Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Samuel
Farley Davenport had kissed me, and now neither of us knew what to do about it.
Oh, we were handling it fine on the surface. We’d walked back to the cabin holding hands and made lunch together without incident. We’d sat on the couch with Purrsephone between us, pretending to read while stealing glances at each other like teenagers at a school dance.
But there was something new in the air now. A charge. An awareness that hummed beneath every casual touch and lingering look.
We’d crossed a line, and neither of us was pretending we could un-cross it.
“We need to go to Shifflett’s,” Farley announced, breaking a silence that had stretched just past comfortable. “We’re almost out of coffee.”
“Okay.”
“And you need toiletries. Since yours are buried under a tree.”
“Also true.”
He stood up, all business, reaching for his coat. But I caught the way his eyes lingered on my mouth before he turned away. The way his hand wasn’t quite steady on the zipper.
Interesting.
“Is this a date?” I asked because I couldn’t help myself.
Farley paused mid-zip. “It’s a supply run.”
“A supply run where you kissed me two hours ago and now you’re taking me to town.”
“Correlation isn’t causation.”
“That’s not a no.”
He finished zipping his coat with more force than necessary. “Are you coming or not?”
I grinned and grabbed my jacket.
Shifflett’s General Store was blessedly quiet when we arrived. The teenager behind the counter gave me a long look—the kind that said I know exactly who you are—but returned to their phone without comment. Small mercies.
Farley produced a list from his pocket, because of course he did.
“Coffee, cream, eggs, bread,” he read off. “And whatever you need from personal care. I’m also getting something for dinner that isn’t pasta.”
“What’s wrong with pasta?”
“Nothing, in moderation. Four nights in a row isn’t moderation.”
“I happen to like your pasta.”
“You like everything I cook. You have no standards.”
“I have very specific standards,” I said. “They just happen to be met by you.”
Farley’s ears went pink. He shoved the list at me. “Toiletries. Go. I’ll handle the food.”
I wandered toward the personal care section with a smile I couldn’t quite suppress.
Making Farley blush had become one of my favorite hobbies.
It happened so easily—a well-placed compliment, a lingering look, standing slightly too close—and the result was always the same delightful shade of pink creeping up his neck.
I was examining my limited options—generic shampoo that would absolutely destroy my hair, a razor that looked like it belonged in a horror movie—when I felt someone approach.
“Excuse me.”
I turned to find an older woman with silver hair and bright, curious eyes.
“You’re him, aren’t you? Dr. Brock Blaze?”
I put on my public smile. “Guilty as charged.”
“I knew it. My granddaughter watches every episode. She’s going to be so jealous.” The woman clasped her hands together. “Would you mind terribly—just a quick photo? She’ll never believe me otherwise.”
“Of course.”
She fumbled with her phone, clearly not comfortable with the camera, and I was about to offer to help when Farley appeared at my elbow.
“I can take it,” he said smoothly, plucking the phone from her hands. “You two get in the frame.”
The woman beamed and positioned herself next to me. Farley took several shots—more than necessary, probably—and handed the phone back.
“Oh, these are perfect!” She scrolled through them happily. “Thank you so much. And thank you,” she added to Farley. “Are you his assistant?”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Farley’s expression flickered—something between offense and amusement. “Something like that.”
“Well, you take wonderful photos. Very professional.” She patted my arm. “You boys enjoy your visit. And bundle up—they’re saying more snow this weekend.”
She hurried off, clutching her phone like a trophy.
“My assistant,” I said, once she was out of earshot.
“Shut up.”
“Very professional photos.”
“I will leave you here.”
Farley’s breath caught. For a moment, we just stood there in the toiletries aisle, six inches apart, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. His eyes dropped to my mouth, then snapped back up.
I didn’t move. I didn’t need to. He closed the distance himself—hesitant at first, then certain—and his lips brushed mine in a kiss that was brief, electric, and utterly undoing.
When he pulled back, his ears were flaming pink, but his voice was steady. “Get your shampoo,” he said, rougher than before. “I’ll meet you at the register.”
He turned and walked away, and I watched him go with a satisfaction that was probably written all over my face, the taste of him still lingering.
At the counter, the teenager was still absorbed in their phone, thumbs flying across the screen in what was probably a very important text conversation. They hadn’t looked up once since we’d arrived. Small town discretion at its finest.
The drive back to the cabin was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Farley had the heat cranked up, some classical station playing low on the radio, and every so often his hand would drift from the gearshift to rest on my knee before returning to the wheel.
Casual. Like it meant nothing.
It meant everything.
We put the groceries away in charged silence.
Every time we passed each other in the small kitchen, our shoulders would brush, our hands would touch, and the tension would ratchet up another notch.
