Chapter 10
Tessa
Steam curls thick in the small bathroom, fogging the mirror, dampening the edges of everything until the world feels soft and suspended. Lacee’s laughter ricochets off tile as she splashes the last of the bubbles from her arms, her long dark hair slicked back and shining down her shoulders.
“Okay, okay,” I laugh, shielding my face as she sends one final wave of water toward me. “You’re going to flood the entire house.”
“Dad can fix it,” she says confidently, tipping her chin up in that fearless, ten-year-old way. “He fixes everything.”
My mouth curves. “That’s because he likes being needed.”
She squints at me like I’ve just given her a riddle. “He pretends he doesn’t.”
“Most grown men do.”
She snorts and dunks her head under while I rinse the shampoo from her hair, my fingers working carefully through the silky strands. She relaxes under my touch, small shoulders easing, trusting me without question. Something tight in my chest loosens every time she does that.
“Evan teased me again today,” she mutters, water dripping down her lashes as she resurfaces.
“Teased you how?”
“He said my art project looked like a melted unicorn.” She scowls. “It did not.”
“It absolutely did not,” I say solemnly. “It was abstract. Very high-end gallery vibes.”
She giggles, then sighs. “He always says stuff like that. Or he steals my pencils.”
I grab a towel and wrap it around her shoulders. “Hmm.”
“What?”
I tilt my head, lowering my voice like I’m sharing classified information. “It sounds suspiciously like Evan might have a crush on you.”
Her jaw drops. “Ew.”
“Why ew?”
“Because he’s annoying.”
“Exactly.”
She studies me. “Then why does he pick on me?”
I squeeze excess water from her hair, fingers gentle. “Because boys don’t always know how to show their feelings. Sometimes they say the opposite of what they mean.”
She squints. “That sounds immature.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “It is immature.”
“And they don’t grow out of it?”
I hesitate just long enough to make it funny. “It… doesn’t always change as much as we’d like.”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “That’s tragic.”
“It truly is,” I agree gravely.
I help her step out of the tub, wrap her in her pink robe, and settle her onto the closed toilet lid while I brush through her damp hair. The rhythm is easy, domestic, warm. She chatters about school, about a science fair, about a dance she’s pretending she doesn’t care about.
When I finally braid her hair loosely over one shoulder, she hugs me tight around the middle. “You’re way better at this stuff than Dad.”
My heart stutters. “He tries.”
“I know.” She softens. “He just gets quiet.”
I smooth my palm over her back. “Your dad’s good at a lot of things.”
She grins mischievously. “Like lifting heavy stuff and scaring boys?”
“Those too.”
She laughs, then darts off toward her bedroom, yelling, “Night, Tess!”
“Night, Lacee!”
The bathroom falls quiet except for the steady drip of the faucet and the hum of the vent fan. I kneel to mop up puddles, my tank clinging damply to my skin, shorts soaked at the hem. My hair is a mess from the steam, curls sticking to my neck.
I reach for the towel hook, take one step backward—and collide with something solid.
Or someone.
Heat.
Hard muscle.
A sharp inhale at my ear.
My spine goes rigid.
Sawyer.
His chest is broad and warm against my back, skin damp, the faint scent of soap and sweat wrapping around me. I freeze, every nerve firing at once.
He steadies me automatically, hands landing at my hips.
Low-slung workout shorts.
Bare chest with a soft smatter of dark hair.
Still flushed from lifting.
My pulse thunders so loud I’m convinced he can hear it.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice rough, close enough that it brushes the shell of my ear.
I swallow. “I didn’t… I didn’t know you were there.”
“I noticed.”
He doesn’t step away.
The steam thickens between us, turning the air heavy, intimate. His hands linger a fraction too long before sliding from my hips.
“I just tucked her in,” he says, voice lower now. “Heard you two laughing.”
“She’s hilarious.”
“She likes you.” A beat. “A lot.”
The words warm something inside me that has nothing to do with the mist.
“I like her too.”
“I can tell.”
His gaze drags over me slowly, unapologetically. It’s not crude. It’s not careless.
It’s claiming.
My skin prickles under it.
He lifts his chin slightly. “I also heard what you told her.”
Oh.
Of course he did.
“About boys?” I ask lightly.
“About men not knowing how to show what they feel.”
My throat tightens.
