Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
Tabitha
The cabin smells like sex.
Not surprising, of course.
Above the scent of rain, the fragrance of the burning wood…
All I smell is the musky aroma of sex.
What if Henry didn’t want me here at all?
His confession—the cabin was Angie’s idea—sits like a stone in my stomach. I already knew, but the fact that he mentioned it again…
He didn’t plan this. He didn’t invite me. I’m a guest at a retreat I didn’t know I was attending, thrown into the arms of a man I can’t stop wanting but can’t quite trust.
I head to my room. My hands shake as I pull on my sweats and a hoodie, the blanket dropping to the floor. The air inside the cabin feels too close, like it’s pressing against my ribs.
I need air.
Again.
My shoes are somewhere in the great room, but I grab my flip-flops and slip them on. I sneak out the back way. Henry’s still on the couch, and he doesn’t notice.
Or if he does, he pretends he doesn’t.
Outside, the rain is still pattering. The ground is spongy under my feet.
I sit on a patio chair, just looking. Taking in the beauty before me. I’m getting wet, of course, but I don’t care. The rain feels good. Like it’s washing something away from me.
The mist is thicker by the stream, curling off the water in ribbons. I rise, walk toward the water, and crouch to splash some on my face. It’s cold, a jolt that almost helps. I stay there for a minute, breathing, until my pulse steadies.
I return to the deck and sit.
I’m not sure how long I’m there.
I don’t think.
I simply am.
And being is enough. For now.
When Henry invades my thoughts, I push him out. Ditto for the attack. For the seminar. For anything else.
I need quiet for my mind.
I haven’t had that for what seems like an eternity.
I honestly don’t know how much time passes before I get up and go back inside. I’m not quite settled, but the thoughts firing through my brain have dulled a bit.
Inside, the cabin is quiet. Too quiet. The fire has been rebuilt and burns low, but Henry isn’t on the couch or by the hearth. My heart kicks hard as I step farther in, half expecting him to appear from nowhere.
He’s at a small table by the window, his laptop open. A mug sits beside him, steam rising. His hair is still damp from a shower, and it curls at his temples. He’s wearing a henley and dark jeans, sleeves pushed up, forearms taut as he types. He looks steady. Controlled.
The sight of him like that—composed, already at work while I’m coming apart—makes me want to scream.
Except… Is he really controlled? Focused?
Or is he just pretending?
I hang back a few steps. “You’re working,” I say, and it comes out more like an accusation than a statement.
He glances up. “Trying to.” He shuts the laptop a little too quickly. “You went for a walk.”
“Yeah.” I hesitate. “I mean, no. I just went outside. The farthest I went was to the little stream in the back.”
He wrinkles his forehead. “You okay?”
I laugh, sharp and humorless. “Am I okay?”
He leans back in the chair, studying me. “That’s not an answer.”
My hands clench at my sides. “Why did you even want me?”
The words tumble out before I can stop them. They hang in the air between us, heavier than the smell of coffee and wet pine. His jaw tightens.
I can’t blame him. He’s already told me why he wanted me at the hospital. That I can’t get past my own head isn’t his problem.
“Because,” he says quietly, “you were the first thing I thought of when I came to. After the accident.”
The same thing he’s already said.
But this time, it drills deeper into my skull, and it hits me with the force of a thousand gusts of wind.
He’s no longer the problem.
I am.
And it’s not the seminar, or my career, or the fact that I’m in love with Henry.
It’s the attack.
I’m not over it.
I pushed it to the back of my mind because I had to. The seminar started the next day.
But still that man comes into my nightmares. I don’t remember him from sleep, but when I wake up, my heart pounding and my forehead slick with sweat, I know damned well what I was dreaming about.
Sure, Henry still has to deal with taking Ralph’s life, but his accident changed him. Gave him a jolt that he needed.
He could have died.
Oh my God.
He could have fucking died.
I’m not sure I’ve let myself actually think that thought until this very minute.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
We stare at each other across the kitchen, the morning light falling cold and gray between us. My phone vibrates once in my pocket, a faint buzz I pretend not to feel.
I don’t move. Neither does he.
“You make me feel alive,” he continues. “Since the shooting. Since the sirens. Since the…everything. It’s like the world turned two-dimensional.
You’re the one thing that doesn’t feel flat.
Before the accident, I thought I was too fucked up to be any good to you.
Then I decided to try anyway, but the beam at my place had other ideas.
And now, after I’ve looked my own life in the eye, I’m…
I don’t know.” He frowns. “I can’t say I’m fully whole. But is anyone ever?”
There it is again.
Henry.
Simply Henry.
Henry without the armor.
I move toward him. “You’re very composed for someone who says I’m the only thing keeping him from being two-dimensional.”
