Chapter 28
Wyatt guided Jen down the hallway.
“Wow.” She stopped in front of the wall of framed pieces, her head tilted slightly as she studied them. “These are yours?”
“Yes.” Some of his favorites. Charcoal and graphite. Space and shadow. No people or noise.
“They’re incredible.”
He cleared his throat and pivoted abruptly on one foot. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He led her upstairs to the guest room.
The space was spare but warm—blue-green linen pulled tight across the bed, pale wood, thick sheepskin rugs scattered where bare feet might land.
The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the mountains beyond, snow glowing faintly in the moonlight.
Jen crossed the room slowly, fingertips brushing the wood.
She stopped at the window. “Your home is beautiful.”
Wyatt pulled open one of the closets. A few shelves held Sarah’s things neatly stacked—clothes she kept here for the nights she stayed over.
“Bathroom’s through there,” he said, nodding toward the opposite door. “Towels are in the cabinet. Hot water takes a minute, but once it does, you’re good.”
He pulled Sarah’s blue flannel pajamas from the shelf. They wouldn’t fit perfectly, but they were warm and soft.
He turned and held them out. “My sister’s. She keeps a few spare things here.”
“Thank you.” Jen took the pajamas from him, her fingers brushing his.
Half a second. Maybe less. But he felt her touch in every inch of his body. He stepped back toward the door. “Take your time. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
She didn’t move.
Instead, she stood there, holding the pajamas, shoulders rounded now that the adrenaline had burned off, looking smaller than she had on the rig.
“Wyatt?”
He stopped and turned.
Her eyes gleamed in the soft light. “Thank you. For all of it.”
He rubbed one hand across the back of his neck. “Get cleaned up. We’ll talk after.” He stepped back and left before his hand could rise to her cheek, the door clicking shut behind him as he headed down the hall.
In the kitchen, he opened the fridge. He stared at the contents, trying not to listen to the rush of hot water from the boiler in the adjoining room.
She was in his shower.
He shut the fridge harder than necessary and turned away, reaching for the radio and cranking it up before his brain derailed completely.
He pulled out eggs. Butter. Bread. Cheese.
Nothing more was on the menu tonight. Jen was exhausted and traumatized, and he was still trying to figure out what the hell this thing between them even was.
Grilled cheese and scrambled eggs. Food that didn’t ask anything of you. Food his mother had made when one of them came home scraped raw or concussed.
He set a pan on the stove, cracked eggs too hard and did not look toward the hallway.
Fifteen minutes later, she appeared in the kitchen doorway. Her hair was damp and loose, ends curling slightly at her shoulders, her cheeks flushed pink. The soft blue pajamas made her look almost fragile.
“Hey,” she said, almost shy.
“Hey.”
“Great shower.” She padded across the hardwood and climbed onto one of the stools at the island. “You cooked.”
“Don’t get excited.”
She bit down on her lip to quash a smile. “I won’t.”
“Nothing fancy.” He divided the food between two plates, poured water into glasses, then grabbed a stool and sat down opposite her.
They ate in comfortable silence. After, he rinsed the plates and slid them into the dishwasher. When he turned back, she was standing near the counter, studying his coffee machine.
“Your coffee setup… wow.”
“You want one?”
She grinned, relaxed now. “Yes. God. Very much, yes. You have no idea.”
Wyatt reached for a mug as the machine hummed to life. Steam hissed as he warmed the cup, then poured the shot.
He slid the mug across the counter toward her.
She wrapped both hands around the mug and took a sip, eyes closing. “God. That’s so good.”
Her shoulders dropped. There. The moment he’d been waiting for.
He switched on the dishwasher. “Come on,” he said. “There’s somewhere better than this kitchen.”
He led her through the house to the back door. Floor-to-ceiling glass that opened onto the deck. He opened the door and stepped out into the cold.
The snow had stopped, the world blanketed and silent. Stars stretched across the sky in a brilliant sweep. He’d lit the outdoor wood stove before she’d gotten out of the shower. Dry warmth radiated across the deck, pushing back the worst of the cold.
A wide couch sat facing the view. Plump cushions. Blankets folded over the back.
Jen stopped beside him.
“Oh my God,” she breathed, her breath clouding the air.
“Yeah.”
She walked to the railing, mug in her hands. Aurora Cove sat tucked between the mountains, the ocean a dark line between the peaks on the horizon.
“This is incredible.”
“The view is why I built here.”
“I can see why.” She smiled at him.
“You’re going to freeze. Come here.” He placed a hand at the small of her back and steered her to the couch where he draped thick blankets over her and tucked in the edges. “Warm enough?”
She placed her empty mug on the table. “Cozy, yes, thanks.”
He crossed to a cabinet built into the exterior wall and pulled out a bottle of single malt he kept for nights that deserved it. “I think tonight merits the good stuff.” He poured two glasses and carried them to the couch.
She took the glass he offered, her thumb skimming his. “What are we drinking to?”
Wyatt looked at her, the woman who’d saved his life with a flare gun and refused to quit even when everything was falling apart. He’d never met anyone quite like her.
