Chapter 9
The first drops of rain hit my face just as Hazel turns around, and I know this isn’t going to be one of those gentle autumn showers. The wind picks up suddenly, sending the leaves whirling around us in frantic spirals, and the temperature drops at least ten degrees in the span of thirty seconds.
“We should go inside,” I say, glancing up at the dark clouds that have rolled in while we were talking. They’re the color of slate, heavy and ominous, pregnant with the kind of storm that can turn violent fast in the mountains.
Thunder rumbles overhead, low and threatening. The rain starts coming down harder, fat drops that sting when they hit exposed skin.
Lightning flashes overhead, followed immediately by thunder so loud it makes both of us flinch. Max and Scout come running from wherever they’d been exploring, their tails tucked low as they head straight for the cabin.
“That’s close,” I say grimly. “Too close.”
Hazel looks up at the darkening sky, rain already starting to soak through her light jacket.
She knows as well as I do that mountain storms like this can rage for hours.
We run for the cabin, but we’re both soaked through by the time we reach the porch.
Hazel’s jacket is dripping, her jeans dark with water, and she’s shivering violently.
“Christ, you’re freezing,” I mutter, opening the front door and ushering her inside. Max and Scout shake themselves off on the porch before following us in, their wet fur making the whole place smell like damp dog.
“I’m f-fine,” Hazel says through chattering teeth, but she’s clearly not fine. Her lips have a bluish tint, and she’s wrapped her arms around herself in a futile attempt to get warm. She’s skin and bones, even if Mrs. Brennon has been feeding her well.
“No, you’re not.” I grab a couple of towels from the linen closet and wrap one around her shoulders. “You need to get out of those wet clothes before you get hypothermia.”
She clutches the towel tighter. “I don’t have anything to change into.”
“I’ll find you something.” I head toward my bedroom, rummaging through my dresser. Most of my clothes are in the hamper—I’ve been meaning to do laundry for days. I finally find a clean t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. They’ll be too big for her, but they’re clean and warm.
When I come back, she’s still standing in the same spot, dripping onto my hardwood floors. I hold out the clothes.
“There’s a shower in the master bathroom if you want to warm up. Hot water’s on the left. These will be too big, but—”
“Thank you.” She takes them without meeting my eyes. “Which way?”
I point down the short hallway. “First door on the right. Towels are in the cabinet next to the sink.”
She disappears into the bathroom, and the shower starts running a few minutes later.
I let the dogs on the patio in the back which has a shade.
They like to sit outside in the rain as long as they’re not getting soaked.
Making sure to remove the lock from the pet door in case they decide to come in, I quickly build a fire in the fireplace, then grab my own change of clothes and head to the guest bathroom down the hall.
The hot water feels good against my chilled skin, washing away the cold and tension of the afternoon.
I’m toweling off when I realize my problem. The clean clothes I thought I had? Not actually clean. The t-shirt has a grease stain down the front, and the jeans smell like they’ve been sitting in the hamper for a week.
Shit.
I wrap the towel around my waist and check the guest room dresser, but it’s empty. All my clean clothes were apparently the ones I gave to Hazel. I pull on the least offensive pair of jeans and give up on finding a shirt.
I’m standing in front of the fireplace, adjusting the logs with the poker, when Hazel emerges from the bathroom.
When I look over my shoulder at her, my breath nearly catches.
She’s swimming in my clothes—the blue t-shirt hanging past her hips, the sweatpants rolled up several times to keep her from tripping.
But somehow, seeing her wrapped in my things hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest. She looks impossibly small, utterly beautiful, and the way my shirt drapes over her curves is both modest and completely devastating.
I have to grip the fireplace poker tighter to keep my hands busy.
Her hair is damp but no longer dripping, and I notice that outside of the messy hair bun she always wears, her hair goes past her hips now.
The color has returned to her cheeks, and she looks better.
She stops short when she sees me, her eyes immediately drawn to my bare chest. I watch her gaze linger, see the way her lips part slightly before she catches herself staring.
Heat rushes straight to my groin.
