Chapter 5
FIVE
LONDON
Kissing Troy Taylor is a lot like getting caught in the storm all over again.
By the time he finally pulls back, I’m breathless enough that I barely remember my own name. His forehead rests lightly against mine while both of us try to catch our breath.
The fire crackles softly behind us.
Neither of us speaks. Mostly because I think we’re both a little stunned by what just happened.
“Well,” I whisper finally.
Troy’s thumb brushes slowly across my jaw. “Well,” he agrees roughly.
I should probably say something smart after a kiss like that. Something flirtatious. Mysterious. Seductive.
Instead, what comes out is: “So… are all the criminals in Swift Mountain secretly good kissers, or just you?”
A startled laugh escapes him.
My stomach promptly somersaults at the sound. I’m doomed.
Troy shakes his head slightly like he can’t quite believe me either.
Catching my shaky breath, his expression softens immediately. Not smug. Not cocky.
Careful. As if my feelings matter to him.
“I’m not gonna hurt you, London.”
The quiet certainty in his voice wraps around something bruised deep inside me.
Because Caleb used to say things like:
“You’re overreacting.”
“You’re too sensitive.”
“I’m trying to help you.”
But Troy?
Troy sounds like a man making a promise. And somehow that feels infinitely more dangerous.
Outside, wind rattles against the cabin windows hard enough to make me jump slightly.
Troy notices immediately.
“Storm’s getting worse,” he says. “Power probably won’t come back tonight.”
I glance toward the couch. Then toward him. Then toward the very obvious single bedroom door down the hallway.
“Oh.”
One dark eyebrow lifts slightly.
“I can take the couch,” he says.
Except the couch is barely long enough for me, let alone a six-foot-something mountain man built like a grizzly bear with emotional repression issues.
“That couch looks like it’ll kill your back.”
“I’ll survive.”
I hesitate.
Because inviting the terrifyingly attractive outlaw into bed with me feels like the beginning of several very questionable decisions.
Then again… I already kissed him.
At this point, the poor decision ship has probably sailed.
“You could just…” My voice trails off awkwardly. “Share the bed.”
Troy goes completely still. Heat blooms low in my stomach under the weight of his gaze.
“You sure?” he asks quietly.
The fact that he asks at all makes me want him more.
“Yes.”
The word comes out softer than I intended. But I mean it. Very much.
An hour and a can of soup later, we bring up going to bed again. It’s not like there’s anything else to do.
The room is dark except for faint firelight, painting soft gold shadows across his face.
“You know,” I murmur into the darkness, “most men would be taking advantage of this situation.”
Troy turns his head slightly toward mine. “Most men worth a damn wouldn’t.”
That answer hits me squarely in the belly. Before I can recover, his fingers slide gently along my arm.
Slow. Tentative. Giving me time and space to stop him. I don’t want him to. I move closer. His sharp inhale cuts through the darkness instantly.
“Troy,” I whisper.
That’s all it takes. One second he’s holding himself back. The next, he’s kissing me again like restraint finally snapped clean in half.
His hand cups my waist, pulling me against the hard heat of his body while his mouth moves hungrily against mine.
The man kisses like he’s starving. Not rushed. Not careless. With intention. With care. Like he wants to memorize every sound I make. Every place that makes me shiver beneath him.
Every inch of my body.
Another gust of wind slams against the cabin hard enough to rattle the windows.
The fire suddenly spits violently.
Then smoke billows into the room.
“Oh my God—”
Troy moves across the room with a flash.
“London. Get low.”
Adrenaline spikes through me immediately.
Smoke curls thick near the ceiling while Troy crouches beside the fireplace, adjusting something near the flue with quick, practiced movements.
I grab my phone off the table with shaking hands. “Should I call someone?”
“Swift Mountain Fire & Rescue won’t make it up here in this storm,” Troy says without even looking up. “Open that window two inches. No more.”
I obey instantly.
Cold air rushes into the cabin while Troy works fast beside the firebox, checking airflow and clearing the smoke.
Within minutes, the worst of it starts fading. My pulse is still racing.
Troy finally straightens, one hand braced against the mantle. “You okay?”
I stare at him. He frowns worriedly. “Are you okay?”
“That,” I say breathlessly. “You handled that like some kind of mountain survival expert crossed with a Navy SEAL.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“It kind of felt like a big deal from where I was standing.”
His gaze flicks toward me.
“You move like someone trained for emergencies,” I say carefully.
Or, at the very least, someone who has to get themselves out of tough situations. Silence stretches between us.
He clears his throat. “People learn things.”
It’s not an explanation. Not even close. And that only makes me more curious. Who is this man?
Troy watches me through the fading smoke like he’s trying to decide how much of himself he’s willing to let me see.