Chapter 2
Grace
The bedroom was still humming.
Grace lay perfectly still, afraid that the smallest movement might break whatever spell they’d slipped into.
Luke Bennett didn’t look like a cop right now. Not like the man who walked Main Street with a nod for everyone he knew. Not like the officer with the pressed uniform. Not like the future councilman his mother paraded at every town function.
Here—like this—he was just Luke. Warm. Solid. His breathing deep and slow against her shoulder.
The sheets were a hopeless tangle around their legs, twisted and kicked down to the foot of the bed. The lamp on the nightstand glowed warm and low, casting soft gold across Luke’s bare shoulders, across the ridge of muscle in his back. He lay beside her, one arm flung over her waist.
She wasn’t sure when she’d started memorizing the details of him, but she knew them all now: the faint scar near his left elbow, the pattern of the dark hair on his chest, the way his lashes fanned against his cheek when he drifted close to sleep.
The way he exhaled—soft and content—right after he’d pulled her against him. Like she belonged nowhere else.
Her heart squeezed.
Luke made a small, sleepy sound, something between a sigh and a groan, and tightened his hold on her. His nose brushed her collarbone. His thumb traced a slow, lazy path along her ribs.
“Hmm,” he muttered, voice gravelly with fading adrenaline, “you’re warm.”
Grace smiled. “Is that a complaint?”
“It’s not.” He pressed closer, his leg sliding deeper between hers. “It’s perfect.”
Perfect. Her pulse tripped over itself. He thought she was perfect.
She shouldn’t read into things like that. She knew that.
But—
Luke wasn’t the kind of man who said things he didn’t mean.
Right now, in the soft dark, in the sweet afterglow, she let herself believe in the fantasy.
She shifted to face him, and he lifted his head just enough to look at her—eyes heavy, mouth curved in a satisfied smile. He looked younger like this. Softer.
“Hi,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles down her cheek.
Grace smiled at him. “Hi.”
He kissed her, slow and lazy, a kiss that wasn’t urgent or demanding like earlier, just warm and sweet and Luke. The kind of kiss that whispered without saying a word.
I’m here.
I want this.
I want you.
This was the third time he'd been here this month. She knew the weight of him, the heat of him, the way he reached for her in the dark. The way his body remembered hers even when he was half-asleep.
And she knew his routine—knew he'd lie here for a little bit longer, knew he’d kiss her temple before he left, knew he'd text her next time he wanted to see her.
She liked being here with him. He smelled like fresh sweat and the faint spice of his cologne, and it felt safe—dangerously safe.
She just wished she could freeze this moment.
Keep him like this.
Keep them like this.
Because in the quiet glow of her bedroom, wrapped up in him, it was so easy—too easy—to believe she wasn’t just a secret hidden in the dark.
So easy to believe this was something real.
She wasn’t sure how long she had dozed off for. Luke’s arm tightened around her just a little as he eased onto his back. She shifted with him automatically, propping herself up on an elbow.
Grace brushed a stray lock of hair off his forehead. Luke’s mouth curved, slow and lazy. His eyes were half-lidded and sleepy in a way that made a warm flutter roll through her chest. She was the only one who ever saw him like this.
“You’re still a little flushed,” he murmured, voice a delicious scrape across her already-sensitive nerves. “I like that.”
Grace rolled her eyes because if she didn’t, she’d melt straight through the mattress. “I’m lying next to a furnace. What did you expect?”
His laugh was quiet but it sent a ripple of warmth through her. He lifted his head, lips brushing the spot just below her jaw.
“You heat me up,” he said.
“Oh my God.” She shoved lightly at his shoulder, heat flaring in her face. “Shut up.”
Luke rolled them, bracing one hand beside her head. “You’re gorgeous,” he said softly, looking down at her.
Grace swallowed. Hard.
She needed to give some witty comeback, something to keep the moment light and safe—but her heart was thudding way too loudly in her chest for that.
Instead her words came out sounding too serious. “If you keep sweet-talking me, I’m going to think you like me or something.”
Luke grinned, that crooked, devastating half-smile she pretended didn’t undo her. “Maybe I do.”
Her breath hitched.
Her heart did a stupid, hopeful leap.
The words were right there, sitting on her tongue. So let's go out. On a real date. Let people see us together.
It would be so easy. Why couldn’t she just say it? How could he possibly say no when he looked at her like that?
Grace opened her mouth.
"Luke, I—"
His thumb traced the line of her jaw, his eyes dark and warm and fixed on her face like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
This was it. The perfect moment.
Say it. Ask him. Be brave.
