Chapter 4 Beau #2
Mila’s cheeks flush. “I’m a writer. It’s… a hazard.”
“Mm,” I murmur. “Dangerous.”
She laughs, but it’s nervous. “You make me nervous.”
The honesty in her voice punches the air out of my lungs.
I turn my head toward her fully. “Why.”
Because it’s not a question. It’s a need.
Mila’s eyes are wide, shining in the firelight. “Because you’re… you.”
“That doesn’t answer me.”
She swallows. “Because you look at me like you’re thinking things.”
I don’t deny it.
I lean closer, just a little, enough that I feel her warmth. Enough that her scent—clean soap, cocoa, something soft—fills my lungs.
“I am thinking things,” I say quietly.
Her breath catches. “Like what?”
I lift a hand—slow, giving her time—then touch the edge of her messy bun where a strand of hair has escaped. I wrap it around my finger gently.
Mila goes still like a skittish animal.
But she doesn’t pull away.
“I’m thinking,” I say, voice low, “that you’re brave for coming up here alone.”
Her lips part.
“I’m thinking you don’t give yourself enough credit.”
Her eyes flick down to my mouth—then back up fast.
“And I’m thinking,” I add, letting the words drag, “that I shouldn’t want to touch you as much as I do.”
Silence.
The fire pops.
Mila’s voice comes out small. “Why shouldn’t you?”
Because wanting is how you lose control.
Because wanting turns into needing.
Because needing turns into pain.
I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I slide my fingers under her chin and tilt her face up gently. “Because I’m not… good at this.”
Mila’s brows knit. “At what?”
“At letting myself have something,” I say, honest in a way that tastes like rust.
Her gaze softens. “Maybe you don’t have to be good. Maybe you just have to… try.”
My chest tightens so hard it hurts.
I lean in, slow. Close enough that her breath brushes my mouth. Close enough that I feel her tremble.
“Mila,” I murmur, like a warning.
She whispers, “Beau.”
That’s it.
That’s the line snapping.
I kiss her—gentle at first, just a press of my mouth to hers, like I’m testing whether it’s real.
It’s real.
She makes a soft sound, barely there, and her hand lifts to my chest like she’s checking I’m solid.
I deepen it, just a little. My thumb strokes along her jaw. Her lips part under mine, warm and yielding, and heat runs through me so fast it’s almost violent.
Years of nothing.
Years of distance.
And then her—sweet and steady and letting me.
I pull back a fraction, breathing hard. “Tell me to stop.”
Her eyes are dazed, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. “I don’t want you to.”
My control frays.
I kiss her again—slower, hungrier—then drag my mouth to the corner of hers, tasting cocoa and soup and something that feels like home.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, holding on.
I force myself to break away, forehead resting against hers as I fight my own body. “This is a bad idea.”
Mila’s laugh is shaky. “You’re the one who kissed me.”
“I know,” I grit out, because that’s the problem.
She leans in, brushing her mouth against mine again like she’s not afraid of my edges. “Then maybe don’t make it bad.”
My hands slide to her waist, gripping carefully—like I’m afraid I’ll bruise her with how much I want her. She’s soft under my palms, curves fitting perfectly like my hands were built for this.
A low sound rumbles in my throat, and Mila’s eyes widen like she feels it.
“Beau,” she whispers again, and it sounds like my name is something she could beg with.
I pull back—just enough to look her in the face.
Her pupils are blown. Her cheeks are pink. She looks at me like I’m not a threat—like I’m something she wants.
It breaks me a little.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—once, then again.
Reality pounding on the door.
I curse under my breath, not taking my eyes off her as I fish it out.
A text from Ryder: WEATHER SHIFT. ROAD’S GETTING WORSE. DILLON SAYS GET BACK.
I close my eyes for a second.
Mila watches me, breathing hard. “Is everything okay?”
I slide my phone back into my pocket, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
It’s a lie. Everything is not okay.
Because I’m sitting on a couch with a woman I just kissed like I’ve been starving, and now I have to leave her here while my body screams to stay.
I stand, forcing space between us before I do something I won’t be able to take back.
Mila rises too, slower, like she’s reluctant. “You’re leaving.”
“I have to,” I say, voice rough.
She nods, biting her lip like she’s trying not to look disappointed.
It works. It doesn’t.
I move toward the door, then stop and turn back.
Mila’s eyes lift to mine.
I hold her gaze for a long beat, letting myself feel it—this pull, this heat, this impossible sweetness.
“Sunday,” I say.
Her brows lift. “Sunday?”
“Dinner,” I clarify, like it’s not the most dangerous sentence I’ve spoken in years. “June’s going to corner you. Don’t let her scare you.”
Mila’s mouth quirks faintly. “I’m more scared of you than June.”
I step closer again before I can stop myself, lowering my voice. “You shouldn’t be.”
Her breath catches.
I reach up and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, slow and careful. “Lock your door tonight,” I say.
“I will,” she whispers.
“And Mila?”
“Yes?”
My gaze drops to her mouth again—those swollen lips I did that to—and my voice goes even lower. “Don’t overthink that kiss.”
Her cheeks blaze. “I wasn’t going to.”
I lift an eyebrow.
She huffs. “Okay, I was.”
A sound like a laugh slips out of me—quiet, surprised.
Then I step back, because if I don’t leave now, I won’t leave at all.
I open the door, cold air rushing in, and pause on the threshold.
Mila stands in the cabin light, sweater soft, eyes bright, mouth still kissed.
A curvy complication.
A woman I shouldn’t want.
A woman I do.
I force myself into the snow and shut the door behind me.
But the warmth of her stays on my mouth the whole drive back up the mountain.