Chapter 17
Seventeen
On our walk back to the cabin, my head was spinning.
The night air was warm, threaded with the scent of pine and faint woodsmoke drifting from somewhere down the road.
Gravel crunched under our boots as our steps fell into sync without effort.
Every now and then, Dean’s arm would brush mine—light, unintentional on the surface, but enough to send a ripple of awareness straight through me.
The evening had been warm, lively—full of laughter and easy conversation—but also overwhelming in ways I hadn’t expected.
All my discoveries about Dean only tangled things further, not just about his family dynamic, but about why I was here in the first place.
Every layer I uncovered—each teasing childhood story, the way people seemed genuinely happy to see him—just made me want to keep digging.
I wanted to know who he was, why he was doing this.
Not only because I was curious… but because I was starting to like him.
And that felt thrilling, and dangerous, and so many things I didn’t want to name.
I was used to playing a part—slipping into whatever role was needed of me—but tonight had felt… different. More personal. More real. And far too often, when it came to Dean, I didn’t feel like I was pretending at all.
I also couldn’t stop thinking about Blair.
She’d been polite when we met in the bathroom earlier—kind, even—but something about her had lingered with me.
Watching her later across the deck with Mason, the way her smile had never quite reached her eyes, had left me uneasy.
There was a tension in her movements, like she was holding something too heavy for anyone else to see.
It was familiar, yet I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
We rounded the last bend, the cabin lights glowing faintly ahead through the trees.
Dean reached the porch two steps before me, holding the door open with one hand while the other brushed the small of my back as I stepped past him—just enough contact to make me forget what I’d been thinking…
and apparently, how to walk. My toe caught on the step, and I pitched forward.
I reacted quickly, sure I was going to fall on my face, and grabbed hold of one of the straps of his overalls.
“Oh God, are you okay?” he asked me, one hand steadying my elbow while the other rested on my hip.
“I’m fine,” I said quickly, though my voice didn’t sound convincing—not when my hand was still twisted around the strap of his overalls.
I straightened, but my fingers wouldn’t let go.
I glanced down, untangled myself then gave his chest a nice pat. “Handy little things,” I muttered, trying to sound casual but hearing the breathlessness in my own voice.
One corner of his mouth kicked up, his eyes dipping deliberately to where my hand rested on his chest, then up again.
I snatched my hand away, which only made his smile deepen.
“Don’t worry,” he added, his gaze lingering on my face a second too long. “You can hold on anytime you need to.”
Something in the way he said it—like he wasn’t just talking about my near fall—sent a rush of warmth up my neck. I turned away quickly, pretending to study the floorboards, even though my pulse was still tripping over itself.
That’s when George came trotting toward us from somewhere in the cabin. Without breaking stride, he shoved his head into my stomach, sending me backward a step as he leaned into my legs and let out a dramatic whine around the toy in his mouth, his tail thumping wildly against the wall.
“Hi, George,” I said, bending over to scratch his head. “Did we wake you?”
He answered by plopping his toy at my feet, then nudging my hand with his nose.
I smiled and shook my head. “It’s too late, buddy. Tomorrow we’ll play, I promise.”
George let out a small huff, then nosed my hand again, almost like he didn’t believe me.
“I don’t care what you say,” I said to him. “It’s bedtime.” I patted him once more on the head, glanced up, then stopped.
Dean was looking at me, and there was something in his expression that made my skin feel surprisingly warm.
“What?” I asked, unable to stop the word from tumbling out of my mouth.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Please, don’t do that. I hate when people say ‘nothing’ when it’s obviously something.”
He hesitated for a second, his gaze still on me. “He just… doesn’t usually warm up to people so easily.”
I glanced down at George again, trying to brush off the way his words made me feel. “Easily? You say that because you didn’t witness our tug-of-rope match earlier. I fight dirty, don’t I boy?”
But Dean didn’t smile at my joke. If anything, his expression became surprisingly serious. The air between us thickened—became charged with something I wasn’t quite ready to name.
Finally, he reached for the leash hanging by the door and let out a low whistle. “George, come. Let’s go outside.”
George didn’t budge. Instead, he turned in the opposite direction and planted himself firmly on my feet, the solid weight of him making it clear he wasn’t moving.
“I’m serious, George.” Dean pointed to the floor by his boots. “I have an early meeting tomorrow, and I don’t want you waking me up in the middle of the night because you have to go out.”
George looked up at me, his eyes large and puppy-like, then let out a small, pathetic whimper before glancing over his shoulder, as though asking me if he really needed to listen.
“It’s probably a good idea, George,” I murmured to him, giving his head one final scratch.
With an exaggerated huff, he stood, stomped toward Dean, then scratched the door once.
Dean clipped the leash to his collar, muttering something low under his breath, then turned back to me.
“We’ll be right back,” he said, his eyes catching mine for a beat before he stepped outside.
And just before the door latched, I heard him whisper to his dog, “Seriously, dude? Are you trying to make me look bad?”
I clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh, but it escaped anyway, the sound bubbling up in a way I hadn’t felt since I was a teenager—light, unguarded, annoyingly giddy.
For a moment, I just stood there, perfectly still, listening, but when the only sound that came was the chirp of crickets, I sank into the nearest chair and took great pleasure in tugging off my boots.
But then my gaze landed on the living room, and the tiny couch piled high with mismatched pillows and a throw blanket.
My stomach twisted. Guilt pressed in around me, but I tried to ignore it. I grabbed my overnight bag and headed for the bathroom.
I locked the door behind me, then braced my hands on the sink, and let out a slow breath.
I had rules for a reason.
Boundaries that kept lines from blurring.
I splashed cold water on my face and studied my reflection. “You don’t sleep with clients,” I muttered. “That includes sleeping in the same bed.”
I pulled my nightshirt from my bag—a soft, oversized tee that fell to mid-thigh.
I slipped it over my head, yanked a brush through my hair, then opened the door…
I must have been gone longer than I intended, because when I stepped into the room again, Dean was already back––stretched out on the couch, shirtless, wearing only a pair of plaid pajama bottoms. One arm tucked behind his head—George curled into the crook of his knees.
They looked ridiculous—like a magazine ad for Bachelor Life: Rural Edition.
His gaze flicked to me, beginning at my legs, then traveling up to my face. He took a slow breath, like he suddenly didn’t have enough oxygen.
I felt it in my own lungs––and when he exhaled, I did too.
Goosebumps prickled up my arms, and I moved across the room quicker than I meant to. I hopped into bed, then tugged the covers up to my neck in a feeble attempt to shield myself from whatever that was.
“Goodnight, Dean,” I said, reaching for the lamp and flicking it off.
“Goodnight,” he replied, his voice low and a little rough.
I turned onto my side, willing my focus toward anything other the half-naked man stretched out on the couch behind me.
Which proved to take much more willpower than it should have.