3. Peyton
PEYTON
When Daltyn turns onto a road I hadn’t noticed through all the trees, I clutch my coffee cup tighter and begin to worry.
Where the hell is he taking me?
The road is paved, winding through the forest with thick trees and brush on either side of us. Glimpses of sunlight dapple over the back of my hand.
“Um... Daltyn?”
He glances over at me, baby blues shining. He chuckles at the look on my face.
“Relax, Peyton. You trust me, right?”
I stare into his blue eyes for another beat before I nod. “I do.”
“Good. Now look straight ahead.”
I do, and when the trees finally open up, I’m stunned to find a cabin sitting in the middle of a perfectly maintained yard.
Not just any cabin. A modern two-story cabin with a porch and a balcony.
It looks like a hidden oasis in the thick of the woods .
He pulls up in front of it and stops, then cuts the engine.
The engine's ticking is loud in the silence as neither of us says anything. I stare straight ahead, drinking in the sight.
And Daltyn... well, he’s staring at me, intently watching my reaction.
Finally, he puts his hand on the door handle. “Stay right there.” He pushes it open, strides around to my side, pulls the door open, and has my seatbelt off and me in his arms before I realize what is happening.
“Wait... You don’t need... I can walk.”
Daltyn doesn’t say a word as he heads up to the house, long legs eating the distance to the porch.
“Daltyn. Are you listening?”
“Of course I am. I’m just choosing to ignore you.”
There’s a series of beeps as he punches a code into the keypad.
The second Daltyn pushes open the door, the scent of cedar and the faint smell of fireplace smoke wrap around me. Beneath it lingers leather, coffee, and something colder I can’t explain.
Loneliness, maybe.
My gaze goes directly to the massive stone fireplace stretching toward the vaulted ceiling. Warm afternoon sunlight pours through towering windows, casting golden light over dark leather furniture and wide plank wood floors.
The cabin is huge.
Not flashy rich. Not “look at me” rich. Just... solid. Expensive in a quiet way that somehow feels even more intimidating.
Like Daltyn.
Exposed wooden beams cross high ceilings overhead while an oversized sectional sits in front of the fireplace, big enough to fit an entire hockey team. A thick charcoal blanket is tossed over the back cushion like he actually uses it, rather than staging it for a magazine.
Everything feels masculine. Clean. Controlled. Like every single thing has its place.
Daltyn carries me straight to the sectional and gently lowers me onto it like I’m something fragile. Which is ridiculous because I’m not. Even if my ankle feels like it’s plotting my murder.
Before I can protest again, he crouches in front of me and carefully lifts my injured foot onto the cushion.
“Stay there,” he says firmly.
“I can walk.”
His eyes lift to mine, completely unimpressed. “Peyton.” My name sounds like a warning.
I sink further into the couch with a sigh. “You’re bossy.”
“And you’re stubborn.” He grabs the charcoal blanket and drapes it over me before I can stop him, then props my ankle on a pillow.
The second the blanket settles over me, the familiar scent of cedar and clean soap surrounds me again. My stupid pulse flutters.
Daltyn straightens, towering over me for a second. “I’m grabbing the luggage. Don’t move.”
He turns and heads toward the front door.
“Are you going to carry me every time I stand up?” I ask his retreating back.
“If necessary.”
Then he disappears outside before I can respond.
Silence settles over the cabin.
I glance around slowly, taking everything in now that my brain isn’t focused on the six-foot-two goalie carrying me around like I’m starring in some kind of deranged Hallmark movie.
The kitchen stretches across the other side of the open floor plan with dark cabinets, matte-black fixtures, and pendant lights hanging above a massive island. Everything is spotless. Not a single dish in the sink.
A hallway disappears farther back, soft light spilling across the floor from somewhere out of sight.
My gaze drifts to the wooden staircase leading to a loft overlooking the living room below. A dark railing. More exposed wood. A glimpse of charcoal bedding upstairs.
It hits me suddenly that this isn’t just some vacation cabin.
This is his home.
Daltyn lives here. Alone.
The cabin is beautiful, but there’s something lonely about it, too. Like no one’s truly lived here in a long time. Only existed.
Maybe that’s why my chest aches a little when I look around. Because I know exactly what it feels like to survive instead of live.
Maybe it’s because I’m curled beneath his blanket while sunlight spills through the windows around me. Or maybe it’s the way the entire cabin smells like him.
But somehow, after everything that’s happened lately, this feels safer than anywhere I’ve been in a very long time.
And that realization terrifies me almost as much as it comforts me.
From rags to riches with a broody goalie.
Temporarily, of course.