He steps closer, not touching me, but close enough that the heat of him presses against every inch of my awareness.
“You think I’m like that?” he asks quietly.
The question isn’t playful.
It’s loaded.
I tilt my head, meeting his gaze. His eyes are darker than usual, pupils blown wide, jaw tight like he’s holding something back with brute force.
“Sometimes,” I say softly.
A muscle jumps in his cheek.
He moves then—slow, deliberate—closing the last inch between us. His hand comes up, fingers brushing my chin. A bead of water slides down my cheek from my hairline and he catches it with his thumb, wiping it away like it belongs to him.
My breath stutters.
The room shrinks.
He dips his head slightly, eyes dropping to my mouth.
Time fractures.
He leans in.
Slow.
Controlled.
Deliberate.
My heart slams against my ribs so hard it almost hurts. Every inch of me screams for him to finish the distance. To press his mouth to mine. To stop pretending we don’t feel this.
His lips hover a breath away.
I can feel his exhale.
Warm.
Shaky.
He growls—low and guttural—like it costs him something enormous to hold back.
Then he drops his forehead to mine instead.
The contact is devastating.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he whispers.
“Like what?” My voice barely exists.
“Like you’re daring me.”
I don’t deny it.
Because I am.
He drags in a breath. “This wouldn’t be a good idea.”
My hands tremble at my sides. “Why?”
He pulls back just enough to search my face. His gaze is fierce, protective, conflicted.
“You’re twenty-four,” he says roughly. “You’re bright. You’re good. You deserve someone who doesn’t come with this much damage.”
My stomach tightens. “I’m not made of glass.”
He huffs out something between a laugh and a curse. “You’re too young.”
“I’m not innocent.”
He closes his eyes like that lands somewhere dangerous.
“You don’t know what I’d do to you,” he mutters.
My pulse spikes. “What would you do?”
His jaw tightens. “Ruin you.”
The word hits like a spark to gasoline.
I should step back.
I should breathe.
Instead I lean closer.
“Maybe I don’t mind.”
His eyes snap open, heat blazing in them.
“Don’t,” he warns.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
The power dynamic shifts, crackles, reshapes. He’s holding himself back by threads. I can see it in the way his fingers flex at his sides, in the way his chest rises sharply.
“You think you’re the only one trying?” I ask quietly.
He studies me, searching.
“I’m not a boy teasing you in a playground,” he says. “If I cross that line, Tess, I won’t half-step it.”
My stomach flips.
“Then don’t half-step,” I whisper.
Silence detonates between us.
He looks like he’s about to snap.
Instead, he exhales hard and presses a slow, lingering kiss to my forehead.
The restraint in it is almost cruel.
“I won’t be the guy who takes advantage of a woman who works under my roof,” he says roughly. “I won’t be the reason you regret something.”
“I wouldn’t regret you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
He shakes his head once, like he’s arguing with himself more than me.
“This stops,” he says, though his voice lacks conviction. “Before it turns into something neither of us can walk back from.”
His fingers trail down my arm as he steps away, the touch light but scorching.
“I’ll take a shower upstairs,” he mutters, already turning toward the door.
“Sawyer.”
He pauses.
Doesn’t look at me.
“If you’re trying to protect me,” I say softly, “you’re going about it the wrong way.”
He still doesn’t turn.
“Goodnight, Tessa.”
And then he’s gone.
The bathroom feels colder without him.
I stand there, soaked and shaking, staring at the doorway like he might reappear.
My lips still tingle even though he never touched them.
My skin hums where his hands rested.
I drag a breath into my lungs and glance at my reflection in the fogged mirror. Flushed cheeks. Dilated pupils. Desire written all over my face.
He thinks he’d ruin me.
The truth?
If he doesn’t stop holding back soon, this back-and-forth, this push-and-pull, is going to unravel me completely.
I shut off the light and step into the hallway, the sound of the shower starting up downstairs drifting faintly through the vents. Frustration vibrates in my veins. I suck in a deep breath, the urge to cry threatening to overwhelm my system.
He’s probably right when he says if I knew what’s good for me I’d leave Devil’s Peak and never look back. For the first time I wonder if maybe leaving would be the safest way forward for all of us, even if it would kill me to do it.
My entire body aches with wanting him. I’m distracted and flustered and confused with the push and pull between us.
If he doesn’t ruin me soon, I might combust first.