Chapter 3 - Jade
I watch his truck disappear down the driveway, taillights winking through the trees, and I'm still smiling like an idiot.
He came.
Grumpy, gruff, I-don't-like-people Eli Cross actually got in his truck, drove to my house, and helped me. Sure, he looked like it physically pained him to do it, and sure, he barely said ten words the entire time, but he did it.
And I can't stop thinking about it.
I turn back to the kitchen. My disaster zone of a kitchen and start picking up the wet towels. The whole time he was here, I was trying very hard not to stare. Trying and failing, if I'm being honest.
Because watching him work was…
I drop a towel into the sink and lean against the counter, letting myself replay it.
The way he moved. No wasted motion. Like every action had been calculated and executed a thousand times before.
He'd crouched down in front of the sink, those broad shoulders flexing as he reached into the cabinet, and I'd had to physically stop myself from saying something stupid like *wow, you're really good at that* or *have you considered a career in calendars? *
His hands are massive. Scarred and calloused, the kind of hands that look like they could break things without trying. But they'd been so careful with the fittings, so precise, and there was something about that contrast that I haven't been able to shake.
I blow out a breath and start wringing out the towels.
This is ridiculous. I've known the man for approximately forty-eight hours. I've had longer relationships with houseplants. And yet here I am, thinking about his shoulders like I'm a Victorian lady who just saw an ankle.
I need to get myself together.
But here's the thing: I can't.
I've always been curious. It's one of my defining traits, according to literally everyone who's ever known me. I ask too many questions. I push too hard. I want to know the why behind everything, and I don't stop until I figure it out.
And Eli Cross is a locked box.
No. He's a locked box wrapped in barbed wire with a sign that says *KEEP OUT* in ten-foot letters.
And I know, I know I should respect that.
I know he's out here in the woods for a reason.
I know that people who isolate themselves like that are usually running from something, or toward something, or just trying to survive something.
I know all of that.
But I want to understand it. I want to know what's under the gruff exterior and the one-word answers and the way he looks at people like he's calculating the quickest exit route.
I want to know why a man who clearly doesn't want company still got in his truck to help me.
I finish with the towels and move to the living room, dropping onto the couch that came with the house, a floral monstrosity that I'm pretty sure is older than I am. My phone buzzes. A work email. I ignore it.
How do you crack someone like that?
That's the question. Because I'm not an idiot. I saw the way he shut down when I asked if he got lonely. I heard the edge in his voice when he said the cabin was what he needed. He's not a mystery that wants to be solved. He's a man who wants to be left alone.
And I should leave him alone.
I absolutely should.
But I won't.
I can't explain it, not in any way that makes sense.
Maybe it's because I'm grieving and I don't know what to do with all the empty spaces Mom left behind.
Maybe it's because I'm in a new town where I don't know anyone and he's the first person who's felt real instead of politely friendly.
Maybe it's because there's something about the way he looks at Ridge, soft and unguarded in a way he never is with people, that makes me think there's more under the surface than he wants anyone to see.
Or maybe I'm just stubborn.
Yeah. Probably that.
I sit up, a plan already forming.
I can't just show up at his cabin again. He made that pretty clear. But what if I have a reason? A good reason. A reason that doesn't involve my kitchen actively trying to drown itself.
What if I make him something?
Food. I can make food. That's what people do, right? Someone helps you, you thank them with food. It's a social contract as old as time. And it gives me an excuse to see him again without looking like I'm just showing up because I want to stare at his shoulders some more.
Which I don't.
Okay, I do. But that's not the only reason.
I pull out my phone and start scrolling through recipes. It needs to be something good. Something homemade. The kind of thing that says *thank you for helping me* but also *I'm a competent human being who can operate an oven, please don't write me off completely.*
No pressure.
Two days later
It's Saturday, and I'm standing in my kitchen staring at a pan of lasagna like it might have answers.
It looks good. It smells amazing. I used Mom's recipe, the one she'd make for every major life event, good or bad. Graduation. Breakups. The week after Dad died. It's comfort food in the most literal sense, and if I'm being honest, making it felt like having her here with me for a little while.
