Chapter 9
9
HARPER
I blink awake slowly, disoriented at first as I stare at the unfamiliar wooden ceiling. Then I remember Brody rescuing me, and my chest floods with relief. He saved me.
Stretching beneath thick, cozy blankets, I listen to faint sounds coming from elsewhere in the cabin—the sizzle of a skillet, light footsteps moving around, and the low hum of oldies playing on a radio. It feels like I’ve been transported to another time period—when life was easy and slow, where the weight of the world didn’t exist.
A smile tugs at my lips as I slide out of bed, shivering slightly at the chill lingering in the early morning air. I slip my feet into oversize slippers that Brody thoughtfully placed by the bed and wrap a warm plaid robe around my shoulders that I found draped over a chair. For the first time in days, I feel safe and guarded.
I look down at my finger, noticing the gaudy engagement ring is still on it. I take it off, placing it in the drawer next to the bed. Removing it feels like freedom.
When I step into the living room, the scent of coffee and savory food greets me instantly. Brody stands at the stove, his broad shoulders filling out a snug black T-shirt. Tattoos line up and down his arms as he casually flips bacon, looking oddly domestic and completely relaxed. It’s a side of him I’ve never seen.
I watch him for a few more seconds before I make myself known.
“Morning,” I say, my voice still raw from sleep.
His lips twitch in a teasing smile. “Well, good morning, Sleeping Beauty. Nice of you to finally join the living.”
I make a face at him, moving to the kitchen counter and leaning against it. “You’re hilarious .”
“I know.” He grins, eyes warm. The tension I saw last night has vanished. “Sleep okay?”
“Better than okay,” I admit, pulling the robe tighter around myself. “Honestly, I haven’t slept that well in weeks. Maybe years.”
He nods knowingly, his gaze growing softer and more serious. “You deserve solid rest.”
Something in the way he says it makes warmth spread in my chest. I know he means it.
I bite my lip as butterflies stir in my stomach. “What about you?”
“Sure.” He shrugs lightly, turning back to the bacon. “The couch isn’t exactly a king-size bed, but it’s better than the floor. I can’t complain.”
I hesitate, a tiny pang of guilt nudging at me. “Sorry.”
He flashes me a look of mild amusement. “No apologies, Harp. You looked comfortable. But I did notice you drooled all over my pillow.”
My mouth drops open. “No, I did not.”
He chuckles, reaching out to teasingly tap beneath my chin. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
I swat his hand away, laughing despite myself. “You’re the worst.”
“You say that, but here I am, cooking you breakfast like a saint.” He points at the coffeepot with the spatula. “Fresh coffee too. Only the best for the best. Empty mug waiting for you.”
I shake my head and smile, while filling my cup. As I hold the warm mug, savoring the rich aroma, I glance around the cabin, taking in the rustic charm of the exposed wood beams, the stone fireplace, and the books stacked haphazardly on the shelves against the wall. It’s so different from the chaos of our world and far away from Micah’s sterile, perfect mansion. This one-bedroom home with an open floor plan feels like a true escape—one I’ve needed for a long damn time.
“You’re staring again,” he says lightly, loading up two plates, piled with scrambled eggs and crispy bacon.
“Just thinking,” I admit, meeting his gaze. “This place suits you. Quiet, cozy, hidden.”
“Sounds like a polite way of calling me a loner.” His lips curve slightly as he sets our plates on the small wooden table that’s only large enough for two.
“Maybe,” I tease, taking a sip of coffee and smiling over the rim of my mug. “Or maybe you seem happy here. Like it’s home.”
“Right now, I am.”
The sincerity in his voice tugs at my heart.
I glance down shyly, my cheeks warming again. “Me too.”
He pauses, suddenly serious. “Good.”
He studies me for a moment, his eyes gentle as he glances at my bare ring finger, but he doesn’t say a word about it.
We eat in comfortable silence, exchanging occasional glances. The sun brightens the cabin, chasing away lingering shadows of fear and uncertainty. For the first time in days, my shoulders actually relax. I sneak another look at Brody, catching his small smile before he quickly looks away. It makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe, waking up to mornings like this—safe, warm, and with someone who makes me feel genuinely seen—is exactly what I’ve always needed.
After breakfast, I curl up on the overstuffed chair by the window, wrapping a thick quilt around myself as I watch Brody step off the back porch. The morning fog still hangs over the trees, creating a sense of solitude. For the first time in days, my mind isn’t racing; it’s simply quiet.
I close my eyes and drift off because I’m so relaxed.
When I wake hours later, Brody is nowhere to be found. I get up and step out onto the porch, letting the midday breeze brush across my cheeks. The forest is silent, bathed in the muted sunlight filtering through the trees. I breathe in fresh air, letting it fill my lungs, and take it all in.
The only thing that pulls me away is a rhythmic sound of an axe splitting wood.
