Chapter 6 Angel
Angel
It’s getting late when I hear a knock on the coffee shop window.
I jump, heart in my throat, until I see it’s Grady. Snowflakes cling to his dark hair, melting on his jaw, and the wind shoves at him like it’s jealous that he’s here for me. He looks like he’s been carved out of storm and silence, and every time I see him, my lungs forget how to process oxygen.
He raises a gloved hand just as the lights flicker. Once, twice—then everything goes dark.
The espresso machine clicks off. The hum of the fridge dies. Silence drops like a curtain.
I grab my flashlight from under the counter and hurry to the door, unlocking it with cold fingers.
Grady steps inside, brushing snow off his jacket and kicking the door closed behind him. “Power just went?”
I nod, shining the beam upward to avoid blinding him. “Perfect timing.”
“I had a feeling,” he mutters. “Storm’s worse than forecasted. Power lines are going down all over the county.”
“Well, I’ve got battery candles and two layers of socks,” I joke, trying to shake off the unease. “I’ll be fine.”
He gives me a long look that’s somewhere between fond and annoyed. “You’re not staying here tonight.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” His voice is calm but firm.
His voice is calm, but it crackles with authority. The kind that doesn’t come from ego but from a man who’s fought too many battles to play around when something matters. My knees nearly buckle from how badly I want to listen when he talks like that.
“You’re coming back to my place,” he continues while I attempt to reel my tongue back into my mouth like some cartoon character with a heart boner. “It’s better insulated, I’ve got a backup generator, and I don’t want you alone in the dark with that ankle.”
“My ankle is lots better. I’m not helpless, Grady.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
We stare at each other in the glow of the flashlight. I want to argue—just because it feels like I should. But the truth is, the coffee shop is cold already. And the idea of being somewhere warm with him… well, that sounds like heaven.
He softens a fraction. “Let me take care of you tonight. No pressure. Just warm food and a safe place to ride out the storm.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod.
“Good girl. Go get your coat.”
I turn to obey, feeling that good girl land between my thighs.
Once we’re in the truck, Grady gets the heat blasting, driving slowly through the icy streets.
“You’re a good driver,” I say. “Careful.”
“I like you in one piece.”
My cheeks heat, and I stare out the window as if the snow is suddenly fascinating.
Ugh, why does he have to keep saying stuff like that?
He’s fixed my door, cooked me French toast, and carried me around like a Victorian damsel, so why the hell hasn’t he kissed me yet?
Will he turn into a frog or something? Like some twisted reverse fairy tale?
I’ve been patient. Subtle. Offered myself in soft and safe ways. And still—no kiss. No real touch. It’s starting to feel like exquisite torture.
But maybe that’s what he needs. A woman who stays—not to weather the storm, but to show him it’s finally safe to let it pass.
We crawl the five minutes to his place—the caretaker cabin on the north pasture, the one the Maas’s keep for their boys when they pass through.
It doesn’t look like much from the road with its low roof, deep porch, and the stack of firewood under a tarp, but it looks solid and enduring, like the man staying there.
Grady parks, gets out, and is already on my side before I can fumble with the door. He helps me down with a steady hand and a gentle grip, his mercury eyes on my face like he can’t not look at me.
Once inside, he hangs our coats and goes straight to the wood stove.
The fire’s still hot. He feeds it anyway.
I guess a man with his past learns to respect heat when he’s been in places without it.
Everything about him is built around the quiet need to keep others warm.
To protect what matters. To give what he never got.
I want to be the thing he tends to next.
I stand in the middle of the cozy living area, hands tucked in my sleeves, taking in the couch that looks like someone loved it into comfort, the books with the worn spines on the bookshelf, and the neat kitchen.
“It smells like cedar and… you,” I blurt, my cheeks heating like a giddy schoolgirl.
His eyes kindle for a moment before he asks, “Hungry?”
I nod. I’m more than hungry, but food will do for now.
He heats some leftover stew, slices bread, and hands me a spoon.
We eat curled on the couch under a blanket, the storm outside pushing at the windows.
I take a bite, and it’s rich and layered and warms me from the inside.
Like him. Steady and unexpectedly complex.
I watch the muscles in his forearm flex as he spoons stew into his mouth and wonder how those same hands would feel gripping my hips, steadying me while I fall apart.
I clear my throat. “Tell me about Tyler. He looks at you like you invented snow.”
Grady frowns. “Local kid who helps Mary and Christopher. He’s trying not to care. Figured out it hurts less if he pretends he doesn’t want anything.”
