheme—safe, responsible, Mark-free activities.
And yet . . . here I was.
Heading down Mark’s driveway like a complete idiot.
In my defense, I hadn’t planned to stop by his place but during the long drive from Portsmouth to Maplebridge, I had way too much time to think about how I wished things were different. I still didn’t know why Mark had said what he did about coming to see me as part of a dare.
The more I thought about it, the more I started to believe it had just been something stupid that had come out of his mouth. Maybe a poor attempt at a joke. Mark had never been the type to prank someone or laugh at their expense. People change as they age, but their character remains the same. I believed that. Enough that I had come looking for the Mark I knew.
There’s a common belief that you can’t go home again. I don’t want that to be true. Not with Maplebridge. And not with Mark.
There had to be a way to work through this awkward stage, and even if we weren’t meant for more, maybe we could find our way back to being friends. I didn’t want to pretend to be happy around Eliza and Julian. I wanted to be happy. Was coming to see Mark on my own a step in the right direction? I hoped so.
As I drove up his long driveway, anticipation quickened my breath. Eliza had told me he bought land and built a house on his own. Well, mostly on his own. She said it had gone up in record time because so many people in town had donated their time and expertise to the project. Mark might not be good with money, but he was rich in other ways.
At the end of the driveway, nestled against the woods, was a lovely, completely unexpected two-story farmhouse with a large wrap-around porch.
It sat perched on the highest point, likely offering a spectacular view of the forest below. I had been expecting something... rougher. A thrown-together cabin, maybe. Something small that screamed permanent bachelor.
Not this. Not a house that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale. The kind of place where someone could one day raise a family.
There were Adirondack chairs arranged in a large circle around a fire pit. Cornhole and horseshoe games sat nearby. The house wasn’t sitting empty, yearning for attention. It was being lived in. Being enjoyed.
I sat there—frozen. No longer the innocent girl Mark took to prom. It would have been na?ve to imagine he had remained in celibate stasis, waiting for me to return. But picturing him in that house—with a woman waking beside him—had my heart thudding heavily.
From the soft accent tones of the shutters to the flowers lining the path to the steps of his porch, it looked like Mark had built this home with someone in mind. That saddened me on a complicated number of levels. On one hand, I wanted nothing but good things for him. If he had met someone, fallen in love, and built this house for her... I hated that he’d had his heart broken. On the other hand, I couldn’t deny I wasn’t upset to hear he was still single—very single.
I tried to shake off those thoughts. I wasn’t there to explore whatever additional feelings I might or might not have had for him. No, today was about mending a friendship. I took a deep breath and stepped out of my car.
Only then did I hear the familiar sound of metal splitting wood. I looked around, and my breath caught in my throat when I saw him. A bare-chested Mark stood in a small clearing beside the house, splitting wood. The sheer power of his precise swing was mesmerizing. He was calm and steady, feet planted wide, using the axe like he was born for this. With a practiced grip, he swung high above his head, muscles rippling and bulging under sun-warmed skin, then brought it down with a force that made me blush.
He didn’t stop to admire his work. He reached for the next log, the rhythm hypnotic—lift, pause, powerful swing, crack. I couldn’t look away from this thirst trap. Sweat gave his sun-kissed skin a shine. He had been fit in high school, and when I saw him the other night, I knew he had kept himself in shape—but holy shit, the years had been very good to him. He had the kind of muscles that weren’t sculpted in a gym but earned through old-fashioned hard work.
Who knew wood splitting could be an art form?
Leave, Lanie. Right now. He doesn’t know you’re here.
He hadn’t heard my car pull in. He wouldn’t hear it pull out. He was very obviously busy.
And I was—was—was . . . drooling.
He swung the axe again.
My breath caught.
How was it possible to feel so physically drawn to him here when back in Portsmouth, I had felt nothing?
The log split and fell to the side.
He bent to retrieve it and then—as if summoned by my internal panic—he looked up. Our eyes met. His brows furrowed, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if he was happy to see me or about to ask me to leave. He placed the axe down, and without taking his eyes off me, closed the distance between us.
I took an instinctive step back, my boot catching on absolutely nothing, then I tumbled backward, my ass hitting the dirt with a thud.
He was beside me instantly, down on one knee, his face level with mine. “You okay?”
Beautiful.
Had his eyes always been so dark, with a ring of green around the iris? He smelled like the forest—earthy and rich, like pine needles crushed under heavy boots. Fresh-cut wood chips clung to him, mingling with the faint smoky whisper of a lingering campfire. Beneath the rugged masculinity of a fantasy lumberjack was something warmer, something sweeter—a golden hint of maple syrup, thick and decadent, as if it had seeped into his skin from years spent tending the Sugar Shack.
He looked me over, likely checking for an injury, but my body hummed beneath his attention. Our eyes met, and for a moment, we felt like so much more than the strangers we had become.
