Chapter 23
Betty
When I woke the next day, the first thing I looked for when I opened my eyes was a bear.
I can say with certainty that sleeping with a bear was not on my bingo card this year, yet here I was, yet again livin’ the dream. Upon careful consideration of my current surroundings and the dutiful prodding of my senses, a bear was not the issue today.
No.
Today, it was a man.
I was face-first, pressed into Gray’s neck, his skin carrying the scent of evergreen, river water, and his own distinctly male musk.
His stubble was a bit longer than usual, and I secretly loved the rugged look and softer feel.
He was lying on his back, breathing deep and steady, with a soft snore rumbling in his throat.
Waking up, or even sleeping—actually sleeping—with a man was never my thing.
We know this, but sleeping with Gray? I did that far too well.
Having now woken up twice to that deep, chocolaty-rich feeling of rest while in his company, it was a fact at this point that it was heaven.
Despite the trauma and challenges of the past forty-eight hours, I hadn’t felt this physically reset in a very long time—hell, not since the last time we slept together, which felt like a lifetime ago.
It was hard to regret the way one leg was straddling his hips right now, my arms clamped around him like I would my personal shopper during the Nordstrom semiannual sale. I needed this, and I wasn’t ashamed to admit it.
I was a cuddler and always had been. My mother and I were close, constantly hugging and sitting hip to hip on the couch watching movies, but since she passed, it’s been difficult to connect with anyone in that comfortable way.
I miss her and our special bond, and I’ve been longing for a new friend to share that with.
Gray had the potential.
I’ve held some resentment towards Gray since arriving here, clearly. But after yesterday, it felt like the last bit of resentment washed away, like a piece of debris floating down the river I’d gracefully fallen into. We were in the same boat, and we had to act that way.
Admittedly, I was the one pushing him away. As Taylor Swift says: I was the problem, it was me.
Survival shouldn’t be a game of me versus Gray; we needed to be a team.
Our very real adult decisions had gotten us here, and the consequences were an inevitability we’d achieved—together.
I wouldn’t be Betty if I weren’t rigid toward change and afraid of the things I couldn’t control.
I’m well aware of my limits and what I lack.
But coming here had happened so fast, it felt like mental whiplash, and I needed a hot second to catch up.
That hot second had passed, and I was ready to hear Grayson’s side of things.
I reached up and trailed a hand down Gray’s chest, over the thermal shirt he was wearing.
I wish he weren’t wearing it at all, but I appreciated his attempt at formality.
Touching him felt involuntary, like blinking or breathing.
My fingers traced over the bulk of muscle, pillows of softness waiting to be explored.
His breathing lightened as his body grew more alert.
He shifted, and his hand reached up to cover mine on his chest.
I grinned. His gesture was so simple, natural, and sweet. Half asleep, he still knew the perfect way to comfort me.
With a deep, relaxed rumble of a sigh, he brushed his chin against my forehead in a sweet gesture. I reciprocated the movement, using my body language to convey what I couldn’t yet put into words. His hand on mine tightened in comprehension and acceptance, then loosened before falling away.
“How did you sleep?” he mumbled groggily.
It was difficult to do, but I rolled away from him and rested my head on the pillow, looking up at the ceiling. “It was fabulous,” I admitted. Why bother mincing words?
He shifted onto his side to face me. His stare felt like an X-ray into my mind. I noticed him adjust himself in his pants, though he tried to be discreet about it, as he’d attempted to last night. I wasn’t blind. He was too well-endowed to hide it, but I’d let him pretend. It was cute.
“I’m a lot warmer now, that’s for sure,” he said.
I laughed. “It’s a hard toss-up to decide who’s warmer, you or Tallulah. That bear packs some proper body heat. I was snug as a tick in her presence. But if I had to choose, she was the better furnace. Plus, she had the built-in fur.” My nose wrinkled.
He chuckled. “I have fur.”
I laughed.
A very loud grumble echoed from my stomach.
He gestured to the Moka pot on the stove. “Do you want to make your coffee first?” he asked.