He says it as if the words resonate with him, like he could be talking about himself.
“You’re good with him.”
“He’s a good kid. Just needs pointing in the right direction.”
“Mary and Christopher want you to stay.”
“Yeah.” A pause. “They still help kids who need a soft place to land. Christopher wants me to mentor them.” He huffs a laugh. “He thinks I’ve got a talent for it.”
He doesn’t say more, but something in the way he stares into the fire tells me there’s a war going on in his head. One he hasn’t decided how to end.
We clean up together. I dry while he washes, bumping hips once like a joke. I press an impulsive kiss to his shoulder. He goes still. His hands pause mid-rinse. Then he keeps going like nothing happened, but I know he felt it.
He goes to the bedroom and returns with one of his T-shirts and a pair of sweats for me without making a big deal of the fact I didn’t pack a change of clothes. I change behind the bathroom door, take a breath, and look at myself in the mirror.
When I come out, he’s watching. His shirt drowns me, his pants are cinched tight, and he’s looking at me like he forgot how to breathe.
“Are you laughing at me?” I ask, a little defensive.
He’s staring at me like he’s calculating every inch of fabric and how fast he could take it off. His chest rises as if he’s fighting a war inside his own ribs.
“I’m praying.”
“For what?”
“Patience. And the restraint to keep my hands to myself,” he replies, piling blankets on the couch to make a nest.”
I walk toward him. Close enough to touch. Close enough to tip the balance.
“What if I want your hands on me?” I whisper.
He inhales sharply. “Angel—”
I back into the blanket nest and hold it open for him. “Lie down with me.”
I see the uncertainty and desire warring in his eyes. Uncertainty because, for some reason, this man thinks he’s not enough for me. Desire because he can’t deny he wants me. And I want him, with every beat of my heart and every fiber of my being.
Desire eventually wins out. He lies beside me, arm around my waist, his body a furnace against mine. We lie still for a while, listening to the storm rage against the world.
“Grady?”
“Yeah?”
“The other day, you said that when you kiss me, you want all of me with you.”
His swallow is audible. “I did.”
I lick my lips nervously and take the plunge. “Well, all of me has been with you from the moment I face-planted you with a wreath.”
He groans. “Angel—”
I cup his face. “I’m asking for all of it, Grady. All of you. The cracks, the scars, the wounded parts of you I see when no one else is looking.”
Silence, then a soft, devastating touch as his lips brush my ear. “I need you to understand. If I kiss you… it won’t be once. It won’t be casual. I won’t forget about it in the morning. If I kiss you, Angel, it’ll be the first of a thousand.”
He slides his hand up my thigh. The warmth of his palm through the sweatpants steals my breath.
My pulse kicks hard, flooding heat through me until all I can feel is him and the dizzying weight of what’s about to happen.
My fingers curl into his shirt, holding on like he’s the only solid thing in the room.
His voice is rough with the weight of desire.
“I forgot what it was like to want something that wasn’t survival.
And now... all I want is you. I haven’t touched anyone in years,” he admits, his forehead resting against mine.
“But I’ll give you everything, Angel. I’ll open you with my fingers and make you beg me to come.
I’ll be gentle, and when you can take more, I’ll be rough, and I’ll tell you what a fucking goddess you are when you break for me.
Then I’ll put you in my lap and slide you down my cock inch by inch, and I won’t let you up until you say please, Grady, again. ”
A shiver rolls through me, sharp and hot. I arch into him, breath catching on a sound I don’t recognize as mine. Want pools low and heavy in my belly, and for a heartbeat, I can’t tell if I’m shaking because of his words or because I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.
“Good,” I gasp, my palm still warm on his jaw. “Because I’ve been waiting for you, Grady Cross.”
He goes still, like the world has stopped spinning. Then his hand finds mine, weaving our fingers together as he lowers his head.
Then, finally—finally—he kisses me.
Not tentative. Not careful.
Starved.
His kiss muffles the storm outside and erases every lonely night. It devours restraint and builds a home in my mouth.
I press closer, sliding my fingers into his hair. He responds as if he’s been holding back for years and is finally allowed to want. His hands find my waist, my hips, learning me by feel like I’m a map he never wants to lose.
I kiss him like I believe him, like I believe in this. In us.
And I do. Because I’ve never felt safer. Or more seen. Or more wanted.
No more waiting.
Tonight, I get to have all of it. The man. The heat. The promise he made that he’s now sealing with his mouth and hands.
And when he lays me down—carefully, reverently—I already know that this isn’t simply about sex.
This is about everything.