Chapter 6
SIX
KATELYN
The mulled wine is half gone and I’m laughing so hard, I’m snorting.
We’re sitting side by side on Chase’s worn-in couch, a mismatched blanket across our knees, the pot between us on the coffee table because we got tired of getting up and going to the stove.
“Okay,” I say, wiping at my eyes. “You have to stop making me laugh or I’m going to choke.”
He grins, that slow, self-satisfied smile that’s half menace and half charm.
“You started it. You said my first cooking job sounded fake.”
“It does,” I say, still giggling. “Then again, who else’s résumé starts with U.S. Army—food service specialist?”
“It’s better than your line about getting your degree from YouTube University.”
I nudge his shoulder. “Hey, I earned that diploma. And you have to admit, my pastries could pass any exam.”
He tilts his glass toward me. “No argument there.”
We clink, drink, and then fall into that easy silence that only happens when the noise in your head finally shuts off. My cheeks are warm from the cider. My heart’s warmer.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
“Depends.”
“Serious question.”
He gestures with his glass. “Shoot.”
“What made you come back here? To the farm.”
“It’s always been home. Even when it stopped making sense.
” He leans back, resting his head against the couch, eyes distant.
“After the Army, I thought I’d go somewhere new.
But Quinn called one night, said the bank was threatening to call in the loan.
I came home for a few weeks to help get things running for the first fall season. ”
He huffs a soft laugh. “A few years later, I’m still here.”
“Because you love it.”
“Because it’s ours,” he says simply. “And because I want my nephew to have a place where the world still feels good. Like there’s room to breathe.”
Something about the way he says ours hits deep. It’s the same reason I bake, really—to build something that feels like belonging.
He glances over. “What about you? Where do you go from here? After you’ve conquered small-town Alaska.”
I trace the rim of my glass. “I’m working on a few show pitches. Online streaming platforms, production companies. I’ve filmed some pilots.”
“That’s huge,” he says. “Why do you sound nervous about it?”
“Because I know what happens when you let someone else decide what you should be. They want a version of you that sells, not the one that tells the truth.” I swallow.
“I want to teach people that cooking isn’t about being perfect—it’s about making something with your hands and feeding someone you love.
If I give that up for ratings, I’ll lose the part that matters. ”
“Then don’t give it up. You don’t need a studio to do that. You just need a kitchen.” He gestures toward his small stove. “Maybe even one like this.”
I laugh softly. “Are you volunteering to be my co-host?”
“Only if I get final say on pastry quality control.”
“Deal.”
The word feels too big, too meaningful for a joke. But we’re both smiling, and the moment holds.
He sets his glass down and turns toward me, knee brushing mine.
“You really could do it, you know, with longer-from videos. You have that thing people want to watch. You make them feel welcome.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not easy. It’s just worth the effort.”
The room tilts slightly. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me. His eyes are warmer now, the usual guarded edge gone. I can feel the heat where his arm rests against mine.
Without thinking, I shift closer. “Are you always this nice after you lose a bet?”
He smiles, low and slow. “Maybe I just needed a reason to stop pretending you annoy me.”
“Oh?” I tease, though my voice comes out huskier than I meant. “And what am I now?”
“Trouble,” he murmurs. “The kind that’s good for you.”
I don’t know who moves first, only that the space between us disappears.
The kiss starts tentative. A soft brush of lips.
Then it deepens, slow and certain, like both of us have been waiting all day for this. His hand slides to my cheek, thumb tracing my jaw. Mine finds the back of his neck.
The world narrows to warmth, to breath, to the taste of wine and spices lingers.
He pulls back just enough to whisper, “Are you sure about this?”
I nod. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
We’re naked in minutes, but it feels like too much time.
My body is aching for this, aching for him. When his bare chests rubs against my breasts, it’s like the first time I tried creme br?lée.
Decadent.
Delicious.
Dangerous.
It’s as if everything that has passed between us—the bickering, the teasing, the coming to like each other—has all been foreplay leading to this.
And I can’t wait another moment to feel him inside of me.
Eyeing me hungrily, Chase pulls me to the sofa in his living room. Once I’m seated, he pushes me down so I am flat on my back. I push up on my elbows in time to watch him kneel between my legs.
His dark eyes meet my gaze as he scrapes the stubble of his day-old beard along my inner thigh. My fingers dig into the bedspread.
He lifts his head again. “I want to hear you scream. Don’t be shy about telling me what you like.”
I nod in agreement.
He gives me a hot, opened-mouthed kiss on my navel in approval. His tongue trails a path down around my bush, leaving goosebumps and tingles in its wake. He presses slow, wet kisses along my thigh. One of his long fingers parts my pussy to find my clit.
His thumb moves around it slowly, sending an instant jolt of pleasure through me.
I cry out.
“Do you like that?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“How about this?”
Continuing to move his thumb around my nub, he slides a finger inside of me.
I let out another sound, one I’ve never made before.
He chuckles. “I will take that as a ‘yes, please, keep doing that.’”
“Yes, please.” I swallow another gasp. “Keep doing that.”
Then I come completely undone as his mouth replaces his thumb.
“Mmm,” he hums against me. “You’re fucking delicious.”
The pleasure builds and grows inside of me as he slides a finger inside of me. I gasp, gripping the comforter, holding on for dear life, as I go over the edge and the orgasm radiates through me.
I call out his name and he stays with me, prolonging the pleasure.
All that exists in this world is Chase and me and what he is doing to my body.
While I draw deep breaths, I am vaguely aware of Chase rising to his feet. A moment later, he rips open the foil of a condom. I lean up again watching as he glides it on with ease.
Pulling me to my feet, Chase leads me to a big picture window overlooking the wilderness, with stars shining above the trees. Kissing my neck, he braces my hands on the back of his couch. He lifts one of my legs, so I’m partially kneeling on it.
His palms move over me, cupping my breast, and fingering me again. While I look down at the city, he enters me in one swift motion.
I cry out, reaching my hand over my shoulder to grab his hair.
He thrusts in and out, faster, harder, with a skill I’ve never experienced before. The fronts of his thighs press against the backs of mine.
As my insides begin to quake again, I hear his breaths quicken. He rides me, pushing us both toward the peak of a mountain taller than Denali.
And when I fall over the edge of pleasure again, I cry out. He groans as he thrusts into me one more time.
When the crackling fire’s light fades to soft gold and everything else disappears but our heartbeats and breathing, I stop thinking about the cameras, the polls, the competition.
There’s just us.
And that’s more than enough.
And the warmth of something real beginning to take root.