“Composed? Are you kidding me?” He rubs at his forehead. “All I can think about is taking you back to bed, Tabitha. You and your amber eyes, your gorgeous tits, and the sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted.”
“I should have stayed.” I gulp. “I should have made you talk to me after the wedding.”
“You were protecting your life,” he says. “Your career. And I told you to go. Don’t put any of this on yourself. It’s all on me.”
I look down. “Lance texted me again.”
His jaw goes tight, but I can tell he’s trying to take it all with a grain of salt.
Why did I even say that? Am I trying to get a rise out of him? Am I challenging him to approach the whole Lance thing with maturity?
Either way, I know I’m pushing his buttons. And I’m going to press even further.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I say. “About all of that.”
He draws in a breath. Holds it. Then he leans back, chair creaking.
“I’m thinking the guy who texted you helped you on a night I wasn’t there.
I’m grateful for that.” His eyebrows twitch.
“I’m also thinking I’d like to put my fist through his face.
And I’m thinking I should have been there, and if that damned beam hadn’t fallen on me, I would have been. ”
Silence again, but not empty. It hums. Weird.
He nudges the chair back and stands. “If you want to go, I understand. I’m the one who fucked up. Not you.”
A weird tenderness surges through me. “I don’t want to go,” I say. “I want to know if this thing between us exists once we leave here.”
“It does,” he says, no hesitation. “At least, I hope it does.”
I sigh. “How can it? I’m not going to give up my seminar. Or medical school, for that matter, and you’re not going to leave the ranch and the foundation.”
He doesn’t reply.
“I keep seeing the guy’s face,” I say abruptly, not sure where the words came from. “The one who grabbed me. Not clearly. More like an impressionist painting. The shapes and colors are there, but the details are hazy.”
Henry sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that,” I reply. “You didn’t put him there.”
“I’m still sorry.”
I take a deep breath in. “I didn’t go out with Lance because I didn’t want to use him as a crutch. That wouldn’t be fair to him or to me.” Or to Henry, but I keep that to myself.
“Good,” Henry says. “But I get it. You’ve experienced a traumatic event. And sometimes it’s okay to lean on someone else.” A shadow of a grin crosses his face. “Not him, of course. You can do better.”
A laugh escapes me. Henry is making jokes. Well, not jokes, exactly, but he’s changed. The accident changed him. Or was it before the accident? Because he’d already decided to come after me…
I stand. “I should shower. I’m kind of disgusting.”
He scans me from head to toe. “You look perfect to me.”
I give him a quick grin and head back to the master bedroom. The master bath is of course both rustic and decadent. The air smells faintly of cedar and lavender. A rain showerhead glints behind glass panels, and the towels are thick enough to pass for blankets.
I turn on the shower, let it heat while I peel off my clothes.
When I step under the softly pelting water, I close my eyes and sigh.
Again, I empty my mind, like I did outside.
Except all I can think about is Henry in here with me. He already showered while I was outside, emptying my mind.
I soap myself up, rinse, turn off the tap, and stare at myself in the fogged mirror until a face emerges. It’s the image of a woman who’s been kissed breathless.
When I come back out, Henry’s at the stove, frying eggs. He glances over. “Breakfast for dinner?”
“Sounds great.”
We eat at the table this time instead of the counter.
The eggs are perfect, and the toast is sourdough with peach jam. I take a bite.
“Oh my God,” I say. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever put into my mouth.”
“Should I be insulted?” he says, his eyes sparkling.
My cheeks warm. “Of course not. But my God… What is this?”
“It’s my mom’s spiced peach jam, made from our Western Slope peaches.”
“Oh, yeah. Angie, or it might have been Sage, told me about that. I didn’t get a chance to taste it while I was there.”
“It’s great,” he agrees. “Though I wouldn’t say it’s the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”
My cheeks warm further.
After we finish, he returns to his laptop.
I pull out my tablet and the stack of instrument diagrams I insisted on bringing. For a while we don’t talk. I tie invisible knots in my head.
“Tabs?” he says after a stretch.
Tabs. Angie’s nickname. It doesn’t undo me. But it could, so easily.
“Yeah?” I say.
“I want to be there for you.”
That came out of nowhere.
“I mean, to talk. If you want to.”
I sigh. “You’ve got your own issues.”
He nods.
I expect him to argue.
He doesn’t.
The room is quiet again, but it’s not empty. It’s full of the things we’ve said and—even louder—what we’ve left unsaid. The fire crackles.
I sit across from him. I place my palm on the table. He places his over it. No squeeze. No claim. Just warm and steady weight.
The silence between us goes heavy. It’s not dangerous silence. Not yet.
But it’s full. It’s heavy.
And it holds.