Chapter 6
Kim
I woke to sunlight streaming through the windows and the scent of coffee drifting from the kitchen. For a moment, I lay still in Neil's bed, processing the soreness in muscles I'd never used before and the profound sense of rightness that had settled in my chest.
Everything had changed last night. Not just my body—though Neil had certainly awakened parts of me I'd never known existed.
The sound of Neil moving around the kitchen made me smile. He was giving me space to wake up naturally, probably worried that I'd have second thoughts about what we'd shared. But lying here in his bed, I'd never felt more certain of anything.
I pulled on his flannel shirt from yesterday and joined him in the kitchen. The worn fabric was soft against my skin, carrying his scent like an embrace.
"Morning," I said, suddenly shy despite everything we'd shared.
He turned, and the heat that flared in his eyes when he saw me in his shirt made my nipples harden. "How do you feel?"
"Different. Good different." I moved closer, drawn by that invisible thread that seemed to connect us. "A little sore."
Concern immediately creased his features. "I hurt you."
"No." I reached up to touch his face, marveling at how natural the gesture felt. "You were perfect. Gentle and patient and everything I needed you to be."
The relief in his expression made my heart ache. This powerful man was terrified of causing me even the slightest discomfort.
"I made breakfast," he said.
"I'm starving." But instead of moving toward the food, I stood on my toes and kissed him, soft and lingering. "Thank you."
"For breakfast?"
"For last night. For making it beautiful instead of awkward or painful." I traced the line of his jaw with one finger. "For seeing me as someone worth being gentle with."
Something dark and possessive flashed in his eyes. "Kim, you're everything to me. I'd die before hurting you."
The fierce declaration sent fire through my veins. "I know," I said. "And that's why I'm thanking you."
We ate breakfast together, and I marveled at how natural it felt. The awkwardness I'd expected after sleeping with someone for the first time simply didn't exist. Instead, there was an easy intimacy, like we'd been sharing morning meals for years.
"What's the plan for today?" I asked, sipping coffee that was somehow perfect despite being made on a basic camping setup.
"Whatever you want. We could explore more of the mountain, look for those tree markers I mentioned.
Or we could work on documenting the rest of those papers.
" His eyes tracked my movements as I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
"Or we could stay right here, and I could spend the day learning every inch of your body. "
The casual suggestion made me wet. "That's a very tempting option."
"Just an option." But the hunger in his voice suggested he was hoping I'd choose door number three.
"Actually," I said. "I need to finish documenting the papers we found.”
"Of course. I can set up a work area in the workshop just for you."
“I’d like that.”
After breakfast, I worked on finishing up with the documents that we found while Neil rearranged furniture.
"This table usually holds orders for Sam's clients," he explained, moving a beautiful cherry wood piece aside. "But your work is more important."
"Sam?"
"One of my brothers—not by blood, but by choice.
You'll meet them eventually." He adjusted a work lamp, eliminating shadows from the desk he'd created.
"My other brother, Kevin, helped me select the wood for most of these pieces.
He's got an eye for quality that comes from years of attention to detail. "
"How's this?" he asked, stepping back to survey his handiwork.
I tested the setup, spreading out a few of the less fragile documents. "This is better than my workspace at the historical society. Where I spent six years cataloging other people's discoveries while my own research gathered dust."
"Good. Want me to leave you alone for a bit?"
"No." The word came out more forcefully than I'd intended. "I mean, you don't have to leave. This is your workshop. I'm the intruder here."
"You're not an intruder." Neil moved to stand behind my chair, his hands settling on my shoulders with possessive tenderness. "This is your space now too."
The assumption that I'd be staying long enough to need a proper workspace sent a thrill through me. We were already planning a future together, even if neither of us had said it explicitly. The casual declaration that I had a space with him made my heart stutter.
Outside, I could hear birds calling and wind moving through the pines—the soundtrack to this new life I was stumbling into.
"Tell me more about these symbols," I said, forcing myself back to work. I pulled out the sheet we had been looking at yesterday. "Show me what you recognize."
