4. Cal
Chapter four
Cal
Annie doesn’t belong in my world. She’s all sugar and light, the smell of cinnamon and morning. Too bright. Too warm. The kind of woman a man like me has no business touching twice.
So why the hell did I invite her up here?
I keep asking myself that as I chop firewood outside the cabin.
It’s colder than I expected, the kind of sharp fall air that promises early snow.
The fire inside’s already going, a stew bubbling low on the stove, and I’ve even put out a bottle of wine I found buried in a kitchen cabinet.
Maybe I’ve been working my way back to this since the day she kissed me and I kissed her back.
Her truck pulls up just as the sun dips behind the mountain, casting everything in gold. She hops out wearing jeans and boots, a chunky orange sweater that hugs her curves, and that soft smile that always makes me feel like I can breathe again.
“You cook?” she teases as she steps onto the porch.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I just figured you lived on canned chili and soup.”
“Only in the winter.”
She laughs and ducks inside, and damn if it doesn’t feel like she’s always belonged here. Her presence fills the space—her scent, her laugh, her warmth.
I shut the door behind her. “Storm’s rolling in sooner than they thought. Might not be safe to drive back tonight.”
Her eyes sparkle. “So you’ve lured me here under false pretenses?”
“I’m giving you home-cooked stew and a cozy fire. If that’s not romance, I don’t know what is.”
She takes in the space, the wood beams, the stone fireplace, and the plaid throw on the couch.
“I like it here,” she says softly.
“You don’t miss being surrounded by pumpkin-scented chaos?”
She smirks. “I’ll have you know chaos is a cornerstone of small-town charm.”
I pour her a glass of wine and hand it over. She takes it, fingers brushing mine on purpose, if I’m not mistaken. She’s up to something.
“You hungry?” I ask.
“Starving.”
Dinner is simple—stew, sourdough, leftover pie from her café that she insisted on bringing. We eat by the fire, knees bumping under the table, conversation drifting from kitchen repairs to fall festivals to the ridiculous idea of entering the pumpkin carving contest together.
“Do you even know how to carve a pumpkin?” she asks, skeptical.
“I was a firefighter. I know how to use sharp tools.”
“That’s not exactly a yes.”
We finish the wine. She laughs more than I deserve. And I can’t stop watching the way her lips curve, or how her fingers toy with the edge of her glass when she’s nervous.
“You cold?” I ask when she rubs her hands up and down her arms.
“A little. I think the temperature outside has dropped.”
I stand and toss another log on the fire, then pause. “You want something to sleep in?”
She arches a brow. “I’m staying?”
I nod. “Road’s iced over. You’re not going anywhere tonight.” I’m not sure if that’s precisely true, but it gives us both the permission we need to keep the night going.
She hums, unbothered. “In that case, yes. Something cozy and oversized, please. Bonus points if it smells like you.”
I shoot her a look.
She blinks, all fake innocence. “What?”
“Annie.”
“What?”
“You’re flirting.”
“I am.”
I shake my head, trying not to smile as I dig through a drawer and toss her an old Henley. “Bathroom’s through there.”
She disappears, and when she comes back…
Fuck.
She’s wearing nothing but my shirt. It hits her mid-thigh, sleeves pushed up, collar askew. Her legs are bare. Her hair’s a mess. And she looks like every dream I’ve had for the last damn year.
“You okay?” she asks, pretending not to notice the way I’m staring.
“Not even a little.”
She steps barefoot over to the fire and drops onto the couch, curling her legs beneath her.
“You’re torturing me.”
“I’m getting comfortable.”
“You’re pushing limits.”
She smiles slowly. “Good.”
I sit beside her, and for a moment, we watch the flames dance.
“I thought about that kiss for months,” she says quietly.
My throat tightens. “Me too.”
“I wanted to hate you for walking away.”
“I wanted to stay.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because you deserve more than a man who doesn’t know how to be around people anymore.”
She turns toward me. “You’re around me.”
“Barely.”
“Cal…”
I reach for her. I don’t think. I move.
She’s already there.
Mouth on mine, hands in my hair, legs sliding over my lap as she straddles me on the couch. The fire crackles behind her, casting shadows across her bare thighs, her flushed cheeks.
“You drive me crazy,” she whispers against my lips.
“Right back at you.”
My hands roam under the hem of my shirt—her shirt now—palming her ass, dragging her closer. She grinds down, and I groan, helpless against the way her body fits mine.
“You’re not wearing anything under this,” I growl.
“Nope.”
“Jesus, Annie.”
“You gonna do something about it?”
I stand, gripping her thighs, and press her against the wall in one smooth move. Her back hits the wood paneling, and she gasps, legs tightening around my waist.
I kiss her hard—tongue, teeth, hands everywhere. I’ve lost control and don’t want it back. She tugs my shirt up, fingers skimming my abs, and I grab the hem and yank it off.
She moans. “You’re not fair.”
I slide a hand between her legs. She’s already soaked and warm. “You’re not patient.”
She arches when I slide my fingers through her folds, then dip one inside. Then two. Her breath catches. Her nails dig into my shoulders.
“Cal…”
“You want more?”
“God, yes.”
I drop to my knees, lifting one leg over my shoulder, and bury my face between her thighs. She gasps, loud and sharp, and her head thumps back against the wall.
I lick her slowly, thoroughly, until she’s shaking against me, hips jerking, hands tangled in my hair. Her moans fill the room, high and breathless, until she falls apart with my name on her lips.
I stand, kissing her again, letting her taste herself on my lips. “You taste like cinnamon and sin.”
She’s still panting, dazed. “Your turn.”
She drops to her knees, pulling my jeans open, her mouth wrapping around me with no hesitation. I curse, grabbing the wall behind her, watching her work me over like it’s something she’s craved for months.
I can’t take it anymore. I lift her, carry her to the couch, and sink into her in one slow, aching thrust.
She cries out. She feels like home. Like heat. Like hope.
We move together, slow at first, then rougher—hands gripping, mouths colliding, breath mixing between kisses. I lose myself in her. She meets me thrust for thrust, until we both fall apart, her nails in my back, my name a broken prayer on her lips.
After, we collapse into the couch, tangled limbs and bare skin, hearts thudding in sync. She rests her head on my chest.
“It’s a good thing we didn’t do that at the bakery. I’d never pass the health inspection,” she murmurs.
I laugh, arm tightening around her. “Worth it.”
She glances up. “You gonna disappear on me again?”
I shake my head.
“Good,” she whispers. “Because I’m not letting you go this time.”