Chapter 3
GEMMA
The budget reports were done. The timeline had been reviewed, annotated, and initialed in triplicate. I had everything I needed to file a complete progress update with the mayor’s office.
So why was I still sitting here?
The afternoon light had shifted, turning golden through the trailer’s small windows.
We’d been at this for hours—long enough that Kade had eventually made the short drive to the Roadhouse and come back with burgers and fries, which we’d eaten at his desk between invoice reviews.
The empty wrappers were still crumpled in the trash can, and the smell of fried onions lingered in the air, mixing with the ever-present scent of sawdust and coffee.
Kade had loosened up over the course of the day.
Not much—the man was still about as approachable as a porcupine—but the sharp edges had softened slightly.
He’d stopped scowling at the blueprints and started actually talking to me like a human being instead of an inconvenience.
Sharing a meal did that, I supposed. Even a meal eaten in awkward silence over construction documents.
“So how’d you end up here?” I asked, setting aside my notepad. The official business was done. This was just…curiosity. “Wildwood Valley isn’t exactly a destination.”
He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. The movement stretched his flannel tight across his shoulders, and I made myself look at his face instead. “Work. Solitude. Needed a fresh start.”
“Fresh start from what?”
His eyes met mine, and for a second, I thought he might actually answer. Then the walls came back up.
“Just needed a change,” he said.
I didn’t push. Whatever he was running from, it wasn’t my business. We all had our reasons for being where we were.
“What about you?” He turned the question around, studying me with those winter-pale eyes. “You grew up here, right? Still working here, still living here. Don’t you want more?”
The question pricked at something tender. I heard echoes of my mother in it, of well-meaning relatives at holiday dinners, of everyone who assumed that staying in Wildwood Valley meant settling for less.
“I love this town,” I said, surprised by how defensive I sounded.
I made myself take a breath and soften my tone.
“I know it’s small. I know most people my age couldn’t wait to leave.
But I want to build something here. A career that matters.
A life that means something.” I traced a pattern on the desk with my finger, avoiding his gaze. “Maybe a family someday. Just not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“I’m twenty-three. I’ve got time.” I shrugged, aiming for casual. “Right now, I’m focused on proving I’m more than the kid who fetches coffee and gets sent to construction sites on holidays.”
Something flickered across his face. I couldn’t read it—this man was harder to decipher than his own budget spreadsheets.
“And love?” His voice had gone rougher, lower. “Where does that fit into the plan?”
The question caught me off guard. It felt too personal for a conversation with a near-stranger, even one I’d been trapped in a trailer with for six hours. Even one who’d bought me lunch without being asked.
“It can wait,” I said. “I’ve got time for that too.”
He held my gaze for a beat too long. Then he looked away, jaw tightening.
I should have let it drop. Should have gathered my things and headed back to my truck and filed my report and never thought about Kade Mercer again.
Instead, I leaned forward. “What about you? Anyone waiting at home?”
“No.” The word was flat, final. “And there won’t be.”
The certainty in his voice startled me. Not the sad resignation of someone who hadn’t found love yet—this was something harder. Angrier. A door slammed shut and dead-bolted from the inside.
“Why not?”
He was quiet for so long, I thought he wasn’t going to answer. The space heater hummed. The wind rattled the trailer walls. Outside, the light was starting to fade, Valentine’s Day slipping toward evening while I sat here asking questions I had no right to ask.
“My parents were high school sweethearts,” he said, his voice distant. “Everyone said they were perfect for each other. Couldn’t keep their hands off each other, couldn’t stand to be apart. The kind of love people write songs about.”
I waited, sensing there was more.
“By the time I was old enough to understand what was happening, that love had turned into something else. They’d fight for hours—screaming matches that shook the walls.
Then they’d make up, and everything would be perfect for a week, maybe two.
Then it would start again.” He stared at the wall behind me, seeing something I couldn’t.
“Twenty years of that. Twenty years of watching two people who loved each other tear each other to pieces, bit by bit, until there was nothing left but wreckage.”
My chest ached. “Kade…”
“They finally split when I was twenty. You’d think that would’ve been the end of it, but they just found new ways to self-destruct.
Dad drank himself half to death. Mom cycled through relationships that made the marriage look healthy by comparison.
” His eyes finally came back to mine, cold and guarded.
“Love isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a trap. And I’m not walking into it. ”
The words hung between us, heavy and bitter. I thought about my own parents—married young, still happy, still holding hands when they thought no one was watching. I’d grown up believing that was normal. That love, when it was real, actually worked.
Kade had grown up learning the opposite lesson.
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” I said softly.
His eyes dropped to my mouth, then snapped back up. A muscle ticked in his jaw. The air in the trailer felt thicker suddenly, charged.
“What about you?” he asked, and his voice had changed. Rougher. More dangerous. “You’re twenty-three. Focused on your career. But surely there’s been someone.”
I should have laughed it off. Made a joke about small-town dating pools or demanding work schedules. Instead, the truth slipped out before I could stop it.
“No. Not really.” I tucked my hair behind my ear, a nervous habit I couldn’t seem to break.
“I’ve been so focused on proving myself, on being more than the youngest person in the room, that I never—” I trailed off, feeling my cheeks heat.
“I’ve never actually let anyone close enough. To do anything.”
Understanding dawned in his expression. Something predatory flickered in those pale eyes—hunger, barely leashed—and I watched him fight it down. Watched the battle play out across his features as he gripped the edge of his chair like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.
“You should go,” he said, voice strained. “It’s getting late.”
“Probably.” I didn’t move.
The silence stretched between us, taut as a wire. Every sensible instinct I had was screaming at me to grab my bag and leave before I did something stupid.
I stayed exactly where I was.
He reached out slowly, almost against his will, and brushed a strand of hair from my face. His fingers grazed my cheek, rough and warm, and my breath caught in my throat.
“I’m not good for you,” he muttered. “I don’t do this. I don’t believe in this. I can’t give you what you deserve, and I won’t pretend otherwise.”
“Maybe I’m not asking you to.”
“Gemma.” My name sounded like a warning on his lips. Or a prayer. “I’m serious. I’m not the kind of man who—”
I kissed him.
It was clumsy at first, uncertain. My mouth found his at an awkward angle, and for one horrible second, I thought I’d made a terrible mistake.
Then his hand fisted in my hair and he took over.
He kissed me like he was angry about wanting me. Like every wall he’d built was crumbling and he hated me for it. His other hand gripped my waist, yanking me out of my chair, and I went willingly, grabbing fistfuls of his flannel shirt to pull him closer.
He tasted like coffee, and it made my head spin. His stubble scraped against my chin as he changed the angle, deepening the kiss until I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but hold on.
“This is a bad idea,” he growled against my mouth.
“Terrible,” I agreed, and kissed him harder.
He stood abruptly, lifting me with him like I weighed nothing, and swept the papers off his desk with one arm. I gasped as he set me on the edge, stepping between my thighs, his hands sliding up to cup my face.
“Last chance to walk away,” he said, his forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathing hard.
I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him closer.
We were past the point of stopping, and we both knew it.