Chapter Four
ELLIE
Okay.
Okay, okay, okay.
I am officially in over my head.
Anson Blackwood is the most terrifyingly hot man I’ve ever met. Not because he smiles—he doesn’t. Not because he flirts—he definitely doesn’t. But because when he looks at me, it’s like he’s debating whether to throw me over his shoulder or throw me out into the cold.
Right now, as I’m holding his knife in one hand and a slice of cheese in the other while he glowers at me, I’m pretty sure I know which way he’s leaning, and I’m not wearing a jacket.
I wiggle the hand with the knife—which is also the wrong thing to do apparently, because he steps closer until his chest brushes my back and grips my wrist to stop the movement.
His fingers are warm on my skin, and I can’t help but notice how gentle the touch is.
So different from Grant’s. My stomach feels like a thousand butterflies all took flight at once.
I draw an unsteady breath and ask, “What’s a Ka-Bar? ”
“A combat knife.”
How was I supposed to know? I mean, sure, the handle is bigger than most chef knives, but I figured it was a camping knife. “Well, it cuts great!”
He swears under his breath, low and growly, and gently takes the knife from me.“It’s very sharp. I don’t want it to cut you.”
Given his frown, I probably shouldn’t mention that I also used it as a butter knife.“If it isn’t a kitchen utensil, why was it in the drawer with the only two forks in this cabin?”
“Where else would you keep a knife?” Anson asks, as if I’m the one being illogical. He lays it by the sink, then opens another drawer and hands me a knife with holes in the middle of the blade. “Use this.”
I take the cheese knife, inspecting the blade. I know I shouldn’t tease a man so serious about his knives, but I can’t help poking the grumpy bear a little. “You sure this one hasn’t seen combat? It has holes.”
A muscle tics in his jaw. “Not yet .”
The emphasis makes me grin. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I swear the air changes between us, like the feeling before a thunderstorm. His eyes darken, the intensity of his gaze pinning me in place.
He’s so tall. If I stretched up on my tiptoes, could I kiss him?
Would he want that? I sway forward, captured by the shadows in his eyes.
Part of my brain is sending out caution signals, while the rest is wondering what it would be like to kiss Anson.
Would his beard be scratchy or soft? Would his kiss be punishing, like Grant’s? Or tender?
Our bodies are inches away. Close enough to see the exact moment his walls slam down. He mutters a curse and steps back until half the kitchen is between us.
He didn’t want me to kiss him.
Of course he didn’t. I’m not sleek and gorgeous. I’m soft and curvy, and absolutely not what a man like him wants.
“Ellie…”
A heartbeat passes. Then another.
When he doesn’t say more, I realize he isn’t going to. My throat feels thick when I ask, “I hope you like grilled cheese and soup. You didn’t have a lot of options.”
“They’re fine.”
Awkward silence descends between us. I’d much rather have the teasing. Or heck, even the scowling, dangerous Anson standing so close I can smell his scent. Something woodsy, like oak and musk laced with pure pheromones. Mixed with that gruff vibe and almost lethal stare?
Dottie got one thing right. Anson Blackwood is not just hot—he’s villain hot .
The “kidnap the heroine without remorse, make her forget why she wanted to run from him, then burn down a city when someone dares to touch her” kind of hot.
Add in those broad shoulders and muscular arms. The glimpse I got of his ripped abs and other things further south…
I press a hand to my burning cheek, cheese, and knives forgotten. Why am I like this? He didn’t order a bride and doesn’t want me here. I shouldn’t want him to kiss me and maybe touch me. I need to either figure out a Plan B or try to make him like me enough to let me stay.
“Ellie,” Anson says, closer now. “You okay?”
I nod. No meltdowns here, just one-sided intense attraction.
“Dinner. I need to finish dinner.” I return to the stove and stir the soup a few times.
A can of chicken noodle and grilled cheese is not gourmet dining.
If I can stay just one more day, I can go into the little town of White Falls and get some supplies.
Maybe if I make him some muffins or cupcakes, he will soften toward me.
He watches me while I finish cooking.
I can’t read the expression on his face, which is for the best.
“How is it that you have a cheese knife but only one bowl and a handful of plates?” I ask after going through every cupboard in the kitchen. I found spoons in a different drawer from the forks, two mismatched mugs, and a spatula that might be from the 1950s.
“It works better than my Ka-Bar.”
Is that a soft teasing I hear beneath the growl? He’s leaning one hip against the countertop a few feet away, not smiling. I’m not sure he knows how. But there’s a glint in his eye that could almost be warmth. I’m afraid to hope.
“So, the combat knife is for the steaks?”
“Something like that. The rest was left by the last owner. I don’t need much.”
He says those last words like he believes them. But are they true? There’s so much loneliness surrounding him, like he holds himself away from others intentionally.