“To surviving.” He lifted his glass.
She clinked her glass against his, sipped, and coughed. “Heavens, that’s strong.”
He downed a gulp himself, savoring the heat of the liquid sliding down his throat. “You didn’t panic. Even when you were scared.”
She shook her head. “I was cold and terrified and on the verge of a breakdown.”
“But still, you got the job done.”
“Mmm. Like you?”
He clinked his glass against hers again as the stove threw out golden sparks under the night sky. “Touché.”
“You didn’t hesitate.” She tugged the blanket around both their knees, where it had fallen. Her knee pressed against his, hidden underneath.
“About what?”
“Letting me lead. Under the crane. In the water.” She shrugged and faced him. “Most men would’ve overridden me.”
He considered that for a moment. “You knew the structure. I knew the explosives. Anything else would’ve been inefficient.”
Her throat moved as she swallowed. “You always reduce people to efficiency?”
“Only when I trust them.”
That made her look at him properly for a second longer than required.
“So you paint,” she said, quieter now.
“Sometimes.”
“What kind of things?”
He tipped his glass, studying the fire. “Landscapes. Places where nothing’s happening.”
She glanced at him. “That’s not an accident.” Her gaze drifted across the deck to the house behind them. “This place is the same. Controlled. Thoughtful. Like someone who plans exits but made something beautiful instead.”
A beat.
“I like quiet things,” he said. “Things that don’t ask anything of me.”
She looked straight at him. “And yet you keep running toward the loud ones.”
The words landed somewhere he didn’t let people reach. His glass stilled halfway to his mouth.
She wasn’t wrong. He’d spent years building silence around himself and then throwing himself into noise the moment someone needed him. Both were him.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
She set her glass down on the table and leaned back. “You’re full of surprises.”
He lifted his shoulders, swirling whisky in his glass.
“You paint when you’re not saving people.”
“Also coffee. Or pie. I keep busy.”
“I can tell.” She smiled at that. “You live here alone.”
“Yeah.”
She hummed under her breath. Another small smile. “I figured.” She looked straight at him. “You like it.”
“I do.” He sipped. “It’s quiet. I sleep.”
She laughed softly. “Must be nice.”
She shifted, and her head tilted toward his shoulder, her hair fragrant with the scent of his shampoo. He adjusted without thinking, arm coming around her, anchoring her there.
His hand settled at her waist over the blanket. The weight of it felt right. A second later, her hand covered his.
Logs popped in the stove, and snow drifted past the railing in slow spirals.
She sighed as her body relaxed fully into his—the last thread of tension unwinding. He brushed his thumb along her sleeve, down across the top of her hand, and in reply, her fingers laced through his.
“You okay?”
“Mm-hm.” Her voice was already drifting. “Don’t move.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Minutes passed. Her breathing slowed, her weight settling fully against him.
Jen stirred and looked up at him, her eyes heavy. “This is the part,” she murmured, “where you’re supposed to tell me to go to bed.”
“I was going to carry you,” he said.
Her mouth curved faintly. “Bossy.” Her tongue darted across her lower lip. “And very hard to read.”
“I try.”
She tilted her face up.
He didn’t move, giving her time to change her mind.
“Wyatt.”
He lifted his hand slowly, letting himself cup her jaw. His thumb settled on the smooth sweep of cheekbone.
She closed the distance first.
He met her halfway.
The first touch was barely contact. Testing. Her mouth was soft and warm against his, sweet with whisky and fire and something he hadn’t let himself want for far too long.
Then deeper.
Her hand twisted in the front of his shirt. His fingers slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head, drawing her closer.
She made a small sound against his mouth.
The kiss slowed. Unhurried. Like time had finally given them a break.
Wyatt pulled back. Just enough to breathe.
His forehead rested against hers. His hand was still in her hair, her fingers still gripping his shirt.
“Jen—”
“I know.” Soft fingers traced his jaw. “Not tonight. But I know.”
Neither of them moved for a long moment.
She smiled against his mouth and settled back against the couch, her head finding his shoulder again. Her hand released his shirt and slid down to rest against his chest.
He should take her inside to a proper bed, but he didn’t want to break the moment.
So he held her while her breathing evened out. He looked down at her sleeping face. At the dark lashes against her cheeks. The slight part of her lips. The way her hand had curled into his shirt, even in sleep.
He shifted and got his arms under her.
She stirred. “Mmm?”
“I’ve got you.” He stood and lifted her against his chest.
She didn’t wake, just turned her face into his shoulder.
He passed the guest room without slowing and carried her straight to his bedroom. The thought of leaving her across the hall in the guest room just didn’t sit right.
The door to his room was open. He nudged it wider with his shoulder and crossed to the bed. He laid her down gently and pulled the duvet and comforter over her. Then climbed in beside her, fully dressed. She turned automatically, fitting herself against him as if she’d always known where to go.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered into the darkness.
She didn’t answer, already deeply asleep.
But her hand covered his where it rested at her waist.
Wyatt closed his eyes.
For the first time in years, the quiet didn’t feel empty.