I glance to my left and see Brody standing near a woodpile, muscles flexing with each powerful swing of the blade. His tattoos are on full display, and he’s a work of art. I freeze, momentarily mesmerized by his movements—the precision, the control. The wood splits effortlessly beneath his hands, pieces scattering neatly around him like confetti.
He pauses, rolling his shoulders and stretching slightly. His dark hair clings damply to his forehead, and even from here, I can see the focused intensity in his deep blue eyes. I’m captivated by his strength. It’s not flashy or arrogant, but solid and dependable.
My stomach knots as my thoughts drift to Micah. I recognize him for what he really was—a monster cleverly hidden behind smiles and whispered promises. The shame of believing in that illusion claws at my throat. How could I have been so blind?
Yet, watching Brody, I clearly see the stark contrast between the two men.
Brody doesn’t wear masks. He doesn’t hide behind carefully constructed lies. He’s authentic and fiercely honest. He never pretends to be someone he isn’t, just himself. I trust him more than I’ve trusted anyone, but still, questions about him linger beneath my skin.
He swings again, powerful and precise, sending pieces of wood tumbling to the ground. The force behind his motions hints at something personal and unresolved. It’s raw and almost painful.
I bite my lip, curiosity mixing with cautious hesitation.
Why is Brody so protective of me? His loyalty to Billie explains some of it, but not all—not this burning intensity I feel from him. There’s an unseen layer beneath his steady surface, and he guards it as if his life depends on it.
He sets down the axe, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. His breathing is heavy but even. His gaze lifts, meeting mine across the distance. A slow, soft smile warms his features, as if he felt me watching the whole time.
“Enjoying the view?” he calls lightly, the teasing tone breaking through my thoughts.
Heat rises to my cheeks, but I manage to smile back. “Impressive technique.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Plenty of practice.”
He takes a drink of water, then continues with his mission.
My thoughts still swirl; I know he’s had decades of practice hiding his secrets, but I hope one day he’ll trust me enough to share them.
I find myself watching him, noting how the muscles of his back shift beneath his T-shirt with each careful movement. I notice a gentleness that makes him even more intriguing.
His expression is distant, almost haunted, and I realize how little I actually know about him—this man who’s risked everything to keep me safe.
He must sense me watching again because he turns his head slightly, his blue eyes locking onto mine.
“You okay over there?” he asks, his voice soft.
“Just thinking,” I reply.
“Dangerous habit.” He smirks, but his eyes hold mine, gentle and attentive. “Care to share?”
I pause, biting my lip, as he sets the axe down and moves closer to me.
“I was just thinking about how little I actually know about you. I mean, you were always around, growing up, but we’re not kids anymore. So much has happened.”
He raises an eyebrow, his expression becoming cautiously playful. “I’m an open book, Harp.”
“Oh, come on. No, you’re not.” I laugh. “You’re more like a tightly sealed diary—locked twice and hidden under a mattress.”
A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, and I like the sound of it. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just too afraid to ask. I’ve never lied to you.”
I study him, tracing the shadows beneath his eyes and the careful guard behind his smile. “Maybe a little,” I admit honestly. “You never talk about yourself, and I don’t want to bombard you.”
His gaze drops, thoughtful. “I’m not trying to be secretive. It’s just … some things, like my past, are hard to discuss, so I don’t.”
The hint of vulnerability in his voice tugs at my heart. It’s strange to see him like this—strong yet guarded, gentle but distant. Brody is a man who has scars that I can’t begin to understand, but I want to.
“That’s okay,” I whisper. “I don’t want to pry.”
His eyes lift again, meeting mine. “You aren’t prying. I’ve just gotten good at avoiding conversations.”
“Why?” I ask.
He exhales slowly, fingers threading together as he stares down at his hands. “Because, sometimes, it’s easier not to talk about things, especially things I can’t change.”
I sense an untouched pain beneath his carefully chosen words. The urge to comfort him, to understand him, overtakes me.
“You’re not alone in that feeling,” I say. “I get it. Trust me.”
His lips curve into a slight, vulnerable smile. “I know you do.”
We stand quietly for a moment, but his eyes still carry that faint flicker of something unresolved.
“Tell me one thing then,” I say. “Anything.”
He considers this for a long moment, and when I think he won’t answer, his voice comes. “My parents used to bring me here when I was little. Before they passed. That’s why I love it here—it’s the last place that ever felt truly safe for me.”
My chest tightens at his confession. Such a small detail, but it feels enormous, coming from Brody—like a treasured secret he rarely shares. His parents and sister died in a plane crash when he was fourteen, and he moved in with Easton and Weston. He’s been around them for as long as I have.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
His eyes hold mine. “You’re welcome.”
As we lapse back into silence, something shifts subtly between us. I’ve glimpsed a side of Brody he’s protected, and the mystery of him only makes him more compelling.