I miss her so much.
But I'm not thinking about that right now. Right now, I'm thinking about whether showing up at Eli Cross's cabin with a lasagna is going to make me look thoughtful or unhinged.
It's a fine line. I cover the pan with foil, grab my keys, and head out before I can talk myself out of it.
He didn’t lie. He really did bring my car over two days ago, but during the night. I didn’t even notice it until I woke up and saw my car in the driveaway.
The drive out to his place is easier this time. I actually know where I'm going. The roads are quiet. It's mid-morning, and the light through the trees is that perfect golden color that makes everything look like a painting.
I'm definitely not nervous.
Okay, I'm a little nervous.
By the time I pull up to his cabin, my hands are gripping the steering wheel hard enough to leave marks. His truck is parked outside. He's home. Of course he's home. Where else would he be?
I grab the lasagna, take a breath, and get out of the car.
Ridge appears first, bounding around the side of the cabin like I'm his long-lost favorite person. I crouch down to greet him, and he nearly knocks me over in his enthusiasm.
"Hi, buddy," I say, laughing. "I missed you too."
"What are you doing here?"
I look up.
And my brain short-circuits.
Eli is standing on the porch. Shirtless. Completely, gloriously shirtless.
His chest is broad and defined, muscles carved in a way that suggests years of the kind of labor that doesn't happen in a gym.
There's a light sheen of sweat covering his skin, catching the sunlight, and I watch a bead of it trickle down from his collarbone, over his pecs, down the defined ridges of his six-pack abs, and disappear into the waistband of his jeans.
His jeans are sitting low on his hips. Very low.
I forget how to form words.
He's holding an axe in one hand, looking at me like I'm a natural disaster he didn't see coming, and all I can think is that this is deeply unfair. No one should look like that. It violates some kind of law of nature.
"Hi," I manage finally, my voice coming out slightly higher than normal.
His eyes narrow. "What are you doing here?"
Right. Words. I know words.
"I brought you something," I say, standing up on legs that feel questionable.
He doesn't move. Just stares at me with those storm-gray eyes, sweat still glistening on his chest, and I have to physically force myself to look at his face instead of anywhere else.
"It's lasagna," I add, like that clarifies anything.
"Why?"
"Because you helped me. And I wanted to say thank you."
He glances at the pan in my hands, then back at my face. I'm trying so hard to maintain eye contact. So hard. But my peripheral vision is very aware of the fact that he's half-naked and gleaming like some kind of lumberjack fantasy come to life.
"You didn't need to do that," he says.
"I know. I wanted to."
There's a long pause. Ridge is leaning against my legs, tail wagging, completely oblivious to the fact that I'm having a minor crisis.
"I don't need charity," Eli says finally.
"It's not charity. It's lasagna."
"Same thing."
"It's really not." I take a step closer to the porch, trying very hard to keep my eyes on his face and not on the way his shoulders flex when he shifts his weight.
"Look, I know you don't want me here. I know you like your space and your quiet and your whole hermit thing you've got going on.
But you helped me, and where I come from, you don't let that go without saying thank you properly.
So just take the lasagna. Eat it. Throw it away.
Feed it to Ridge. I don't care. But let me say thank you. "
He's still staring at me, but something in his expression changes. Not much. Just a little.
"Fine," he says.
I blink. "Fine?"
"Bring it here."
I climb the porch steps, very aware of the fact that I'm about to be within arm's reach of all that glistening, muscled—
Fuck.
I hold out the pan. He sets the axe down and takes it, his hands dwarfing the dish. This close, I can see the scars on his chest. Not many, but enough to tell a story. There's one across his ribs that looks old, faded. Another near his shoulder that's newer.
I should not be cataloging his scars. I should not be noticing the way his abs contract when he moves. I should definitely not be thinking about what it would feel like to—
"It's still warm," I blurt out. "Well, warmish. It was warm when I left."
He nods. Looks down at the lasagna like he's not sure what to do with it.
