Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
BECK
She sleeps on her stomach. Arms tucked under the pillow, one leg kicked free of the sheets, braids fanned across her shoulder. Breathing deep and steady.
Been watching for ten minutes. My chest tight with something that doesn't have a name yet, or has a name I'm refusing to use.
Seven days. She's been here seven days. My one night turned into a week, and somewhere in that week, this woman rewired my entire cabin.
There are wildflowers in a jar on the kitchen counter because she picked them on our hike.
A second coffee mug drying on the rack because she washed it last night before bed.
Duke's rug has migrated from the fireplace to the bedroom doorway because he won't sleep more than ten feet from her.
And me. I'm in my own bed with a woman I met a week ago, drawing invisible lines on her spine with my finger while she sleeps, wondering when the last time was that I touched someone without it hurting.
She shifts. Presses back into my hand. A soft sound escapes her mouth that makes my cock stir, which is absurd because we went three rounds last night and my body should be done.
It's not done. It's not close to done. Every time I touch her, there's more.
More skin to learn. More sounds to pull out of her.
Last night she rode me on the porch, her hands braced on my shoulders, moonlight catching the sheen of sweat on her breasts.
She came so hard she bit my collarbone. The mark is still there.
I've been pressing my thumb against it all morning.
Get up. Make coffee. Stop this.
Sliding out of bed, I pull on jeans. Walk barefoot to the kitchen. Start the coffee maker. Stand at the counter staring at the wildflowers while the machine gurgles.
This is the part where I ruin it.
Not because I want to. Because I know myself. Because every good thing I've ever built, I've wrecked by wanting more of it. More floors. More ambition. More contracts with developers who said "trust me" while cutting the steel specs behind my back.
Wanting is how people die.
Dramatic. I know. But three people are in the ground because I wanted to build something great, and a man I trusted wanted to save a few million dollars, and between my ambition and his greed, a building came apart.
Coffee pours. Black. Fuck! As always it’s too hot. Burns my tongue on purpose.
The cabin feels different with her in it.
Warmer. Louder, even when she's sleeping.
Her shoes by the door. Her phone charging on the counter.
A paperback she's been reading that she bookmarked with a leaf because she couldn't find a scrap of paper.
Evidence of a person. Evidence of life happening in a space I designed for nothing.
Duke comes padding out. Looks at me. Looks at the bedroom. Back at me. Even the dog is judging.
"Don't."
He walks past me to the door. Wants out. Opening it, I watch him trot to his spot on the porch and settle with a groan. The morning is clear. Sharp blue sky, pine scent, mountain air that feels like drinking cold water. Beautiful. Empty.
My phone is still off. Hasn't been on since I got here.
That was deliberate. Self preservation. But now the thought of turning it on makes my stomach clench because what if there's a message from my mother that makes me feel guilty?
What if there's a voicemail from Theo that makes me remember who I used to be?
What if there's a news alert about Halston Tower, another anniversary piece, another quote from the families?
What if I turn it on because Jada's going to leave eventually and I'll need something to fill the space where she was?
Stop.
The bedroom door opens. She walks out wearing my t-shirt. The gray one. Falls to mid thigh. Her braids are messy from sleep, from my hands in them last night. She looks soft, rumpled, perfect.
"Morning." That smile. Jesus Christ, that smile. Like the sun personally showed up to ruin me.
"Coffee's ready."
She takes her mug. Two sugars. Sits on the counter because she refuses to use a chair when a counter is available. Swinging her bare legs, she watches me over the rim.
"You're doing the thing."
"What thing."
"The jaw thing. Where you clench it and stare at the tree line when you're thinking too hard." She takes a sip. "What's wrong?"
Everything. Nothing. You. This. The fact that I woke up this morning without the nightmare for the first time in fourteen months and the only thing that changed is you sleeping next to me.
"Nothing."
Her eyes narrow. She clearly doesn't believe me. "Beck."
"What are you doing here, Jada?"
The question comes out harder than I meant it to. She sets the mug down. The swing of her legs stops.
"What do you mean?"
"You've been here a week. Your car has gas. The road is clear. Your road trip, your soul cleansing summer, whatever this is. It's out there." Waving toward the window. "Not here."
Quiet. Long. The coffee maker drips.
"Are you asking me to leave?"
Yes. Because if you stay longer, I'm going to need you. And need is how I destroy things.
"I'm asking what the plan is."
She hops off the counter. The t-shirt rides up. Brown thighs, the curve of her ass peeking out. She crosses her arms and the warmth in her eyes cools by a few degrees.
"The plan was no plan. That's the whole point. The whole point of this trip was to stop living by other people's schedules and deadlines and expectations."
"So what, you just stay here indefinitely? On my mountain?"
"Your mountain." She laughs, but there's no joy in it. "I didn't realize I needed a permit."
"That's not what I said."
"It's what you meant." She grabs her shorts from the chair where she left them last night.
Pulls them on under my shirt. The intimacy of watching her get dressed in my clothes while we argue makes my chest ache.
"You wanna know the truth? Fine. I stayed because I like it here.
I like the quiet. I like the coffee on the porch.
I like your dog, who has more emotional intelligence than you do. "
Duke lifts his head from the porch. Looks through the open door at both of us. Puts it back down.
"And I stayed because of you, Beck. Because you read poetry to me on the porch.
Because when I cook, you eat standing at the counter with this expression on your face that says you haven't had a meal made for you in years.
Because last night you held me after sex and your heartbeat slowed down under my cheek.
And I thought, maybe this man doesn't actually want to be alone. Maybe he's just scared."
My hands grip the counter behind me. "You don't know what I am."
"Then tell me. Tell me why you quit. Tell me what happened that put you up on this mountain with canned soup and a dog you pretend you don't love."
No.
Because if I tell her, she'll look at me differently. She'll see the architect whose building killed people. She'll see the headlines, the lawsuits, the careful language of investigators saying "cleared" while the families of three dead people sat in the back of the room and wept.
She'll see what I see every night at three in the morning. And she'll either pity me or she'll leave. Both options are unbearable.
"You need to go."
The words land. Hard. Her face does something I'll remember for the rest of my life. The brightness dims. The openness closes. She pulls my t-shirt over her head, standing in her bra and shorts, and throws it at my chest.
"Keep your shirt."
Walking to the couch, she grabs her bag. Stuffs in the few things she's unpacked over the week. The toothbrush by the sink. The phone charger. The paperback with the leaf bookmark.
Duke scrambles off the porch. Runs to her. Presses against her legs. Whining.
She kneels. Takes his face in both hands. Presses her forehead to his. "I know, baby. I know."
My throat closes.
She stands. Walks to the door. Stops with her hand on the frame. Doesn't turn around.
"The anger you think you're carrying? It's loneliness. You know that, right? You've been up here so long you forgot what it feels like to have somebody give a damn about you. And when I showed up and gave a damn, it scared you to death."
The door closes.
Her car starts. Gravel crunches under tires. The engine fades down the logging road until I can't hear it anymore.
Duke sits at the door. Doesn't move. Stares at the spot where her car was. After ten minutes, he starts to whine. Low, constant, gutted.
The cabin is quiet again. Coffee's gone cold. Wildflowers still in the jar. The second mug still on the drying rack.
I got what I wanted. Silence. Solitude. No one in my space, in my head, in my bed making me remember that I'm a human being who used to want things.
So why does the silence feel like screaming?