"I—" Her courage failed. The words died in her throat. "I'm glad you're here."
It wasn't what she meant to say. It wasn't what she needed to say.
But it was safe.
Luke's expression softened, something tender crossing his face. He leaned down and kissed her forehead—sweet, gentle, nothing like the heat from before.
"Me too," he murmured against her skin.
Grace closed her eyes. Next time. She'd ask next time.
Luke reached out and tugged lightly at a strand of her hair.
“I like seeing you like this,” he said. “You get this look when I…”
Her face went hot. “Oh my God, do not finish that sentence.”
He laughed again. God, she loved that sound. She’s never heard him laugh quite like this with anyone else. Not the guys at the station. Not the people in town.
No—this laugh was hers.
She slid her leg to tangle lazily with his. He helped her, setting one hand on her thigh with a possessiveness that made her toes curl, and hitching it higher on his hip.
In this moment, everything felt easy. The soft lamplight. The warmth of his skin. His hand on her body like he had every right to touch her.
Like they were something real.
He kissed her collarbone. Then lower. His mouth dragging slow and deliberate. He followed the length of her body down the bed until his shoulders were braced between her thighs, his attention narrowing to her alone.
Then he leaned in and kissed her there—slow, distracting, the kind of kiss that shut down questions.
“Luke,” she murmured, more reflex than protest.
He shushed her, not with a word but with a look. Grace’s fingers tangled in the sheets in anticipation.
He took his time. It was like the rest of the world didn’t exist, like there was nothing outside her bedroom walls.
Her back arched.
Luke’s grip tightened, anchoring her as she lost herself in slow, overwhelming waves. Her thoughts scattered, the sharp edge of disappointment dulling under pleasure she knew too well.
By the time he finally rose back up beside her, her limbs felt loose and boneless, her chest still rising too fast.
When Luke kissed her mouth, she tasted herself on his lips.
The hallway floor was cool beneath her feet as Grace made her way toward the kitchen.
Behind her, Luke’s footsteps followed. Even half-dressed, relaxed from sex, he carried himself with unmistakable authority. He was born to take up space, confident and solid.
He was a Bennett after all. And Crystal Lake cared about things like that.
Grace had learned that young. She had learned early to read the signs: the looks from shop owners, the way conversations quieted when she walked into a room, the careful distance people kept. The Harts were trouble. Always had been, always would be—at least according to the town’s long memory.
The town hadn’t changed. Or if it had, Grace didn’t trust the change to last.
But Luke wasn't like that.
He leaned against the doorway, hair rumpled, body loose. Grace felt a quiet, wicked satisfaction. Whatever he gave to the rest of the world, this version of him was hers.
When Grace handed him the glass of water, their hands brushed.
“Thanks,” he said, taking a long drink.
The word pressed at the back of her throat—Stay.
A single syllable. Easy.
So why was she so frightened to ask?
He did have early shifts.
But would that stop him from staying at someone else’s house? Someone else who wasn’t Grace Hart?
No—that wasn't fair to him. Luke wasn't like the rest of them.
Grace watched his throat move as he swallowed. The moment felt tender. Domestic. Dangerous.
She imagined this just… being normal.
Luke at her counter, drinking water.
Luke stealing her toast in the morning.
Luke leaning in to kiss her before heading to work.
Luke grumbling goodnight and sliding under the blankets beside her instead of slipping out into the dark.
A quiet life. A shared life.
Her chest ached with wanting.
Could she ask him, right here, barefoot in her kitchen, for more? To stay the night?
But before she could gather her courage, he straightened. The shift was tiny but palpable—his shoulders squaring, his expression shuttering just a little.
From Luke to Officer Bennett.
“You should, uh…” he said, glancing vaguely toward the back of the house, “keep the lights low. Don’t want your neighbors spotting me.”
“Oh. Right,” she murmured, forcing a smile she didn’t feel. “Of course.”
I don’t care if they know.
I don’t want to be your secret.
I want you to stay.
Grace leaned on the counter beside him, close enough to feel the heat of his body.
He stepped closer, one hand sliding up to cradle her jaw with an ease that lit her nerves on fire. He pressed a soft kiss to her lips.
Her eyes fluttered shut as she kissed him.
When she opened her eyes, he was already stepping back.
She followed him toward the door. The air felt colder here. Sharper. Luke unlocked the back door with the ease of someone who’d done it dozens of times.
Grace leaned against the doorframe, arms wrapped around her middle beneath the robe.
Don’t go, she thought.
He paused, and looked back at her.
Then he stepped out into the night, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft but final click.