3. Finley
FINLEY
I t was amazing what some peanut butter crackers could do.
Logan had made sure I was okay and headed out, telling me to stay on the couch and rest. But the protein and carbs in that small snack gave me a burst of energy.
It propelled me off the couch, giving me the strength to wander around.
I didn’t want to be nosy, but it couldn’t hurt to familiarize myself with the cabin.
That was when I spotted the shower in the bathroom off his bedroom. He wouldn’t mind. In fact, he’d probably want me to. His final words before heading out to get food were, “Make yourself at home.”
And still, it felt weird stripping off my clothes and getting in someone else’s shower naked.
Not just someone else, but a man who sent sparks shooting through my body every time he touched me…
or even looked at me. When he ran that wet wash cloth over my face and lips, there had been such a gentleness to it, like he was worshiping me.
But as soon as the warm water hit my body, I didn’t care whose shower I was in.
It washed over me, removing the last remaining traces of my life on that compound in Nevada.
The mandatory morning study sessions, the constant stream of chores, the judgy looks at almost everything we did or said… all gone.
I was free. Finally free, after a lifetime of dreaming about it.
But something else occurred to me as I stepped out of the shower and dried off.
I was in the cabin of the most handsome man I’d ever seen.
He was straight out of a dream. He was the hero I’d imagined would rescue me someday.
Even if it hadn’t happened the way I pictured, I was here now, ready to start my life with him.
He made it clear that he’d never agreed to bring me tacos and chips and salsa, let alone marry me. But I saw the way he looked at me. He felt this too. I didn’t know what “this” was, but it was the most overpowering feeling I’d ever had. Every cell in my being buzzed.
After wrapping the towel around my body, I looked down at the floor.
My clothes were in a heap. Now that I was clean, I saw how dingy and dusty they were—covered in dirt not just from the past two days of travel, but from being worn for two weeks before I left my family and friends and the only life I’d ever known.
I couldn’t put that back on. It was a symbol of my old life. But my suitcase was full of clothes like this, and I didn’t want to wear them anymore. I’d take anything over clothes from my old life.
I eyed the door to the bedroom. Logan had to have a closet full of clothes. He’d completely understand if I wore something of his, right?
I nudged open the bathroom door and listened. No sounds coming from outside the bedroom. He was still gone. I had time.
I rushed across the room to the door I’d seen next to the dresser. I grabbed one of the gigantic T-shirts, let the towel fall to my feet, and threw it on. Once the T-shirt was in place, I eyed the rest of his closet.
Shorts. He had to have a pair that would fit. Maybe one with a stretchy elastic waistband. It wasn’t like I was tiny. In fact, like my sisters, I developed curves pretty early, and they just kept growing. But no, every single pair of shorts had a button.
Click.
There it was—the unmistakable sound of the gigantic cabin door opening. I froze and looked down. I was covered. The T-shirt fell past my knees, so it wasn’t like I was standing here naked. But without panties on, I felt that way.
Still, I may as well cut my losses. I snatched up the towel and rushed back to the bathroom, hanging it on a hook and piling my clothes in a neat bundle on top of a wicker hamper.
“Hello?” his deep voice called out.
He had no idea where I was. Maybe he thought I’d left. Just headed out the front door and kept walking.
A second “hello,” this one much more frantic.
I rushed out of the bathroom and toward the door, shouting, “In here.”
I barely spoke those two words before the bedroom door burst open. He stood there, a gigantic paper sack in one arm and a plastic bag dangling off the other.
“I took a shower,” I said.
He was staring at me like he’d never seen a woman before. I fought the urge to look down and make sure the shirt covered everything. Maybe I’d misjudged. I bent my knees slightly and felt the fabric sweep across them. Definitely covered.
“My clothes are dirty. In fact, I’m thinking about throwing them away.” I hesitated, then added, “If you don’t mind me wearing yours until I get something.”
I shrugged, and now I glanced down before returning my attention to his face. I couldn’t stop worrying about whether I had enough skin covered, no matter how hard I tried.
He didn’t say anything right away, just kept looking at me like he couldn’t decide what surprised him more—me being in his shirt, or the fact that I clearly had no intention of taking it off. Finally, he shook his head with a huff of laughter and stepped aside, nodding toward the kitchen.
“I, uh…got dinner,” he said. “Tacos, chips, and salsa like I promised. Apparently.”
I smiled, but there was something different about it. Something shy and a little wicked, like the kind of girl I’d never been allowed to be.
He cleared his throat and stepped deeper into the room.
“I wasn’t sure if you drink. You might not.
But I bought tequila and margarita mix. Then I second-guessed myself and stopped by the convenience store, buying every kind of drink I could find.
There’s sparkling water, juice, even some kind of kombucha thing I can’t pronounce. ”
I stared at him. “You didn’t have to do all that.”
“I know, but I wanted to.”
I followed him into the main room, where he began setting things on the kitchen counter. A stack of warm foil containers, a brown paper bag full of chips, and a plastic container of salsa so fresh I could see chunks of tomato and bright green cilantro through the lid.
And beside it all was the tequila bottle. Big and heavy, like a party waiting to happen.
My chest tightened. That bottle might as well have been a loaded weapon based on the way I’d been raised. Alcohol was the root of all evil. I’d never so much as sipped a wine cooler. Drinking was for “the world.” For outsiders. For lost souls. That was what they taught us. Over and over.
But now? Now I was one of those outsiders.
I stood at the counter, staring at the bottle. My fingers curled against the edge, the cool granite pressing into my skin. He was rummaging through drawers, looking for something, giving me the space to decide.
This was it. A crossroads.
The old version of me—the girl with her head bowed and her hands folded, saying no even when everything inside her whispered yes—she would walk away. She’d say, “No thank you. I don’t drink.” She’d feel pride in that, the kind of self-denial we were praised for.
But I wasn’t her anymore. And if I was ever going to take control of my life, why not start here?
“I’ll have a margarita,” I said, barely recognizing my own voice.
He looked up, his eyebrows lifting a little. “You sure?”
I nodded. “I’ve never had one. But I want to.”
He gave me a small smile. Not smug. Not even surprised. Just warm and quiet, like he understood this was more than a drink to me.
He mixed them right there on the counter, his forearms flexing as he shook the cocktail shaker like he’d done it a hundred times. He poured the drinks into mismatched glasses—one mason jar, one actual margarita glass—and handed me the mason jar with a grin.
“Ladies first.”
The rim was crusted with salt, a wedge of lime hanging off the side like a wink. I took it with both hands, lifted it to my lips, and took a sip.
It was sweet, tart, and cold. A little like freedom. That thought made me laugh—a laugh that bubbled up from somewhere deep inside.
“That good?” he asked.
“It tastes…naughty.”
He chuckled and clinked his glass against mine. “Then cheers to naughtiness.”
We moved to the sofa, balancing our plates on our laps. He turned on some low music from a speaker tucked behind a lamp—something twangy and easygoing—and I curled my bare legs beneath me as I bit into my first taco.
Food on the couch. That was another thing we couldn’t do back home. Meals belonged at the table. With structure. With rules.
Here? I was eating tacos and drinking a margarita on a plush couch in an oversized T-shirt that smelled like the man sitting beside me.
It wasn’t just good. It was the best thing I’d ever tasted. And maybe, just maybe, this was what it felt like to start living.