“Where did you learn to cook?” he asks as I ladle soup into the mugs. With only one bowl, I had to get creative.
“My mom taught me how to make grilled cheese when I was ten so she wouldn’t have to worry about feeding me if she and dad were out late. After that, it was cookbooks and YouTube.”
“And drug dealing grill masters.”
I flash him a grin. “That’s why I’m a better baker. Less jail time.”
He shakes his head like he’s not sure what to make of me.
“You were in the military?” I set the soup and sandwich down for him at the small dining table, then grab my own and take the chair next to his.
He sits with what seems like extreme caution, assessing me.
“Yes.”
Silence follows. “What branch?”
One eyebrow quirks, but he doesn’t answer.
“Have you lived here long?”
He takes a bite of his sandwich and shakes his head.
“Do you want to know anything about me?” I ask in a soft voice. If possible, he seems even more withdrawn.
He doesn’t meet my eyes. So it’s not that much of a surprise when he simply says, “No.”
But oh, it hurts.That one word extinguishes the flicker of hope I’d been holding onto—that maybe, just maybe, I could change his mind. That maybe I could be enough.
Instead, it’s a reminder that he doesn’t want a wife. Especially not me.
We finish eating in silence. I take the dishes to the sink, intending to clean up from dinner. I can at least be useful for the few hours I have left here.
His chair scrapes against the floor, and I feel him approach from behind. He lingers a few moments, close enough to feel his heat.
I don’t look back. I can’t.
Anson touches my shoulder gently. I feel his thumb swipe slowly over my skin as he eases me aside. “I’ll do them. You’re taking the bed. Sheets are changed.”
“I’m not taking your bed. I’ll be fine on the couch.”
“You are. No arguments.”
I’m so confused by this man. He’s still not looking at me. Like he doesn’t want to or is afraid to. Except I can’t imagine Anson Blackwood being afraid of anything. Grizzly bears probably play dead around him .
“Sorry I intruded on your peaceful life, Anson. I’ll be gone as soon as I can.”
He tenses beside me, and his eyes slide closed. “It’s better this way. For you.”
If he’s not willing to give me a chance, then he’s right. This is definitely the worst mistake I’ve ever made. Dying my hair pink is almost laughable in comparison. I was an idiot to think this might work out.
The thought makes my throat tight. When I exchanged pictures with Anson on the Perfect Pairings site, I was so nervous.
But I put myself out there, choosing a picture that showed my curves.
When he wrote back almost immediately and said I was perfect, I thought maybe I had a chance to be accepted as I am, inside and out.
On the way here, I decided to just be myself.
If he already liked my picture, he would like me.
Except he never wrote those messages and never saw my picture. I’m an unwelcome house guest to a grumpy mountain man who wants to be left alone.
My eyes sting as I walk away.
“Sleep well, Ellie,” he murmurs.
I find his bedroom and close the door behind me, blocking out the warmth from the main room. The chill works its way under my skin to settle in my bones, making me shiver. And I can’t stop. My whole body is trembling.
The room is clean and uncluttered with a bed that looks hand carved, with slate gray bedding, and a single nightstand.
There’s an updated bathroom attached, and I realize that he must have renovated this entire cabin.
Everything I’ve seen looks new, from the appliances to the refinished floors.
There’s no decor, no curtains or pictures, and yet it is undeniably his home.
Anson wheeled my suitcase in here at some point, probably rolling his eyes at the bright pink sparkle. I open it with jittery fingers, set my muffin tin aside, and change into my regular pajamas. No sense wearing the sexy one I bought special for an intimate evening with him.
I plug in my cell phone and set it on the nightstand. The sheets are cool, and as I climb into his bed and snuggle beneath the covers, his scent fills my senses. It lingers on the pillows and blanket. Deep, woodsy, and all him.
I reach for my cell phone, hoping I have a text from Mel. I could use a friendly voice. Except the message isn’t the one I want.
Grant Chamberlain: You can’t run from me. I can find you anywhere, sweetheart. Even in Montana.
The chill in my bones turns to ice. Suddenly, I can’t breathe.
Oh God. I can’t go back to Denver. I can’t go back to Grant showing up at my work or ordering flowers almost daily just to make me deliver to him.
So he can touch my shoulder, or my neck.
My hand, my hair… anything he can reach.
Brushing him off only excites him more, which terrifies me.
And the people who should listen are the ones with dollar signs in their eyes.
If I go back, I won’t ever escape him. I’ll be trapped.
What will I do if Anson sends me away tomorrow? There’s nowhere else to go.
I drag in half a breath and pull up the messages I’d saved from Perfect Pairings. The gruff but sweet words I read over and over. Except none were from him. I’d been catfished by his grandmother like some twisted version of Little Red Riding Hood.
One by one, I delete the messages. I understand why Anson moved here. I’ve never wanted to be alone as much as I do right now.