“Sorry,” I manage, trying to ignore the way my body is responding to her obvious appreciation. “Forgot to do laundry. Those are literally the only clean clothes I had.”
Her gaze flickers over my chest and shoulders before she quickly looks away, a flush creeping up her neck. “Oh. I—that’s fine.”
But her voice is breathier than it was before, and I can see the pulse hammering in her throat. I try not to let her obvious reaction phase me but it’s not easy, not when I want to take her in my arms and just forget the last decade.
“Are you feeling better?” I ask, trying to break the tension, though my voice comes out rougher than intended.
She nods, then stops short when she sees the fire crackling in the hearth. “Why don’t you have central heating?”
I don’t answer immediately, focusing instead on adjusting the logs with the poker. The truth is complicated, and I’m not sure I’m ready to admit it out loud.
Hazel moves closer to the fire, holding her hands out to warm them.
That’s when I see her really looking around the cabin for the first time.
Her eyes take in the open floor plan, the kitchen with its large island and bar stools, the way the living room is sunken down two steps from the main level.
The empty study off to the side with built-in bookshelves.
“This is...” she stops, tilting her head as she studies the layout. “This feels familiar.”
My chest tightens. “Does it?”
She walks to the kitchen island, running her fingers along the granite countertop. “These stools. This design.” She looks around again, taking in the rustic wood beams, the stone fireplace, the way the windows are positioned to capture the view of the mountains. “Luke, this is—”
“Your dream house,” I finish quietly. “Or as close as I could get to it.”
The words hang between us like a confession. Hazel’s face goes pale, her hand stilling on the counter.
“Why?” The single word comes out as barely a whisper.
I keep poking at the fire, unable to meet her eyes.
The flames dance higher, casting shifting shadows across the room.
“When I built this place, I didn’t even know I was building the house you’d envisioned for us.
” I adjust another log, sparks flying up the chimney.
“But I guess... a part of me must have thought you’d come back. That maybe we could fix things.”
“Luke.” Her voice is filled with a sadness, a longing that reaches deep inside me and pierces my soul.
“You always said you wanted a fireplace,” I continue, my voice barely audible over the storm outside. “When we had our own home. You said it would be the heart of the house, where we’d spend winter evenings together.”
She moves to the window, her fingers tracing the panes of glass. They’re divided into small squares, exactly like the ones she’d pointed out in a magazine years ago. “You shouldn’t have done this.”
“Shouldn’t I?” I come up behind her, close enough to smell the scent of my shampoo in her hair, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body. The sight of her in my clothes, standing in the house I built for her, makes my chest tight with longing. “You came back, didn’t you?”
My arms slide around her waist, and I hold my breath, waiting for her to pull away. But she doesn’t. She leans back against my chest, just slightly, and I feel like I can breathe again for the first time in eight years.
“Luke.” Her voice is a whisper. “Too much has changed. I’ve changed.”
“I know.” I rest my chin on top of her head, looking out at the storm raging outside. “But we’re still us underneath all that change.”
She turns in my arms, and suddenly we’re face-to-face, so close I can count the water droplets still clinging to her lashes. “There are still problems between us. Real ones. What happened with Brittany, you not believing me—that hurt doesn’t just disappear because we know the truth now.”
“We can work through them.” The words come out fierce, desperate. “Whatever it takes, however long it takes, we can work through them.”
She shakes her head, and I can see the walls going back up in her eyes. “It’s not that easy.”
“It is if you make it easy.” My hands frame her face, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. “It is if you let it be.”
“Luke—”
I kiss her.
I don’t plan it, don’t think about it. One second she’s pushing me away with words, and the next my mouth is on hers, swallowing whatever protest she was about to make.
For a heartbeat, she goes rigid in my arms. Then she melts.
Her hands fist against my chest like she means to hold onto the front of my shirt—except there is no shirt, so her palms press flat against my bare chest instead, burning like brands against my skin.
Her mouth opens under mine, soft and desperate and exactly like I remember.
She tastes like hot chocolate and rain and something that’s purely Hazel, something I’ve been starving for without even realizing it.
Eight years. Eight years of wondering what this would feel like again, of dreaming about having her in my arms, and nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for the reality.