Chapter 29
Warmth first. Then weight.
Jen surfaced slowly, awareness filtering in through layers of exhaustion. Her body registered sensation before her brain caught up—the solid heat pressed against her back, the heavy band of an arm at her waist, breath steady and even against the nape of her neck.
She didn’t move. Didn’t want to—not when this felt too much like something she could keep.
His arm was loose around her—no grip, no trap. Just there. His hand lay open at her hip, fingers relaxed. She blinked. Pale morning light filtered through unfamiliar windows. Pale timber ceiling beams. White walls. White bed linen.
This wasn’t the guest room.
This is his bedroom.
A half-second of panic spiked through her before memory caught up. The balcony. The whisky. The kiss. Him carrying her inside.
She released a slow breath, the tight band around her chest loosening one notch at a time. Nothing hurt except the dull ache in her ribs. His breathing didn’t change. He was still asleep, curved around her as if he’d been there all night.
She shifted slightly, testing, but his arm stayed loose. No pulling her back. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest against her spine.
Her fingers found his where they rested at her hip. His hand turned beneath hers, palm to palm, fingers threading through hers in his sleep.
The quiet was absolute—thick and insulating. No alarms or emergency. Just snow falling outside and Wyatt breathing behind her. The slow dawn light creeping across the bed.
She let her eyes drift shut and stayed—just for now, before reality caught up.
She lost track of how much time passed before she felt him wake. The shift in his breathing. The slight tension that came back into his muscles before it softened again. He didn’t move for a long moment. Then his hand flexed once at her waist and withdrew.
“Hey, you.” His voice was still gravelly with sleep.
“Hey.”
He rolled away and sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. She turned onto her back as he stood—the pull of his shoulders, the way he ran a hand through his hair. Still in yesterday’s clothes, wrinkled from sleep.
He glanced back at her. “Coffee?”
“God, yes.”
“Give me ten minutes.” He disappeared through the door.
She lay there staring at the ceiling, peace settling in her bones, listening to the creak of the wind outside the house, the rush of a shower down the hall.
He’d gone to the guest room rather than disturb her.
Finally, she pushed herself up. Her body protested—bruised ribs, stiff muscles—but nothing serious. She padded barefoot down the hall in his sister’s flannel, following the rich smell of excellent coffee.
Pink morning light flooded the kitchen. Wyatt stood at the sink, already showered and changed—dark jeans, a navy thermal pushed up at the forearms. Water ran over his hands as he rinsed the French press.
He looked up when she entered, reaching for a towel to dry his hands. “Sleep okay?”
“Better than I have in months.”
His gaze held hers a second too long—long enough that something in it darkened—before he broke it, turning away with a smile and gesturing for her to sit.
She climbed onto a stool. He worked with economical movements, pulling down two mugs and warming them with water from the tap. He poured the coffee. Steam curled between them.
He slid her mug across the counter. Their fingers didn’t touch.
She wrapped both hands around the ceramic and took a sip. Heat and bitterness and exactly what she needed. “You’re very good at this.”
“Practice.” He leaned against the counter opposite her. His forearms braced on the marble—fine dark hair, a scar cutting across his left wrist. She stared longer than necessary.
“Hungry?” he asked.
She started, her gaze flicking up to his.
A smile crooked his mouth. He’d caught her looking.
A knock sounded at the front door.
Wyatt glanced toward the hall. “That’ll be Sarah.”
“The sheriff?” Jen asked.
“Unfortunately,” he said dryly. Then, gentler, “Stay. I’ll get it.”
He was gone less than a minute.
Voices carried faintly. A woman’s laugh, brief and sharp.
Wyatt came back with a folded stack of clothes tucked under his arm. Jeans. Sweaters. Wool socks. A weatherproof jacket.
“Sarah,” he said. “I called her last night and asked her to drop off some basics for you. I took a guess at the size.”
He laid the clothes on the couch on the far side of the kitchen.
She didn’t need to anticipate the next problem. He already had. “Thank you.”
He lifted his coffee. “She was at the hospital earlier. Caro’s being discharged this morning. My dad’s picking her up. She’ll stay with my parents until her mom flies in.” He took a sip. “Max discharged himself against medical advice. Apparently, he told the nurses he had a rig to help rebuild.”
Relief loosened something deep in Jen’s spine. “That’s really kind of your family.” She shook her head with a smile. “And it doesn’t surprise me about Max.”
Wyatt smiled. “My mom enjoys having something useful to do. We could go visit Caro tomorrow if you like.”
Tomorrow. As if there was a plan. And she’d still be here.
“I’d like that.”
He turned back to the stove. “Hungry?”
“Starving.” She dropped her gaze to her coffee. Much safer.
He opened the fridge without waiting for specifics and pulled out what he needed. He laid bacon on the griddle, then cracked eggs into a bowl before taking a drink of his coffee. He whisked the eggs with a fork, added salt, and set another pan on the stove. She cradled her coffee as he worked.
The eggs sizzled. Bread went into the toaster after he removed the bacon to kitchen paper to drain. He plated hers first—pushed it across to her with a knife and fork—then made his own.
She took a bite of toast and egg. Buttery and perfect. The bacon was crisp and salty. “You cook like this often?”
“When it matters.”
She looked up. He was watching her eat, something intent in his eyes that he flattened a second later into neutral.
Her stomach flipped, and not from hunger. “What?”
“Nothing.” He took a bite of his own food. “Weather’s clearing. Thought we could ride if you’re up for it.”
“Ride?”
“Horses.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, checked something, and set it down. “Trail’s good. Snow’s packed but not icy.”
“What about the police—”
“Tomorrow.” His voice was firm. “I’ve already confirmed it.”
Oh.
He was giving her a day. One day before the world crashed back in. She wasn’t sure she deserved it. Wasn’t sure it was hers to take.
“I haven’t ridden in years.”
“You’ll be fine.” He finished his eggs, rinsed his plate. “No pressure.”
She looked at him—this man who’d carried her to his bed, made her coffee without asking, fed her before himself, now offering her something quiet and easy with no expectation attached.
If it ended tomorrow, she still wanted this day.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s ride.”