"You're supposed to say thank you now," I say.
His eyes flick up to mine. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Another pause. Ridge has followed me up onto the porch and is now sitting between us, looking back and forth like he's watching a tennis match.
"Is that it?" Eli asks.
"Is what it?"
"Is that all you came here for?"
I should say yes. I should take my win and leave before I embarrass myself further. But instead I hear myself say, "What were you doing?"
"What?"
"Before I showed up. What were you doing?"
He looks at me like I've asked him to explain calculus. "Chopping wood."
"Can I watch?"
"Why?"
"Because I've never seen anyone chop wood before. And I'm curious."
"No," he says.
"Why not?"
"Because you need to leave."
"I will," I say. "In a minute. Come on. Just one log. Let me see."
He stares at me for a long, long moment. I can see him calculating, weighing, trying to figure out if agreeing will get me to leave faster than arguing.
"One log," he says finally.
"One log," I agree.
He sets the lasagna down on a small table by the door, picks up the axe, and walks down the porch steps toward a chopping block that's surrounded by split wood. I follow, Ridge trotting along beside me, and I'm trying very hard not to stare at the way his back muscles move under his skin.
I'm failing spectacularly.
Eli grabs a log from the pile and sets it on the block. Then he steps back, adjusts his grip on the axe, and swings. The muscles in his shoulders and back flex and bunch with the motion, powerful and precise. The log splits clean down the middle with a sound like thunder.
"Holy shit," I say.
He looks at me over his shoulder. "That's one log."
"That was incredible."
"It's just wood."
"You just—" I gesture at the block, then at him, then at the block again. "You made that look like nothing."
"It's not hard."
"It looks hard. It looks very hard."
He picks up the two halves and tosses them onto the pile like they weigh nothing. "You done?"
"Can you do another one?"
"No."
"Please?"
"You said one log."
"I know, but—"
"Go home, Jade."
There's no anger in his voice. Just finality. Like he's closing a door. I should be annoyed. I should push back. But instead I just smile.
"Okay," I say. "I'm going."
I head back toward my car, Ridge following me halfway before circling back to Eli. I open the door, then turn around. He's still standing there, axe in hand, watching me. Still shirtless. Still glistening.
I'm never going to forget this image. It's burned into my brain forever.
"Enjoy the lasagna," I call.
He doesn't answer. Just nods once.
I slide into the driver's seat, start the engine, and I'm pulling out of the driveway when the first drops hit my windshield.
Then it's not drops. It's a deluge.
The sky opens up like someone flipped a switch, and suddenly I can barely see three feet in front of me. The rain is coming down so hard it's bouncing off the hood, and the dirt road is already turning into a slick, muddy mess.
I slow to a crawl, my windshield wipers working overtime and accomplishing nothing.
This is bad.
This is very bad.
I hear the truck before I see it. Eli's truck, pulling up beside me. He's wearing a shirt now, thank God, and he's gesturing for me to roll down my window.
I crack it open and rain immediately starts pouring in.
"You can't drive in this," he shouts over the sound of the downpour.
"I'm fine!"
"You're going to slide off the road."
"I'll go slow!"
He looks at me like I'm an idiot. "Turn around. Come back."
"I don't want to—"
"I don't care what you want," he says, and there's an edge to his voice that wasn't there before. "You're not leaving in that car when everything's wet. You'll have an accident."
"Eli—"
"Turn. Around."
The rain is coming down even harder now, if that's possible. The road ahead looks more like a river than anything meant for cars. I look at him. He's staring back at me with an expression that says he's not arguing about this.
I sigh.
"Fine."
He nods once, then drives ahead, turning his truck around with the kind of ease that comes from knowing these roads in every kind of weather. I follow, much less gracefully, my little sedan fishtailing slightly in the mud.
Eli parks and gets out, jogging up to the porch. I follow, and by the time I reach the steps, I'm completely soaked. He's holding the door open, clearly not happy with me being there.
"Get inside," he says.
And because I don't have any other options, I do.