“Would you like a hand?” His tone was delightfully husky.
Hand? It was his lips I was craving. I shook my head, clearing out that intrusive thought. “I’m fine. I can—”
He straightened and, as if I weighed nothing at all, lifted me, placing me back on my feet. It was a sudden move that left me teetering enough that my hands flew out, seeking something to steady myself on—and landed, temporarily, on his warm, bare chest.
I should have snatched them back.
But I didn’t.
He should have removed his hands from my waist.
But he didn’t.
Instead, we stood there, both off-balance in a way that had nothing to do with being unsteady on our feet. For a moment, I didn’t care what had brought him to see me in Portsmouth. I didn’t care who he had built the house for or about any of the men who had come before him.
Time bent, the past and present mingling, making it feel as if no time had passed between when he had kissed me at prom and the kiss he was about to give me. A nervous laugh bubbled out of me. “You can let go of me now.”
Laughter lit in his eyes before spreading across his face. “Promise not to fall again?”
“I’ll do my best.”
A chuckle rumbled through him, reminding me my hands were still splayed across his chest. I reluctantly withdrew them, and his fell away as well.
“I’m not complaining you’re here, but did you need something?”
Everything I had intended to say to him slid out of my head. I told myself I would have felt the same if any half-naked, sweaty, mountain of a man had stood this close to me. After all, it had been two wee—mon—years since I’d been with anyone.
Holy shit. No wonder I’m a hormonal mess.
I stepped back from him, hoping that would help clear my thoughts. When it didn’t, I muttered, “Could you put on a shirt?”
One of his eyebrows rose, and the corners of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smirk. Understandable, since I couldn’t believe I’d said those words. He turned and walked over to where he had tossed a T-shirt on a chair. He moved ridiculously slowly. Oh, so slowly as if he were putting on a private show for me. I would have mocked him, but I was too busy trying to catch my breath.
When he returned, he tucked the shirt into his jeans and smiled. “Good to know I’ve still got it.”
I smiled back, some of my nervousness ebbing away. “Your enormous ego?”
He winked. “Women have referenced parts of me as enormous, but a gentleman doesn’t brag about such things.”
I chuckled.
There was comfort in the familiarity of this conversation.
“How are you still single?” I joked. I expected him to respond with snark, but instead, his eyes darkened.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Unable to look away, I answered honestly. “I haven’t met anyone I couldn’t live without.”
His jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. He inhaled, like he was taking in my words, tasting them, weighing them against something inside himself. “Me neither,” he said.
The space between us thickened. Everything—the house, the fire pit, the reason I came—blurred into the background, leaving only him.
I swallowed. “I’ve been thinking about how we left things at the restaurant last week, and—”
Mark took one step toward me.
My words died in my throat.
His fingers brushed my jaw, tilting my face up.
A gasp caught in my throat.
Then—
His lips were on mine.
Firm. Insistent. A demand. A challenge. The kiss wasn’t polite. It wasn’t hesitant. It was a claim. Mark kissed me like he had been waiting for this. Like he was done waiting.
Heat pooled low in my stomach, slow and molten. The air between us crackled, past and present colliding as his hand slid into my hair, tightening just enough to make my knees weak.
I gripped his shirt, holding on. He tasted like maple and smoke, and God help me, I wanted more.
More of this.
More of him.
His lips slanted over mine, coaxing me deeper, and I let myself fall—let myself believe that coming home could be this easy—this right. For a moment, I was eighteen again, wrapped in Mark’s arms, lost in the breathless thrill of what could have been.
I hadn’t known it then, but it was a moment I would spend years remembering—and our kiss would be what I would measure every other man’s against.
And just like that night, reality crashed into me, sharp and unforgiving. I told myself it didn’t matter because I would have left anyway. My mother had needed me. So did my grandfather.
No one needs me now. That thought jarred me, and I jerked back.
His breath was warm against my lips. His hand still rested against my waist.
I took a step back. Then another. Cool air filled the space between us.
His eyes darkened. “Lanie . . .”
“Nope.” I shook my head hard. “Not doing this.” I had come to talk things out with him, not jump into his bed.
His brows furrowed, his stance shifting like he was bracing for a blow.
“Things are already weird enough,” I blurted. My hand flew to my lips. “And don’t kiss me again.”
His mouth parted slightly, like he wanted to argue. But then—he didn’t. He exhaled, shoving a hand through his messy, too-sexy hair, and said, “Okay.”
“Okay,” I echoed.
And then we just... stood there. A standoff of confused, frustrated, I-don’t-know-what-the-hell-to-do-now energy.
“So...” he drawled slowly, humor flickering in his expression. “Should I apologize?”
I opened my mouth—closed it. “I mean...” I fumbled, shifting on my feet. “It was just a kiss. By our age, even if we’d had sex, it wouldn’t hold much meaning—am I right?”
