Chapter 35
thirty-five
Maggie opened her eyes to golden light. Not the sun, she realized after a groggy beat, but the shimmer of dried paint across Anson’s chest as he breathed beside her.
She traced a finger along one gilded scar, following the path she’d painted hours before.
The gold flaked under her touch, leaving glittering dust on her fingertip.
Outside, the world was still dark, the pre-dawn hours silent except for the occasional pop from the dying embers in the woodstove.
Anson slept deeply beside her, one arm thrown above his head, the other curved protectively around her waist even in sleep.
His face looked younger without the constant vigilance, without the careful guard he maintained during waking hours.
She studied him in the dim light—this scarred, beautiful man who’d finally let her in.
His beard needed trimming, and his hair fell across his forehead in a way that made her want to push it back, to touch him just because she could.
Gold paint streaked his neck, his shoulders, making constellations of the burn scars she’d traced with reverent fingers.
Last night she’d painted him to show him his worth, to make him see what she saw—a man transformed by fire, not ruined by it. But the truth was, he’d done the same for her. He’d made her feel whole again when she hadn’t even realized she had a piece missing.
In her last letter to him, before she came to Montana, she’d written about needing gold joinery herself.
About how everything she’d built was cracking beneath the pressure.
The fame that had once felt like validation now felt like a cage.
The carefully constructed life she’d created was hollow, echoing with Landry’s threats and network demands.
Her fancy condo in Tampa with its perfect staging and camera-ready décor had never felt like home.
She’d come to Valor Ridge running. From Landry, yes, but also from the life she’d outgrown. She’d come broken, cracked in places that didn’t show on camera. But here, in this cabin, in this man’s arms, she’d found the gold to fill those cracks.
Here, she’d found purpose beyond ratings and views—in the women at Haven House whose faces lit up when they built something with their own hands, in the community that had folded her into its protective embrace without question.
In Anson, who looked at her like she was something precious, who held her like she might disappear.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with an incoming call. HDN again, no doubt. She glanced at the time—5:47 a.m. Too early for a network call, especially on a holiday. They must be desperate.
The buzzing continued, insistent. She carefully extracted herself from Anson’s embrace and slipped from the bed, grabbing the phone before it could wake him. Naked, she padded to the bathroom and closed the door before answering.
“This is Maggie.”
“Magnolia.” Jim Harris’s voice crackled through the speaker, tight with forced cheerfulness. “I was hoping to catch you. We need to talk about your return. The board met yesterday, and we’re prepared to sweeten the deal even further.”
“Jim, it’s not even six in the morning on Christmas.”
“Oh.” He paused, clearly having forgotten the time difference. “My apologies. I’ve been up all night in meetings. Look, let me cut to the chase. We need you back by January 3rd. Non-negotiable. The sponsors are pushing, and we’ve already committed to air dates.”
She leaned against the bathroom door. The wood was cold against her bare skin, raising goosebumps, and she wished like hell she’d never answered this call and was still warm and cozy in Anson’s arms.
“I can’t be there by the third.”
“Magnolia, I understand you’ve been through something traumatic with this stalker situation, but—”
“It’s not about Landry. It’s about what I want.”
“What do you want, then? More money? Creative control? Both are on the table. We can go to one-point-five million, and I can get you final cut on all episodes.”
The number should have made her gasp, should have made her rethink everything.
But it didn’t. Instead, she thought about Sarah at Haven House, learning to use a drill with hands that had finally stopped shaking.
About Princess Jellybean and her kittens growing stronger each day.
About Bramble and his stick collection. About Anson’s face when he finally let himself be seen, when he finally let himself feel.
“I’m not going back to Florida, Jim.”
A pause. “What are you saying?”
“I’m staying in Montana. If HDN wants to continue Magnolia Builds, you’ll need to film it here.”
Silence stretched across the line, punctuated by Jim’s heavy breathing. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”
“Montana.” He said the word like it tasted bad. “Do you have any idea what that would cost us in terms of production?”
“Less than what you’re offering to pay me.”
“Magnolia, this is your career we’re talking about. Everything you’ve worked for. You’re at the top of your game.”