I was acutely aware of where he was at all times—the sound of his breathing, the rustle of his clothes, the way he kept glancing at me when he thought I wasn’t looking.
“So,” Farley said, closing the refrigerator. “I was thinking for dinner—”
I kissed him.
I didn’t plan it. One second he was talking about dinner, and the next I had him backed against the counter with my mouth on his and my hands fisted in his sweater.
Farley made a surprised sound—then grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me closer.
This wasn’t like the kiss in the snow. That had been tender, deliberate—Farley making a choice. This was hunger. This was two days of sleeping in the same bed without touching, of “just friends” that had never been just anything, of wanting and waiting and finally.
“Couch,” Farley gasped against my mouth.
“Yeah.”
We stumbled toward the living room without separating, bumping into the doorframe, nearly tripping over Purrsephone—who yowled indignantly and fled—until we collapsed onto the couch in a tangle of limbs.
Farley ended up beneath me, which was an excellent development. His hands slid under my shirt, palms warm against my skin, and I shuddered at the contact.
“Is this okay?” he asked, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes.
“This is extremely okay.”
“Good.” He pulled me back down.
His mouth was hot, demanding—nothing like the careful, controlled Farley I’d come to know. This version was greedy, impatient, and I matched him kiss for kiss, touch for touch. When I shifted my hips, he made a sound that shot straight through me.
“Samuel—”
“I know.”
“We should probably—”
“Not talk. Yes. Agreed.”
He laughed against my mouth, breathless and wanting, and I was reaching for the hem of his sweater when—
My phone rang.
We both froze.
“Ignore it,” Farley said.
“Way ahead of you.”
The ringing stopped. We resumed. His hands found my belt, and I was absolutely not thinking about anything except the way his breath hitched when I—
The phone rang again.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered.
“Leave it.”
I left it. The ringing stopped. Farley’s mouth moved to my neck, and I forgot my own name, let alone the phone—
It rang a third time.
Farley dropped his head back against the couch cushion with a groan of pure frustration. “Someone really wants to talk to you.”
“Someone can go to hell.”
“Check it. Please. Before I throw it in the fireplace.”
I reached for my phone on the coffee table, fully intending to silence it forever—and then I saw the name on the screen.
SAbrINA
The heat drained out of me so fast it was almost physical.
“Samuel?” Farley’s voice came from somewhere far away. “Who is it?”
“My agent.”
The phone stopped ringing. The silence felt louder than the ringtone had.
I stared at the screen—at the notification showing three missed calls and a voicemail—and felt the bubble we’d been living in about to burst. Sabrina didn’t call three times unless it was urgent.
Sabrina barely called at all; she preferred passive-aggressive texts and calendar invites to “discuss your future.”
Something had happened. Something that couldn’t wait.
Farley sat up beneath me, and I shifted off him automatically, the mood thoroughly broken. We sat side by side on the couch, both of us breathing harder than we should be, neither of us looking at the other.
“You should call her back,” Farley said quietly.
“I really don’t want to.”
“I know.”
I looked at him—at his mussed hair and swollen lips and the mark I’d apparently left on his neck—and felt something twist in my chest. Five minutes ago, we’d been heading somewhere. Somewhere important. And now...
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be.” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to restore some order. “Real life doesn’t pause just because we want it to.”
Real life. LA. The contract. The network. Everything I’d been successfully ignoring for the past week.
The phone buzzed with a text. I didn’t look at it.
“I’ll listen to the voicemail later,” I said. “Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow.”
Farley nodded, but something in his expression had shifted. Closed off slightly. The walls I’d spent days dismantling were rebuilding themselves brick by brick, and I could see it happening in real time.
“Hey.” I reached over and took his hand. “Whatever that call is about—it doesn’t change anything.”
He looked at our joined hands. “You don’t know that.”
“I know I’m here. Right now. With you.”
“Right now,” he repeated. Not agreeing. Just... noting.
Purrsephone crept back into the room and jumped onto the couch, settling herself pointedly in the space between us. Her timing, as always, was impeccable.
“I think she’s trying to tell us something,” Farley said, scratching behind her ears.
“That her matchmaking services don’t extend to physical interference?”
“Something like that.”
We sat there as the evening darkened outside, the fire crackling low, neither of us addressing the elephant in the room. My phone sat silent on the coffee table, but I could feel it like a weight. Like a countdown I hadn’t realized had started.
December was half over. Soon I’d have to make decisions. Sign the contract for three more seasons or walk away. Figure out what this thing with Farley was and whether it could survive outside the snow-globe perfection of this mountain.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I leaned my shoulder against Farley’s, and he didn’t pull away.