Maybe we’re both learning that there’s courage in letting someone else in, even just a little bit.
We linger on the porch for another moment, the intensity of the earlier conversation still stretching between us. Finally, Brody nods, offering me a gentle but reserved glance before returning to the pile of wood he was chopping before I interrupted him.
I step back into the cabin, feeling oddly restless. Needing something to distract myself, I decide food would be a good start.
The kitchen is tiny, rustic, but well kept. I open the cabinets, hoping for inspiration, but find rows of canned goods and very little else. I frown slightly, picking up a can of ravioli and some sliced carrots. Cooking has never been my thing, but even I can manage canned goods—at least, I hope so.
I pop open the ravioli, grimacing at the tomato slop, and carefully dump it into a ceramic bowl. The carrots are next, and I scoop them into another smaller bowl. Pausing, I stare at the microwave like it’s a foreign object, fingers hovering over the buttons. This thing looks ancient.
After a minute of frustration, I settle on three minutes, hoping that’s enough for both.
The microwave hums, and I lean against the counter, my mind wandering back to Brody.
When the microwave finally beeps, I pull the bowls out carefully, the ceramic hot against my fingertips. The ravioli looks questionable, but at least it’s steaming. I stir it and take a small bite. It’s not as bad as I expected.
I glance out the kitchen window, watching Brody swing the axe again, muscles rippling under his shirt. Deciding I shouldn’t disturb him too abruptly, I take a few moments to collect my thoughts before stepping outside again.
“Brody,” I call from the porch steps, my voice breaking the silence.
He pauses mid-swing, the axe hanging loosely in his grip. Sweat glistens on his forehead. His eyes are warm but still carefully guarded as he shifts his attention toward me.
“Hungry?”
He hesitates, then gives a small nod, placing the axe against the woodpile and wiping his hands on his jeans as he walks toward me. We step back inside, and I lead him toward the table.
“It’s not exactly gourmet,” I admit sheepishly, gesturing at the food. “But ravioli and carrots were pretty much all I could find. Well, and eggs.”
His lips turn up into an amused half smile as he takes a seat. “Works for me. I should’ve stocked up before bringing you out here. I stopped at a small gas station and grabbed what I could for breakfast.”
“It’s okay.” I slide his bowl across to him, taking the seat opposite. “We’ll definitely need groceries soon though, unless you have a deep love for canned Italian.”
“I don’t,” he says simply, and we share a laugh, easing some of the lingering tension.
A comfortable silence settles between us, but beneath the easy moment, I feel something deeper still simmering. I glance at Brody, his gaze distant and thoughtful as he eats.
“You know,” I start, pushing around a ravioli in my bowl, “being here, out in the quiet, it reminds me a little of my childhood. Before my mom died, we used to spend summers and early fall in Colorado in Cozy Creek. I remember running barefoot through the grass, feeling completely safe and at ease, away from the city. It felt like home too. Now Zane is there living his best life.”
Brody watches me, setting his fork down and giving me his full attention. Encouraged, I continue.
“I lost her when I was eight,” I say, a familiar ache tightening my chest.
“I know,” he says. Because he was there. He’s always been there.
“Ever since, I’ve carried this emptiness inside me. Like there’s a piece of me missing. I’ve spent years trying to fill it, always with the wrong things or the wrong people. My dad was never around much because he was too busy running the company. So, it was just me and my brother and Billie.” I lift my gaze to his, vulnerability pooling behind my eyes. “It’s exhausting, always chasing something you know you’ll never get back. For me, I lost my sense of family. It was never the same after Mom was gone.”
Something flickers in his eyes, as though my words resonated deeply within him. A shadow crosses his features, and his jaw tightens as he shifts in his seat.
Brody visibly stiffens, his body instantly guarded again. I know he lost his parents and sister. I know he understands grief more than even I do.
“Thank you,” he says, but I see tension return to his shoulders. He’s rebuilding those invisible walls to keep me out.
The openness I glimpsed is replaced by a neutral expression. He clears his throat, turning his gaze toward the window.
“We all have our scars, Harp,” he says, his voice low. “Some of us are just better at hiding them.”
I nod slowly, feeling the careful evasion in his answer, but not wanting to push too far. The heaviness in the air is undeniable.
“Fair enough,” I reply, easing the tension with a gentle smile.
Brody’s expression softens again, an apology in his eyes. I give him a reassuring smile. Opening up to him wasn’t easy, but it was a start.
We finish eating without saying much else. My curiosity still lingers. Whatever secrets Brody guards are deeply rooted and painful. Despite his careful deflection, I feel closer than ever to understanding him and unraveling the mystery behind his strength. I thought maybe it was the loss of his parents or something that he experienced when he was in the Marines. Now, I’m not so sure what happened or why he’s so guarded, but I hope, one day, he really does tell me. And when that time comes, I will be there to listen.