“I know.” She ran her fingers through her tangled hair, and gold flaked from the strands. “And I’m not walking away from building or teaching or creating. I’m just doing it on my terms, in a place I’ve chosen.”
“This is about a man, isn’t it?” Jim’s voice hardened. “Some Montana cowboy swept you off your feet, and now you’re throwing away everything for—”
“This is about me.” She was surprised her voice stayed calm, steady. “About the life I want to build. If HDN wants to be part of it, great. If not, I’ll build it without you.”
The door opened behind her. Anson stood there, sleep-rumpled and bare-chested, gold still painted across his scars. His sleepy eyes focused on her face, a question in his gaze.
“I need to go, Jim. Call me when you’ve made a decision.”
She disconnected before Jim could respond and set the phone on the counter. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, just stood watching each other in the dim bathroom light.
“You’re staying.” Anson’s voice was rough with sleep, with something deeper.
“I am.” She stepped toward him, bridging the gap between them. “Not just through New Year’s. Permanently.”
His hands came up to frame her face, callouses rough against her cheeks. “What about your show? Your career?”
“If they want me badly enough, they’ll film here. If not...” She shrugged, the movement pressing her breasts against his chest. “I’ll figure something else out. Maybe I’ll start my own business.”
“Maggie.” He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them, she saw the flash of fear, of uncertainty. “Are you choosing this for the right reasons?”
“I’m choosing myself.” She covered his hands with hers, keeping them pressed to her face. “I’m choosing the life I want. And that life includes you. This ranch. Those kittens. The women at Haven House. All of it.”
He studied her face like he was memorizing it, like he was searching for a lie.
“It’s not just about you,” she continued softly, “but God, Anson, you’re a big part of it. I don’t want to walk away from this. From us. I love you.”
He exhaled slowly, his breath warm against her lips. “Say it again.”
“I love you.”
His mouth crashed down on hers, urgent and hungry, hands tangling in her hair to tilt her head back.
She met his kiss with equal fervor, rising on her toes to press against him.
He backed her against the counter, lifting her easily to sit on the edge, stepping between her spread thighs.
His erection pressed hot and hard against her stomach.
“Wanted you from your first letter,” he growled against her mouth, hands skimming down her sides to grip her hips. “Scared the hell out of me.”
She laughed breathlessly, wrapping her legs around his waist to pull him closer. “I wanted you too. Then I saw you in person and thought I’d burst into flames.”
His hand slid between them, fingers finding the slick heat between her legs. She gasped as he circled her clit with his thumb, then pressed two fingers inside her still-sensitive body.
“Already wet for me.” His voice was darker now, rougher, a side of him she hadn’t heard before. And she liked it. “Been thinking about this all night. About being inside you again.”
She moaned as his fingers curled inside her, finding that spot that made her see stars. “Anson—please—”
He withdrew his fingers and lifted her, carrying her back to bed with a strength that made her dizzy with want.
He lay her on the tangled sheets, following her down, covering her body with his.
He braced his hands on the mattress, head bent to her breast. His tongue was velvet, his beard scratchy as he drew one nipple into his mouth, sucking until she arched into him.
He made a slow, greedy map of her body—lips at her throat, her collarbone, the hollow between her breasts, his hands kneading her hips, her thighs, parting her and settling her open.
She’d never felt so exposed and so safe.
He hovered over her, gaze glued to her face as if waiting for a signal to stop, to pull back, to make sure she wasn’t changing her mind.
She threaded her fingers into his hair, anchoring him, guiding him lower.
His breath was hot on her belly as his tongue trailed from navel to the seam of her thighs.
Then he was there, mouth open and hungry, the first touch sending a jolt through her so sharp she almost sobbed.
When she bucked, he pinned her hips with both hands, and his tongue delved deep before retreating to circle her clit.
She gripped the sheets, back arching as pleasure coiled tight in her belly.
He knew exactly what she needed, alternating broad strokes with focused attention until her thighs trembled around his head.
When he slipped two fingers inside her again, curling them forward while his tongue worked her clit, she shattered, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crashed over her.