Neil leaned over me to examine the document, his chest against my back, arms caging me in against the desk. The position was intimate and protective, and I loved it. This man was mine. All mine. How the heck did I get so lucky?
"This one," he said, pointing to a symbol that looked like an arrow merged with a tree. "I've seen it carved into oak trees throughout the mountain. I always thought it was some kind of forestry marking."
"It could be a directional indicator. Underground Railroad conductors used tree carvings to guide escaped slaves along safe routes." My excitement built as the pieces fell into place. "If we could map the locations of all these symbols—"
"We could trace the actual path they used through the mountains," Neil finished, his voice carrying the same enthusiasm. "Show me what to look for, and I'll take you to every marked tree I remember."
The collaboration felt natural, like we were partners in the truest sense. Neil's knowledge of the mountain combined with my historical expertise could unlock secrets that had been hidden for over a century.
"This is incredible," I breathed, making notes on the symbol patterns in my notebook. "Neil, this could be the most complete Underground Railroad route map ever discovered. The implications for historical research—"
I stopped mid-sentence, realizing what I was suggesting. Mapping the full route would take weeks, maybe months of careful work. Time I didn't have if I was supposed to return to Boston and my position at the historical society as soon as the road cleared up for my rental car to be towed.
"What is it?" Neil asked, noting my sudden silence.
"This research. If I do it properly, it's going to take much longer than I originally planned." I looked up at him, trying to read his expression. "I'd need to extend my stay significantly."
"How significantly?"
"Months. Maybe through the winter, depending on weather and accessibility." The admission felt like stepping off a cliff. "I'd have to request extended leave from my position and find temporary housing."
"Stay here."
The immediate offer cut off my practical worries. "I can't impose on you for months."
"I told you, you're not imposing." He paused. "Kim, I've been alone on this mountain for eight years. Two days ago, I didn't even know you existed. Now I can't imagine going back to that emptiness."
The raw honesty in his voice made my heart race. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying stay. Not as a guest, not as someone I'm helping with research. Stay as my woman. My partner. The person I wake up next to every morning and fall asleep holding every night."
It was so tempting, along with rash and crazy.
"I'm not even sure my job will let me do it."
"Tell me about your job," Neil said, turning my chair so I was facing him directly. "What would you be missing if you stayed?"
I thought about my days at the historical society—the basement office with flickering fluorescent lights, the endless filing, the careful deference to Dr. Pemberton's opinions even when I knew he was wrong.
"I work for the Vermont Historical Society. Under Dr. Richard Pemberton." Even saying his name made my shoulders tense. "He's brilliant and respected, but..."
"But?"
"But he's also the kind of man who makes everyone around him feel small. Especially me." The admission came out barely above a whisper. "I do his research, organize his notes, find his sources. Six years of work, and my name appears in tiny print in the acknowledgments, if at all."
Neil's expression darkened. "He takes credit for your work?"
"He refines it. Positions it. It makes it worthy of academic attention.
" I heard myself repeating Pemberton's own words and felt sick.
"Last year, I discovered a series of letters between two Vermont abolitionists that changed our understanding of local Underground Railroad operations.
He published it under his name with a footnote thanking his research team. "
"That's theft," Neil said.
"That's academia. At least, that's my experience of it.
" I looked down at my hands. "So, to answer your question—no, I wouldn't miss it.
Not the actual work I do there. I'd miss the idea of what it could have been, maybe.
The career I thought I was building. But the reality?
Spending my days making someone else look brilliant while my own research gathers dust? "
"Then don't go back. Stay here. Do this research the right way. Document everything properly, write the definitive paper on Burke Mountain's Underground Railroad connections. Make it yours."
The vision he painted was intoxicating. Real research driven by passion instead of publish-or-perish pressure. A life where my work mattered because it preserved important history, not because it advanced someone else's career.
"But Dr. Pemberton has connections everywhere. One word from him and I'd never work in historical preservation again. He's on the board of three major historical journals. He reviews grant applications. He could destroy my career with a few carefully placed words at conferences."