Chapter 7 Mila #2
I nod, trying to be supportive, trying to be the kind of woman who doesn’t cling.
But my chest aches anyway.
Beau crosses to the bed and cups my jaw, thumb brushing my lip like he remembers it intimately.
“I’ll be back,” he says, voice low. “Stay here.”
I try to smile. “Bossy.”
He leans closer until his forehead touches mine. “Protective.”
My breath catches.
He kisses me once—gentle, promising—then pulls away and grabs his jacket.
I watch him move through the cabin like he belongs in it, like he belongs with me.
And the thought hits so hard it steals my air:
I want him to belong with me.
That’s when the fear wakes up.
Big and sharp and cruel.
Because wanting Beau doesn’t feel like a crush or a fling or a fun story I’ll tell my friends later.
Wanting Beau feels like stepping off a ledge and trusting that something will catch me.
My whole life, I’ve been the woman men liked… but didn’t keep.
Too curvy. Too emotional. Too much.
And Beau?
Beau looks at me like I’m exactly enough.
That kind of gaze can change you.
And if it changes me—if I let it—then losing it will destroy me.
Beau pauses by the door, hand on the knob, like he senses the shift in me.
“Mila.”
“Yeah?” My voice is too bright.
He studies me. “Lock it behind me.”
I nod. “I will.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “And eat.”
I give him a salute. “Yes, sir.”
The corner of his mouth lifts—barely.
Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut.
The cabin quiets again.
And my heart starts pounding like it knows something my brain doesn’t want to admit.
An hour later, I’m at the table with coffee and toast I barely taste.
I try to write. The words won’t come.
I try to read. The sentences blur.
My eyes keep flicking to the window, to the road, to the place where Beau’s truck disappeared.
My phone buzzes.
A new text.
June: Morning, sweetheart!
Beau left for a call, I assume?
Don’t worry. He always comes back.
I stare at the message.
He always comes back.
Does he?
Or is that just what June tells herself so she can breathe?
I text back before I can overthink it.
Me: June… why is Beau really up on that mountain? Like… why does he live like this?
Three dots appear for a long time.
Then:
June: Because he doesn’t believe he’s allowed to be happy.
June: Because he thinks if he wants something, he’ll lose it.
June: And because the last time he loved a woman, he didn’t get to keep her.
My throat closes.
I set the phone down slowly, like it’s heavy.
Last time he loved a woman…
I didn’t know that. He never said anything. He never hinted.
He kissed me like he was starving, yes—but hunger doesn’t always mean hope. Sometimes hunger is just pain looking for somewhere to go.
A cold thread slides through me.
What if I’m just… relief?
Warmth?
A moment?
What if I’m the first soft thing he’s touched in years and he thinks it’s love because he forgot what love feels like?
And what if he realizes that later—after I’ve already let myself fall?
I push away from the table and pace the cabin, heart galloping.
I should talk to him.
I should wait until he comes back and ask him, gently, about the woman. About what he’s running from.
But the fear in me doesn’t want gentle.
It wants escape.
Because if I leave first, it can’t hurt as much.
If I leave first, I can tell myself it was my choice.
I go to the bedroom like I’m on autopilot.
I start packing.
I shove sweaters into my duffel. I grab toiletries. I don’t fold anything. I just move fast, like speed will keep my heart from catching up.
Halfway through, I stop with one of my boots in my hand and stare at myself in the mirror.
My eyes look different.
Softer.
Wrecked.
Like a woman who was held all night and believed it.
My throat tightens so hard I have to swallow twice.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
The answer comes anyway, ugly and honest.
Protecting myself.
I hate myself for it.
I keep packing.
I leave a note on the kitchen counter because I’m not a monster.
My handwriting shakes.
Beau,
Thank you for saving me. Thank you for… last night.
I’m sorry. I just— I can’t do this.
You deserve someone who isn’t afraid.
—Mila
I stare at it and immediately feel sick.
Because I know that line—you deserve someone who isn’t afraid—is just a prettier way of saying I’m running because I don’t trust happiness.
I grab my keys and my bag.
The cabin feels like it watches me go.
Outside, the sun is brighter than it has any right to be. The snow sparkles. The air is sharp and clean.
Darlene starts on the first try like she’s proud of herself.
I pull out of the clearing and drive down the lane.
My hands are numb on the steering wheel, even with gloves.
When I reach the main road, I glance in the rearview mirror.
Bluebird cabin disappears behind the trees.
And something in my chest cracks.
I make it to Timber Creek before the first tear falls.
Then I’m pulling into a gas station on the edge of town, gripping the steering wheel, breathing hard like I’ve just run miles instead of fleeing a man who made me feel cherished.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
My stomach flips.
I answer with shaking fingers. “Hello?”
Beau’s voice comes through, low and edged with something I’ve never heard from him before.
“Mila.”
My breath catches so hard it hurts. “Beau—”
“Where are you?” he asks.
Not are you okay.
Not what happened.
Where are you?
Like he already knows.
Like he already feels the empty space.
“I…” I swallow, trying to make the words come out steady. They don’t. “I’m— I’m heading home.”
Silence.
Then his voice drops even lower. Dangerous now.
“Turn around.”
I close my eyes, a tear slipping free. “Beau, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he says, rough. “Because I’m not done with you.”
My heart stutters.
“I left you a note,” I whisper.
“I read it,” he snaps. “And it’s bullshit.”
I flinch.
Then, quieter—like he’s fighting himself too—he adds, “You don’t get to decide what I deserve.”
My throat tightens. “Beau…”
“I’m coming,” he says. “Stay where you are.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone, breathing hard.
Outside, the mountains loom in the distance—beautiful and merciless.
And for the first time since I got here, I realize the most dangerous thing on Wedding Cake Mountain isn’t the snow.
It’s the way Beau Wilder makes me want to believe in forever.