Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
BECK
Morning comes with her body curled against mine, her hair across my pillow, one warm hand flat on my chest. Slag is at our feet.
The cabin smells like the fireplace embers from last night.
Outside, the birds are doing their thing and the sun is cutting through the pines at the angle that means it's past seven.
Best morning I've had in two years. Maybe longer.
Piper shifts in her sleep. Presses closer. Her bare thigh slides across mine under the quilt and her breath catches, then settles. I stay still, memorizing it. The weight of her. The way her fingers curl against my sternum.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Road crew's out. Pass should be clear by this afternoon. Tow truck can get to her car by 3. Let me know. — Parker
The ceiling stares back at me while I read it twice.
Clear by this afternoon. Tow truck at three. She can be in Reno by dinner. Back in Vegas by tomorrow morning. Back to her firm, her clients, her apartment, her life. The estate sale that started all of this.
Good. That's good. That's what's supposed to happen.
She wakes up while I'm making coffee. Comes out of the bedroom in the flannel shirt, bare legs, hair wrecked, looking like she belongs here so completely that my hands forget what they're doing and pour coffee directly onto the counter.
"Smooth," she says, grinning.
"The percolator's tricky."
"The percolator is fine. You're staring at my legs."
True. Mopping up the spill gives me something to do with my hands that isn't reaching for her.
She sits at the table. Accepts the coffee mug. Takes a sip. Wrinkles her nose because it's still black, still too strong, and she still hasn't complained once about it in three days.
"Parker texted," I say. "Road should be clear by this afternoon. Tow truck can get your car at three."
The mug pauses at her lips. Just a beat. Then she sets it down.
"Oh. Okay."
"He said the car might just need a jump. Could be the alternator. Either way, the tow gets it to a shop in Whisper Vale."
"Right. That makes sense." She wraps both hands around the mug. "So. This afternoon."
The cabin is quiet. Slag jumps onto the table, which he's never done before. Piper scratches his ear without looking at him. Her eyes are on me. Steady, open, waiting for me to say something.
Say something. Anything. Tell her you want her to stay. Tell her last night changed everything. Tell her you haven't felt this alive since before Jenna left and that scares you shitless but you'd rather be scared with her than comfortable alone.
"You should call your family once you've got signal," I say. "Your mom's probably worried."
The light in her eyes dims. Just slightly. Like a lamp turned down one notch.
"Yeah. She's probably left forty voicemails by now."
"And the estate sale. You said it was time-sensitive."
"It is." Her voice is careful now. Measured. "The seller is only holding pieces until Friday."
"Then you'll want to get moving."
She stares at me. Sets the mug down harder than necessary.
"What are you doing?"
"What do you mean?"
"This. The logistics. The 'you should get moving.' You sound like a concierge checking me out of a hotel."
"I'm being practical."
"You're being a coward."
That lands. Square in the center of my chest where her hand was two hours ago.
"Piper."
"No." She stands. The chair scrapes against the floor. "Don't 'Piper' me in that quiet, careful voice. Last night you told me you were falling for me. This morning you're scheduling my tow truck and talking about my mother. So which is it?"
Both. Both things are true and that's the whole problem. Last night was real. Every word, every touch, every sound she made. Real enough that watching her leave today is going to gut me. Which means I need her to leave before it gets worse.
"You live in Las Vegas," I tell her. "You've got a career, a business to build, a life with people in it. I live on a mountain with a cat and a forge. No cell signal. No restaurants. No clients within a hundred miles. This was three days, Piper. Three good days. But that's what they were."
Her face goes still. The dimples disappear. Something behind her eyes shutters closed.
"Three days," she repeats.
"I'm not going to be the reason you put your life on hold.
You just told me last night you've been playing it safe for six years.
Going full-time with the business is the opposite of safe.
You need to be in Vegas for that. Or Reno.
Somewhere with people, with signal, with a world that doesn't shut down when the road washes out. "
"So you're making that choice for me."
"I'm being realistic."
"You're being your ex-wife."
The words land like a slap. My jaw locks.
"You're saying the exact same thing she said to you," Piper continues.
Her voice shakes but she doesn't look away.
"That this life isn't enough. That the cabin and the forge and the isolation are too much for someone to want.
She was wrong, Beck. And you standing here repeating her words like they're yours doesn't make them true. "
"They are mine. I lived it. She walked out that door because this wasn't enough. I'm trying to save you the trip."
"I'm not her."
"I know that."
"Do you? Because right now you're treating me exactly like a woman who's about to leave. Pushing me out before I can choose to stay."
Slag drops off the table. Walks to the door. Even the cat doesn't want to be here for this.
"The tow truck comes at three," I say. Quiet. Final. Hating every word. "Parker will drive you to your car. The shop in town can handle the repair. You'll be in Reno by tonight."
She stares at me for a long time. Long enough that I have to look away because those brown eyes are seeing every weak, scared part of me and I can't take it.
"Fine." She turns toward the bedroom. Stops in the doorway. Doesn't look back. "For the record, I wasn't going to leave. I was going to ask you to let me come back."
The bedroom door closes. Not a slam. Worse. A quiet click.
The next two hours are the longest of my life.
She changes back into the sundress, which I washed and hung to dry on the porch railing yesterday morning while she slept because it was filthy and she had nothing else.
She leaves the flannel folded on the bed.
The wool socks on top. The book about Japanese bladesmithing on the nightstand, open to the page she was reading.
Parker's truck rolls up at two forty-five. He's brought a pair of hiking boots that belong to his wife. Close to Piper's size. She puts them on without looking at me.
"Beck." Parker tips his hat. Reads the room in about two seconds. "I'll, uh, be in the truck."
At the door, her backpack over one shoulder, she finally turns.
"Your kitchen is better now," she says. "You're welcome."
Then she walks out.
Parker's truck disappears down the fire road. Dust settles. The clearing goes quiet. Slag sits on the porch railing, staring at the empty road, then turns to look at me with his one good eye.
"Don't," I tell him.
Inside, the cabin is wrong. The wildflowers are still in the mason jar. The mugs are still reorganized. The spice rack is still alphabetized. The bed still smells like her perfume underneath the flannel and the smoke.
Sitting in the leather chair by the cold fireplace, I stare at the folded flannel she left on the bed. The one she wore for two days. The one that smelled like her when I picked it up after she left and held it to my face like a man who just made the worst mistake of his life.
Because I did.
She was going to ask to come back. And I told her to go.