Until now, I’d made it a race to be the first one to make coffee each morning, trying to shut him out. I’d put so much effort into avoiding him. It was exhausting. He was absolutely the kind of man who wanted to make a woman coffee every morning; I could tell.
I bit my lip, rolling my head to look at him. “I was kinda hoping you’d make it today?” It was the proverbial olive branch.
His eyes brightened, pupils widening as they met mine. “Yeah?”
A playful curve tugged at his lips, a smile he couldn’t quite suppress. His cheeks were flushed a rosy red below his beard, looking wind-chapped and slightly singed from bear spray. The redness in his eyes had mostly faded, leaving them looking much clearer.
I nodded, pulling the blankets tighter around my neck.
The air outside the warmth of the bed held a distinct chill, suggesting the fire needed tending.
Gray, a determined look on his face, sat up and climbed out.
Mr. Beans and Villainy were quick to benefit from the residual warmth he’d left, filling the spot.
I gave Mr. Beans a scratch under his chin. “How are you doing, Beanie Weenie?” Villy got jealous and swatted at my hand before I offered him a similar scratch. Once they settled down, I turned my back on their grooming session to watch Gray move around the cabin.
He filled the Moka pot with water, placed it back on the stove, and then tended the fire. I couldn’t stop grinning like a Cheshire Cat. This is how it should have been all along. It felt cozy and right to let things run their natural course for once.
“Tell me a story,” I said after a minute.
Gray glanced my way, his blue eyes and thick lashes contemplative. “What kind of story?”
I pursed my lips, as if considering, though I already knew what I wanted to ask. “What about your story?” I suggested.
His brow furrowed, but he didn’t seem put off by the idea.
If anything, he appeared to be mulling over a good chapter to begin with.
“Okay, well…” He pulled down a few pans from the chain above the stove, then went to the fridge.
He came back to the counter with eggs and a few other things I couldn’t see from where I was lying.
“You don’t have to,” I added quickly. I needed him to know the option to refuse was there if he wasn’t ready.
He regarded me. “I think I owe you some truth.” He cracked a few eggs into a bowl. “And you owe me some too, but I’ll start. Deal?”
I nodded once. “Deal.”
He nodded back. “Okay, good.”
I sat perfectly still, waiting.
He carefully placed a pan on the stove and added some tallow before speaking.
“To start, you should know that I never knew the kind of man my father was until I was finishing high school and turned eighteen.” He paused, picking his next words.
“I always thought he was your typical Wall Street guy, working with the family financial business, often away, and perpetually stressed. He was a good father, though strict and holding high expectations for me. Our family was close-knit: me, my mother, my two younger sisters, and my dad. We were your quintessential Italian immigrant family, with big personalities and plenty of food.” He grinned.
“That’s where I learned how to cook. My Nonna was a legend with a sauce pot. ”
I smiled back, careful not to interrupt, but wanting him to know I was listening.
“My aunts and uncles always got the family together. Trips to upstate New York, holidays in the city. Family was everything, as it should be.” He poured coffee into a mug, then added milk and honey before handing the cup to me and returning to the kitchen to continue his story.
“I had three uncles. My dad was the oldest of the four brothers, followed by David, Matteo, and Luca. Somewhere along the line, Matteo, I suppose, felt slighted as the almost middle child. Italians are known for their passionate tempers, quick to anger and prone to jealousy and suspicion. I’m not entirely sure why, and I never really got the chance to fully understand Matteo’s issues, but I assume it was basic jealousy.
Who knows, but he has a dark side that’s dangerous and out of control. ”
He whisked the eggs with a fork and added them to the pan.
“I remember my aunt, Matteo’s wife, showing signs of being verbally abused soon after their marriage.
She’d often shy away and wince at loud noises, and then the bruises appeared.
I was just a kid, but even I knew something wasn’t right.
All my other uncles saw it, too. They didn’t hide their disapproval.
It wasn’t how they were raised. Respecting women was a religion to my grandfather.
God, he worshipped the ground my Nonna walked on like a saint. Matteo, though, had a screw loose.”