His gaze sharpened. Unreadable.
I groaned. “Why did I say that?”
Mark didn’t answer. Probably because he knew exactly why I said it: to downplay the weight of what had happened. To pretend the kiss hadn’t shaken me to my core.
I scrambled for control. “Not that I’ve been with a lot of men. I haven’t.”
Oh, for the love of—shut up, Lanie.
Mark’s brows lifted.
I groaned. “I haven’t been alone either—”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” he cut in, his voice smooth.
I blinked. “What?”
“Coffee,” he repeated. “You know, the hot drink people use to defuse awkward situations?”
I exhaled roughly. “Yeah. Coffee sounds great.”
His lips quirked, like he knew exactly how hard I was scrambling. “We’ll have to go inside for that,” he said lightly.
I narrowed my eyes. “Is that a problem?”
Mark rubbed his jaw, pretending to consider.
“Well, there are stairs. Quite a few of them. And I’ve already seen you trip and fall over nothing...”
“Really?” I slugged him in the arm—like I would have ten years ago.
We froze.
Then—smiled in unison.
Something warm unfurled inside me.
Mark’s eyes roamed my face, softer now. “I’ve missed having you around.”
I cleared my throat. “I’ve missed being around.”
He glanced toward the sky, then muttered, “I’m sorry about—you know—Portsmouth.” His eyes found mine again, and God help me, it took every ounce of restraint not to throw myself back into his arms.
I nodded. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” he said, voice quiet. “But I’ll make it up to you.”
The intensity in his gaze set my skin on fire. I needed to gain control of—whatever this was. “A hot coffee would be a good start,” I blurted.
Mark smirked. “Right this way.”
At the bottom of the porch steps, without warning, Mark turned, tossed me over his shoulder, and took the stairs two at a time. A startled squeak escaped me. By the time my feet were back on the ground, I was too dazed and maybe too turned on to argue.
His smirk was all mischief. “Just keeping you safe.”
I opened my mouth to protest—but nothing came out.
Damn him.
I pressed my hands to my cheeks, trying to will away the strong reaction my body was having to his. Just because he carried me up a flight of stairs. Like it was nothing. No, like I was his.
But I’m not. I don’t even know what we are to each other anymore.
Mark swung the door of his home open with an easy flourish, stepping aside to let me in. “After you,” he said, his voice warm with amusement, as if he knew how much I was overthinking this moment.
I hesitated for half a second before crossing the threshold, my boots clicking against the hardwood floor. The air inside carried a familiar blend of sawdust and maple, warm and rich, wrapping around me like an old memory.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, I took in the room—sturdy wooden chairs, an oversized coat rack bench, and a mix of accent tables. The furniture had a raw, handmade quality.
My gaze landed on the side of the bench. The wood was slightly warped, the stain uneven, like it had been built by someone still learning their craft.
I tilted my head, taking it in. “Did you make this?”
Mark moved beside me, his presence both comforting and exciting at the same time. “The bench?” He nodded toward the warped side. “Yeah. It was one of the first pieces I ever built. Gave it to my dad.” A chuckle rumbled through his chest. “He gave it back as a housewarming gift... in exchange for one of my newer works. He likes to brag about my skill, but the bench made that a challenge.”
I smiled at that. “Your parents were always so supportive.”
He shot me a look. “They still ask about you.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I bent and ran my fingers lightly over the bench’s imperfections. “I love that you followed through and spent time with Mr. Martinez.”
After a pause, he said, “It felt like the right thing to do.” His voice was low, thoughtful. “It wasn’t a profitable endeavor, but I learned a lot.”
I straightened and met his gaze. “Money isn’t everything.”
“It sure makes life easier.” He made a face. “Sorry, lately it feels like I’m stuck in mud, spinning my wheels. I know I’ll break loose—not sure how or when.”
“I don’t know what you’re going through, but I do know that feeling.”
A corner of his mouth twisted. “How about that coffee?”
I stopped him from turning away by touching his arm. His bicep bunched beneath my hand. “I visited Mr. Martinez.” My voice was softer now. “His house is full of photos of you. He told me what you do with the furniture you make. How you give it to people who need it. You’re not spinning your wheels, Mark. You’re making a difference.”
His head dipped, a slow exhale leaving his lips.
“I enjoy woodworking,” he admitted. “It gives me something to do with my time.”
His fingers brushed the edge of my hand—briefly, but enough to send a shiver down my spine.
“Most of the pieces here are from when I was still figuring things out. People would’ve taken them, but I wanted them to have something they could be proud of.”
I studied him in the low light, emotions welling within me. He didn’t just make furniture. His actions showed people that, regardless of how little they had, they were still valued members of the community. Eliza told me Mark was so well-liked that if he ran for town council, he’d be elected without even running a campaign. Would he ever want that? There was a time when we told each other everything, and I would have known the answer.
Is that version of us gone forever?