3. Acacia
ACACIA
T he sunlight doesn’t stand a chance against the storm, leaving the cabin bathed in a thick, charcoal twilight. I wake up in a bed that feels like a continent, wrapped in furs and the lingering scent of cedar and something dark, sharp, and entirely male.
I push myself up, the oversized flannel Bennett put me in sliding off one shoulder. My body aches, a dull reminder of the crash. But the cold that threatened to swallow me whole has been replaced by a heavy, radiating warmth.
I find my savior in the main room, a silhouette of sheer power framed against the flickering orange glow of the hearth.
He’s crouched by the fire, his back turned to me, and even from here, the heat radiating from the hearth feels secondary to the sheer presence of him.
The heavy cotton of his charcoal shirt is stretched tight, the fabric straining as the muscles of his shoulders shift and ripple like tectonic plates with every movement of the poker.
He’s huge, a true mountain of a man who looks as if he were carved directly out of the jagged rock this cabin sits upon. There’s something primal in the way he moves, a raw, unyielding strength that makes the sturdy log walls around him look fragile.
I find myself rooted to the spot, unable to look away from the way the firelight catches the corded tension in his neck and the massive, scarred hands that handle the iron tools with a terrifyingly controlled grace.
He isn't just a man living in the wilderness, he is the wilderness.
And I am a tiny bird caught in the center of his storm.
"You're awake," he says without turning. His voice is a low rumble that makes my toes curl into the plush rug.
"I am," I whisper, stepping closer. "Thank you for... everything. The clothes, the bed. Oh, and the whole pulling-me-out-of-my-car-and-saving-my-life thing, too. That was noteworthy." I end my awkward attempt at appreciation by rocking back and forth on my feet and staring intently at the rug.
I’m drawn to the movement of Bennett’s frame, pulling my eyes toward him once more.
He stands, the sheer height of him forcing me to tilt my head back.
He’s grumpy, his brow furrowed in a permanent scowl, and there’s a scar cutting through his right eyebrow that gives him a dangerous, jaded edge.
But when his blue eyes meet mine, I see it: the restraint.
He’s holding himself back, standing a foot further away than he needs to, his large hands clenched at his sides as if he’s afraid that touching me again might break me.
"The storm isn't letting up," he grunts, gesturing toward the window where the white-out conditions have turned the world into a blur. "The pass is blocked. You’re stuck here for at least a few days. Maybe longer."
"A few days?" I try to sound concerned, but a treacherous part of me hums with excitement. The thought of being trapped here, in this cocoon of cedar and snow with this giant of a man, makes my pulse do a nervous little dance. "I hope I'm not too much of a burden."
"You're a guest," he corrects. The word is heavy, landing between us like a challenge he’s issuing to himself. He’s trying to be soft for me. I can see the conscious effort in the way he keeps his shoulders from squaring and how he rounds the sharp edges of his movements, but it’s like watching a mountain lion try to act like a house cat.
Bennett offers me a mug of steaming coffee, his hand moving toward mine with agonizing slowness.
His hand is massive, the knuckles scarred and the skin tanned to a deep bronze that contrasts sharply with the white ceramic.
He could easily crush the mug with a flick of his wrist, yet his grip is so careful it’s almost reverent.
As I reach out, my smaller, pale fingers brush against his.
The contact is electric. His skin is rough, calloused and hot.
So hot, that it feels like he’s carrying the hearth fire in his veins.
He doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, his thumb grazes the back of my hand, a slow, dragging motion that tracks the delicate line of my bones.
I look up, catching his gaze, and for a second, I forget to breathe.
Up close, his eyes aren't just blue, they’re the color of a glacier under a mid-winter sun - sharp, piercing, and startlingly clear.
They are the eyes of a man who has seen too much, jaded and rugged around the edges, yet there is an intensity in his stare that pins me to the spot.
He isn't just looking at me, he’s tracking me.
His eyes follow the pulse jumping in my throat, then flick up to my mouth before locking back onto mine with a watchful, fierce protectiveness that makes me feel like the most valuable thing in his world.
"Eat," he says, his voice dropping an octave. It sounds more like a command than a suggestion. "You're too thin. I won't have you fading away on my watch."
I give a stilted, half-hearted laugh, not sure how to take his comment. Is he being sarcastic? I’m in no danger of fading away. I’ve always been a bigger girl, with wide hips that knock things off tables, thick thighs, and as my mother liked to remind me, too much junk in the trunk.
However, one look at the man standing in front of me, and I know he’s completely serious.
Bennett’s gaze lingers on the curve of my hip where the flannel bunches, and I realize with a jolt of heat that his restraint isn't just about my safety. He’s protecting me from himself .
And God help me, it only makes me want to reach out and pull that beastly tension right to the surface.
My rugged mountain man points to the singular chair at the small kitchen table, motioning silently for me to sit. A second later, he supplies me with a plate piled high with eggs, bacon, and what appear to be homemade biscuits.
