Chapter 5
Gia
Morning arrives quietly, as if even the mountain's still asleep.
I wake to the sound of a stove door creaking open and the soft thunk of wood sliding into flame.
Thatcher stands at the stove in a Henley that's seen better days—threadbare at the seams, the fabric so worn I can see the shape of his shoulders and the muscles shifting beneath.
The color's faded to something between gray and green, and it clings in all the right ways.
His hair's a little messy, beard shadowing his jaw, and somehow it feels unfair that he can be so damn hot this early in the morning.
I brush my fingers on my swollen lips. After a few minutes of absolutely glorious kissing last night, he pulled away, insisting that he needed to check on things outside the cabin before going to bed.
Something about making sure the firewood was covered because wet firewood would be useless to us.
And with that, he rushed out of the cabin leaving me hot and bothered and alone.
He glances over, catching me watching him. "You snore."
"I absolutely do not."
"You absolutely do." But there's warmth in his voice, affection even, and it makes something flutter in my chest.
Why did he pull away from me last night? He seems interested…
I groan into the blanket, which smells like him. "Great,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “First you kidnap me, then you insult me. The full mountain-man package."
He pours me a mug of coffee, brings it over, and crouches beside the cot. This close, I can see the faint scar through his eyebrow and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Here’s a peace offering."
The steam curls between us, carrying the rich, bitter scent of dark roast. I take the cup, our fingers brushing, and the little spark that jumps is ridiculous. Instant. Impossible to ignore.
"Thanks," I murmur.
"Storm's easing up," he says, but he doesn't move away. "But you shouldn't head down yet. The drifts are knee-high."
I sip and smile into the rim. The coffee's strong enough to wake the dead, exactly the way I like it. "So, you're saying I'm trapped."
"I'm saying you should stay put."
"Trapped," I repeat, and he shakes his head, but there's laughter under the low rumble of it—a sound I'm quickly becoming addicted to.
His hand comes up, almost unconsciously, and he tucks a loose curl behind my ear. His fingertips are callused, rough, but his touch is gentle. "You're trouble, you know that?"
"You keep saying that like it's a bad thing."
"It is a bad thing." But he's leaning closer, his breath warm against my cheek. "The worst."
A smile tugs at my lips. “Then why can’t you stay away from me?”
"Because I'm an idiot." And then his mouth finds mine again, slow and thorough, tasting like coffee and promises.
I set the mug aside blindly, hearing it thunk against the floorboards, and pull him closer. The kiss is different this morning—less urgent than last night, but somehow deeper. More deliberate. Like we're both learning the shape of this thing between us.
When he pulls back, his pupils are blown wide, his breathing unsteady. "We should—"
"Go outside and clear snow or something," I finish. "I know. Responsible mountain things."
Just like you tended to last night when things started to get heated between us.
“Something like that,” he says with a laugh. The sound wraps around me like a blanket. "But I was going to suggest breakfast first."
After a light breakfast, we're outside clearing the porch. The snow's blinding, glittering like powdered glass under the sun. The air's so cold it hurts to breathe, burning in my lungs, but the sky's that impossible blue that makes everything feel brand new.
I swing the detector out of habit, sweeping near the edge of the rail cut where the snow's been blown thin. It chirps once—bright, certain, a tone I've learned to trust.
"Hey!" I drop to my knees, scraping at the crust with gloved hands. The snow's crusted on top, soft beneath, and my fingers are already numb. A tiny flash of gold winks back: a coin, dulled but real, about the size of a quarter. I brush it clean with shaking fingers.
"Would you look at that," I whisper, wonder thick in my voice. “It’s a real gold coin.”
Thatcher crouches beside me, brushing snow from his gloves. This close, I can see the frost clinging to his beard, the way his breath clouds white. "You actually found something."
"Told you." I hold it up to the light, watching it catch fire in the sun. "The mountain wants me to find its secrets.”
He studies the coin, then my face, and there's something in his expression that makes my heart stutter. "Guess it does."
The air between us shifts again. I feel the same pull as last night, heavier now. The wind dips, the world goes still. He reaches out, tucks my hair behind my ear with fingers that linger, then traces the line of my jaw.
