Chapter 5
FIVE
QUINCY
I don’t expect him to return so soon.
But then again, I also don’t expect to be up, dressed, and barefoot in a stranger’s kitchen like it’s a completely normal thing to do the morning after nearly kissing the man.
Yet here I am—standing at the stove in one of the comfiest flannels I’ve ever worn (pretty sure it’s his), humming under my breath while the scent of cinnamon fills the air.
I don’t hear the front door open over the sizzle of butter, but I do hear the shift in energy.
Like gravity just got heavier behind me.
I glance over my shoulder—and there he is.
Knox stands in the doorway, shirtless, jeans slung low on his hips, hair damp like he rinsed off outside. His eyes track me from the top of my messy bun to the spatula in my hand.
I feel the heat of his gaze. And for once, it’s not embarrassment that flares to life in me—but something warmer. More dangerous.
“You’re up early,” he says, voice still thick with sleep or surprise—or maybe something else entirely.
I shrug one shoulder. “I couldn’t sleep.”
His brows lift slightly. “So you decided to invade my kitchen?”
“I invaded very politely,” I say. “I found eggs and bread. I’m feeding you. You’re welcome.”
A small huff of amusement leaves him. “Wasn’t expecting that when I walked in.”
“What were you expecting?”
He walks in slowly, his gaze still on me. “Honestly? A note taped to the door saying you’d made a run for it.”
I flip the next piece of French toast onto a plate. “Not a bad idea, actually. But I figured if I did leave, you might track me down and lecture me about bears again.”
His mouth twitches. “Fair.”
He moves to the table as I start plating up two servings. Before I hand his over, I glance at him sideways. “Want a bite?”
His gaze drops to my mouth before flicking back up. “Of the toast?”
I lift a brow, pretending not to feel the fire in my cheeks. “Obviously.”
He steps closer. I hold up the fork, a golden bite balanced on the tines. He leans in, lips brushing against the edge of the metal, eyes locked on mine. He chews slowly. Deliberately.
“Damn,” he says, voice lower now. “That’s good.”
My throat tightens.
I pull the plate back to maintain some illusion of control and set it at the table. He starts to sit down—but then pauses.
His head tilts.
“You moved things,” he says.
I freeze. “A little.”
His eyes flick around the room—mug rack rotated, paper towels angled just slightly to the left, chair pulled back a few more inches than it had been last night. All subtle. All intentional.
His brow furrows. “Why?”
I chew my lip. “I noticed… you seem to favor your right side. I thought maybe it would be easier to see things if they were angled more toward your left.”
There’s a pause. A long one.
I brace myself.
Finally, he says, quietly, “You noticed.”
“You don’t have to talk about it,” I rush to say. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s okay.”
He sinks into the chair across from me, fingers curling around the mug I’d set out.
“I lost my right eye in Afghanistan,” he says. “IED explosion. We were securing a village road—routine sweep. Except it wasn’t.”
I swallow.
“I was the only one injured,” he adds. “Got a medical discharge. Some hearing loss in that ear, but the eye was the main thing. No saving it.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, soft.
He gives a humorless smile. “They gave me a prosthetic. Paid out my contract. And I used that money to come here.”
“To start this life?”
“Yeah.” His eyes flick to mine. “Thought maybe I could build something that didn’t make me feel like a burden. Didn’t need to see everything to make it work.”
I nod slowly. “You’re doing a pretty damn good job of it.”
He exhales like the words land harder than they should. “Thanks.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The only sound is the ticking clock above the sink and the occasional crackle of the cooling skillet.
Then he says, “What about you?”
I glance up. “What about me?”
“How’d you end up here? French toast, flannel, middle of nowhere Alaska.”
I look down at my plate, twirl the fork between my fingers. “I guess you could say I had a pretty big explosion too. Just… the emotional kind.”
He waits, not pushing. Just giving me space. Knox is good at that.
“It wasn’t cold feet,” I say quietly. “What happened. I wasn’t scared to get married. I was excited.”
He nods once.
“It was the betrayal that got me. I found out the day of the wedding that he’d been cheating. Not just a one-time thing or a dumb mistake. He’d had an ongoing thing with someone from work. Months.”
Knox’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing.
“It made me question everything ,” I admit. “Not just him, but me. My judgment. How could I have missed it? How could I have planned a future with someone who clearly didn’t see one with me?”
“You didn’t miss it because you were dumb,” he says, tone low and sure. “You missed it because you trusted him. That’s not a flaw.”
My throat feels tight again. “Well, it sure feels like one.”
He nods slowly. “Still doesn’t explain how you ended up here. ”
I huff a laugh. “Fair point.”
He raises a brow.
I take a breath.
“I just… I wanted everything to stop. So I could catch my breath and process what happened.” I scoff and shake my head. “Of course, that’s the last thing possible on a person’s wedding day.”
He nods but doesn’t speak, giving me the time and space to choose my words. Knox is good at that.
“Everything seemed to be going a million miles a minute. I needed to get away from it all. So, I called the airline, switched our flights, and ordered the closest car to take me to the airport.”
“You came here to catch your breath?”
“Pretty much.”
“And how’s that going for you so far?”
“I’m still waiting.”
At that, he gives a wry grin that sets my heart racing.
“I must still be in shock or something.”
“You want to go somewhere to catch your breath.”
“That’s the goal.”
He scratches his cheek. “I might know a place.”
“Let me guess.” I roll my eyes. “You’ll tell me to just look out the damn window and take in the stunning view waiting for me in your backyard and to stop my damn complaining.”
His arm falls to the side and his brow furrows. “Why would I say that?”
“Because, it’s the kind of thing guys say when they think they’re being helpful.”
It’s the kind of thing my former future husband would have said all the time.
“Maybe some men,” he concedes. “But I try to always say what I mean.”
I nod, because so far, Knox has been nothing but a straight shooter. “So, there’s a place where I’ll be able to catch my breath?”
“Show me.”