Chapter Nineteen
Jamie
Eric spent the rest of the day in full redemption mode after his water torture.
Not that I minded. I’d survived plenty of polar bear dips growing up, dared by friends who thought ice water was the ultimate test of courage. May was practically tropical compared to those January plunges.
But Eric looked so determined to atone for his sins, his protective instincts kicked into overdrive every time I so much as shivered. Who was I to deny him the chance to play knight in shining armor?
Despite my protests, he bought a sweater just so he could wrap it around my shoulders, his hands lingering possessively at my collar as he adjusted it. The way he watched me—intense, focused, like I might disappear if he looked away—sent warmth spiraling through my chest.
We wandered Copper Ridge for hours, with his fingers laced through mine. Every few blocks, he’d pull me closer, his arm sliding around my waist with casual ownership that made my pulse skip.
The town had grown in my absence. New storefronts lined streets I used to know by heart. Unfamiliar faces moved through spaces that once belonged to childhood friends.
But underneath the changes, something fundamental remained untouched. The rhythm of it, the way afternoon light slanted across Main Street. All of it wrapped around me like a memory brought to life.
And a dangerous sense of belonging I’d spent years trying to bury surfaced.
Eric must have sensed my mood shift because he stopped mid-stride, turning me to face him.
“You okay?” His thumb traced my cheekbone, the simple touch grounding me.
“Yeah. Just remembering.”
His eyes darkened with understanding, and he pulled me against his chest, his chin resting on top of my head. The protective gesture was so natural, so right, that I let myself melt into him.
We talked about everything and nothing. Music, movies, the historic romance novels I couldn’t stop reading. Eric’s knowledge of bodice-ripper terminology was both impressive and mortifying.
“Seriously, how do you know the term throbbing manhood?” I demanded, heat flooding my cheeks.
His grin was wicked. “My college roommate had a girlfriend who left her books everywhere. I might’ve read one or two.” He leaned closer, voice dropping in an intimate way that made my pulse race. “And now that I know you’re into them, I might just read a few more.”
The conversation drifted naturally from the lighthearted to the serious. Hunter. My job. The way my boss treated me like I was disposable. Eric’s expression darkened as I spoke, his jaw clenching whenever I mentioned the man.
“He has no right to treat you like that.” Eric’s voice carried an edge that made me shiver. “You deserve better.”
The fierce protectiveness in his tone made my stomach flutter. No one had ever been angry on my behalf before. The feeling was intoxicating.
We avoided the heavy topics by unspoken agreement—cancer, uncertain futures, what came next.
Instead, we kissed. A lot.
Against storefronts, on park benches, wherever Eric decided he needed to taste me. Each kiss felt like a claim, his hands framing my face or fisting in my hair with barely restrained hunger.
By the time we made it back to my father’s house, I was drunk on his attention.
The kitchen felt different with Eric’s presence filling the space.
He moved around me with purpose. His body heat a constant presence as we searched for dinner ingredients.
Every casual touch felt exhilarating. His hand on my lower back as he reached around me.
His fingers brushing mine as he passed me something.
“Here.” He handed me Mom’s old yellow colander, his fingers covering mine for a beat longer than necessary.
“God, this thing’s indestructible. I think it was my grandmother’s.”
“Must’ve been the era. Mine had the same one.” Eric was already rummaging through drawers with the confidence of someone who belonged here. The domesticity of it stole my breath.
We moved around each other like we’d done this dance a hundred times. His hip bumped mine as he reached for plates. I pressed against his back, inhaling his scent while he stirred sauce. When I stretched to reach the pasta bowls, his hand settled on my waist, steadying me.
This felt dangerous. Too easy. Too right.
At the breakfast bar, Eric claimed the stool next to mine, pulling it close enough that our thighs pressed together.
His arm brushed mine every time he reached for his water.
When he leaned forward to take a bite, his shoulder bumped against me.
Every time he lifted his fork, I watched the muscles in his forearms flex.
The man was pure temptation, and he knew it.
“Have you thought more about what you’ll do with this place?”
The question hit like a cold splash of reality. I wasn’t ready for this conversation, wasn’t ready to think about owning this house or what that would mean.
“Nope.” I turned the tables before he could push. “What about you? You’ve told me you don’t want to go back to work for your uncle, but what do you want? What’s in your future?”
Eric shifted, his discomfort obvious. Good. He could squirm for once.
“I haven’t allowed myself to really think that far ahead.”
“There’s got to be something. What did you want before you got all responsible?” My teasing smile masked genuine curiosity.
“Nothing serious. I liked art.”
I waited, eyebrows raised. When he just sat there looking smug, I leaned forward.
“That’s it? Come on, Eric. I entertained all your job advice. Don’t I deserve more than I liked art?”
His deep chuckle vibrated through me. “Fine. Photography, mostly.”
Still holding back. The man enjoyed riling me up, making me beg for more. When I maintained my patient smile, he sighed and raked his fingers through his hair.
“I loved taking pictures.” His voice dropped, becoming reverent.
“Something about being behind a lens. Seeing the world through a hidden eye. You might see something every day, but when it’s captured with the right light, the right angle, on the right film, it becomes something new.
I could tell whole stories with a single shot. Create new realities.”
The passion in his voice, the way his eyes lit up. This was Eric stripped bare. Not the corporate drone or the dutiful son, but the artist he’d buried beneath obligation.
“I’d love to see your work.”
“I haven’t touched a camera in years. There’s nothing to show you.”
“Take one now.” I nodded toward his phone.
He laughed, the sound rough. “With that?”
“Why not?”
Eric studied me, something shifting in his expression. When he looked at his phone then back at me, heat flared in his eyes. “Okay. But you’re going to be my subject.”
My stomach dropped. Me and cameras were natural enemies. I always looked ridiculous.
Eric must have read my hesitation because he stood, suddenly towering over me. His hand wrapped around my wrist, not quite gentle, and pulled me to my feet.
“Come on.” His voice was pure command, leaving no room for argument. “You’re going to lose some of those clothes.”
My forgotten dinner seemed irrelevant as I let him lead me toward my bedroom, my pulse hammering at the promise in his voice.