"Gia," he says, and it sounds like a warning and a surrender all at once.
I lean into his touch. "Yeah?"
"We should go inside."
"We should," I agree, but neither of us moves.
Then his hand slides to the back of my neck, drawing me in, and his mouth crashes against mine. This kiss is hungry, desperate, full of all the things we haven't said. His other hand fists in my jacket, pulling me closer, and I can feel the hard line of his body even through all these layers.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Inside," he says again, voice rough. "Now."
Back inside, neither of us says much. We leave boots by the door, shake the snow from our clothes with trembling fingers.
I set the gold coin on the table with a soft clink. "It was on your property, so this belongs to you.”
He shakes his head, smiling. “Finders keepers. You know, most people would sell it."
I meet his eyes, see the heat there, the question. "Most people aren't me."
He steps closer, and I can feel the cold radiating off his clothes, but underneath there's warmth. Always warmth. "No. They're not."
And then his hand's at my jaw again, rough and warm, tilting my face up. The kiss starts soft, testing, but turns hungry fast, like we've both been holding our breath for too long.
His tongue sweeps across my bottom lip and I open for him with a gasp. He tastes like coffee and want, and when his hands slide down to my waist, pulling me flush against him, I can feel every hard plane of his body.
"Too many layers," I mumble against his mouth.
He makes a sound low in his throat—half laugh, half growl—and his hands find the zipper of my jacket. He pulls it down slowly, deliberately, his knuckles brushing against my collarbone, the swell of my breasts. I shiver, and it has nothing to do with the cold.
I push his jacket off his shoulders, let it fall to the floor in a heap.
His Henley's next, and when I drag it up over his head, I finally get to see what I've been imagining.
He's built like he was carved from the mountain itself—broad shoulders, muscled chest scattered with dark hair, abs that flex when I run my fingers over them.
"Jesus," I breathe.
"That's not my name." But his voice is strained, and when I look up, his eyes are nearly black with desire.
He backs me toward the bed, hands spanning my waist, lifting me easily. My laugh breaks against his mouth, muffled and breathless. The quilt's soft beneath me, smelling of cedar and him.
He follows me down, settling between my thighs, and the weight of him is perfect… solid, real, exactly what I need. His mouth finds mine again, then trails down my jaw, my throat, the hollow at the base of my neck where my pulse hammers.
"You smell like snow," he murmurs against my skin, and I feel the words as much as hear them.
"You smell like smoke," I counter, and he smiles against my collarbone.
His hands find the hem of my thermal shirt, slide beneath it. His palms are rough, calloused from years of working metal, and when they close over my breasts through the thin lace of my bra, I arch into him with a sound I don't recognize.
"Thatcher," I gasp.
"I know," he says. "I know."
He pulls my shirt off in one smooth motion, then just looks at me, like he's memorizing every curve, every freckle. His gaze is so intense, it practically burns my skin.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on me, hot and wet and perfect.
I arch up, hands fisting in his hair, and let myself fall. Time slows, narrows down to just this—his hands on my skin, the rasp of his breath, the way he says my name like it's something sacred.
He takes his time, learning every curve, every place that makes me gasp.
When he finally strips away the last barriers between us, there's a moment where we just look at each other, and I see everything in his eyes.
The lust, yes, but also something more. Something that terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.
"You're sure?" he asks, his voice rough.
I pull him down to me, answering with a kiss that leaves no room for doubt.
When we finally come together, it's like everything else falls away—the storm, the mountain, the outside world. There's only this: the slide of skin on skin, the rhythm we find together, the way he whispers my name against my throat like a prayer.
It builds slowly, then all at once, and when I shatter, he's right there with me, holding me through it.
After, we lie tangled together under the quilt, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder.
"So," I say eventually, "still think I'm trouble?"
I feel his laugh rumble through his chest. "The absolute worst kind."
"Good." I press a kiss to his sternum. "I'd hate to disappoint."
Outside, the wind's picked up again, but in here, wrapped in his warmth, I've never felt safer.