I planned to only take a few bites, but when the savory scent hits my nostrils, my stomach groans at the reminder of what it’s been denied for too long. Before long, I’m shoveling the last of the eggs into my mouth. It’s only then I realize I attacked the meal like a bear.
“More?” Bennett asks in a husky tone, drawing my gaze to his. The look in his eyes makes me gasp softly. His blue irises shine with approval and pride, almost as if he liked providing this for me.
“No, really, I had more than my fair share. Thank you, though. You’ll have to add this meal to my tab,” I add for no reason other than I can’t seem to shut up.
I need something to do, something else to focus on other than the brooding, growling, sexy-as-hell man I’ll be spending the next few days in close quarters with.
My eyes wander around Bennett’s home while he gathers up my plate and starts on dishes. I’d offer to help, but he takes up the entire sink counter with his broad shoulders.
The cabin is beautiful in its ruggedness, a masterpiece of heavy cedar beams and stacked stone, but it’s devastatingly bare.
Every corner is stripped of the unnecessary, leaving behind a space that feels more like a fortress than a home.
There are no photographs on the mantle, no soft rugs other than the functional furs, and not a single trinket to suggest a life enjoyed rather than just endured.
It is a place built for survival, for hunkering down against a world that has clearly taken too much from the man who built it.
The hollow loneliness of the cabin mirrors Bennett perfectly; functional, formidable, and entirely empty of joy.
I get an idea, but I’m not sure if he’d go for it. However, the crafty, enthusiastic part of me that the city and my past always tried to dim, starts to itch under my skin. I look at the sterile surfaces and the cold, dark corners, and I feel a desperate need to leave a mark.
I might not be able to fix the jagged holes in Bennett’s soul or smooth out the scars he carries, but I can certainly brighten the walls he lives within.
If I don't find a way to channel this energy into something creative, the simmering, heavy tension vibrating between us in this small space is going to burn me alive.
"It’s a bit... dark in here, don't you think?" I ask, giving him a playful smile. I find a jar of dried wildflowers on a high shelf and some twine in a drawer. "Do you mind if I brighten things up?"
Bennett furrows his brow and tilts his head to one side before shrugging his shoulders.
He leans against the far wall and watches me, bewildered, as I begin to string the flowers along the mantle.
I hum to myself, flitting around his space, adding touches of vibrant life where there was once only the heavy silence of gray and brown.
Every time I pass him, the air between us sparks, a physical vibration that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.
I catch him tracking the sway of my hips with a gaze so dark and hungry it feels like a physical weight against my skin.
He’s standing near the heavy oak table, and as I reach for another sprig of lavender, my hip brushes against his thigh.
Even through the thick denim of his jeans, his heat is a searing, solid brand that sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to my core.
He doesn’t move away; instead, he seems to lean into the contact, a low, barely audible rumble vibrating in his chest.
His entire body twitches, and then he turns away from me, mumbling something about needing to dust. I continue to pick through kitchen drawers and cabinets, eventually moving on to the mud room where it looks like he stores a few things.
Satisfied with my haul of mason jars, colorful rocks, vines, and a surprise discovery of white Christmas lights, I head back to the living room to finish decorating. Bennett has returned, a dust rag in hand.
We work in silence, cleaning and sprucing up the place while snow and hail pound against the windows.
As I move to drape a vine over a bookshelf, our hands collide.
His large, calloused fingers wrap around my hand to steady me, his palm rough against the sensitive skin of my wrist. The contrast is intoxicating, my softness pinned against his rugged strength.
His fingertips graze my pulse point, and for a heartbeat, his thumb sweeps over my skin in a slow, deliberate circle that makes my knees go weak.
It’s a silent, heavy promise of what those hands could do if he stopped fighting himself.
I want to see the wild side he’s keeping under wraps.
I want to feel what happens when that iron-clad restraint finally snaps and lets the beast take what it wants.
I pull my hand away, positive that he can somehow read my thoughts, and reach up to tuck a sprig of lavender behind a beam. My foot slips on the rug, and before I can even gasp, he’s there.
Bennett’s hands catch my waist, pulling me flush against his rock-hard chest. The sparks of fire from each of our innocent touches throughout the day rush to the surface.
The lust and heat is instantaneous. This time, I do gasp, my breath hitching as I look up into those steel blue eyes.
His growl is low this time, more of a purr that vibrates against my skin.
"Careful, Acacia," he breathes, his face inches from mine.
The world narrows down to the scent of him and the pulse jumping in his neck. I lean in, my eyes fluttering shut, my heart hammering against my ribs. I want him to be my first kiss. I want to feel that heady strength claim me. Our lips are less than an inch apart when he suddenly stiffens.
Bennett practically drops me, stumbling back with a flustered, panicked look on his face.
"I... the snow," he barks, his voice tight and strained. "I need to shovel the porch."
He grabs his heavy coat and disappears into the white chaos of the storm without another word, leaving me standing in the middle of his newly decorated cabin, breathless and aching for the man who pulled me out of the snow and gave me a safe place to land.