Chapter 2
Clover
Warmth pins me in place before I’m fully awake.
The quilt is heavy over my legs, sunlight soft against my cheek, and behind me Simon breathes slow and deep against the back of my neck. For a while I stay exactly where I am, letting the quiet morning wrap around me.
No phone buzzing on the nightstand. No alarm. No checkout time looming over me.
Only the cabin shifting gently with the morning and the occasional whisper of wind through the trees beyond the window.
A blue jay calls out, its sharp cry echoing through the quiet woods.
The faint scent of last night’s fire still lingers in the air, mixing with Simon’s warm skin and the clean cotton of the sheets.
His arm is draped over my waist, palm spread low against my stomach like he fell asleep holding me there and never let go.
Memory arrives all at once, bright and overwhelming.
The drive up the mountain with my hand wrapped around a paper coffee cup while his rested warm on my knee.
The porch light spilling across the gravel.
His mouth on mine before the front door even closed.
The rough scrape of his jaw against my skin.
The low sound he made when I kissed him back like I’d been thinking about it all day too.
Heat blooms across my face. Every part of me feels deliciously sore—my throat still tender from yesterday, my thigh faintly throbbing where the epinephrine injector hit, my lips swollen in a way that has nothing to do with bees. But none of that compares to the ache blooming under my ribs.
Because it would be far too easy to stay here.
His body is all solid warmth and muscle at my back.
Cedar and soap cling to the sheets. The mattress dips slightly beneath us, old springs giving a soft sigh.
His breath fans warm and steady against my neck, ruffling the tiny hairs there and sending pleasant shivers down my spine.
One bare foot is tangled with mine beneath the blankets.
There’s something dangerously domestic about waking up like this.
Dangerous because it feels nice. Dangerous because it feels easy.
Dangerous because some reckless little part of me could get used to this.
Yesterday morning I was filming b-roll outside the visitor center, trying not to stare at the hot firefighter leading the trail tour. Yesterday afternoon he saved my life. Last night I ended up naked in his bed.
And now morning has arrived, carrying all the things I refused to think about in the dark.
What comes next?
I already know the answer. Nothing.
That was always the plan. Crescent Ridge was supposed to be a stop—a beautiful, unexpected one. Worth staying a few extra days for, maybe. Then I’d keep moving. That’s how this works. That’s how it’s always worked.
I’ve always been better at goodbye than hello. Easier to keep moving than risk putting down roots that might get ripped up later. But Simon… he makes me want to rewrite that rule. The thought of driving away from Crescent Ridge—from him—sits heavy in my stomach like a slab of concrete.
There’s comfort in motion. A packed bag. A charged camera battery. A hotel key dropped at the front desk before sunrise. No roots means nothing gets left behind. No roots means nothing can ask me to stay.
So why does the thought of leaving feel so heavy this morning?
A sleepy breath stirs the hair at the nape of my neck. Simon shifts behind me but doesn’t wake. His hand flexes once against my skin, and my chest tightens hard enough to sting.
Carefully, I curl my fingers around his wrist and lift until I can slip free. The mattress gives under my weight as I sit up. Cold air skims across my shoulders.
Yesterday’s clothes are scattered across the bedroom floor in a trail that’s both incriminating and oddly impressive. My tank top hangs off the rocking chair. Shorts near the dresser. Bra dangling from the antler lamp beside the bed. I stare at the evidence and a smile threatens—then fades.
Last night wasn’t a mistake. That’s almost worse.
Because it was fun. Tender in places I hadn’t expected.
Greedy in others. Simon kissed like a man who’d been trying not to touch me since we met and finally ran out of patience.
Then he held me afterward like I’d broken open something in him.
Like he couldn’t quite believe I was real.
The memory makes my throat tighten.
My backpack waits beside the bedroom door, zipped and ready. On the nightstand, my camera batteries blink green on the charger. Full.
I stop cold.
Simon must’ve plugged them in while I was asleep. It’s such a stupidly practical thing. Five seconds of effort. No grand gesture. No reason for it to matter.
Except somehow it does. More than the kiss. More than him carrying me down the mountain. More than him memorizing my coffee order. He saw something that needed doing and did it for me before I even realized it needed doing.
Nobody does things like that for me. Not because they have to. Not because they’re paid to. Just because.
My fingers hesitate over the charger before I unplug it and tuck everything back into my bag.
Across the room, sunlight spills over Simon’s back.
The sheet is pooled low around his waist. One arm hooked beneath the pillow.
His dirty-blonde hair is a mess against white cotton.
Even asleep, he looks capable. Steady. Like if the world tipped sideways, Simon would catch it before it hit the ground.
Looking at him feels too intimate. More intimate than last night somehow. Daylight has a way of stripping things bare. Without shadows or adrenaline or kisses to hide behind, he’s just a man asleep in his own bed.
And I’m a woman standing beside it, wondering what he looks like when he laughs before coffee. Wondering whether he sleeps this hard after every shift. Wondering if he always takes up this much space… or if it only feels that way because somehow he’s already taken up room inside me too.
I shoulder my backpack before I can think any harder.
The cabin is quiet when I step into the hallway. Cool morning air lingers in the kitchen. A mug rests upside down beside the sink. One of his flannels is tossed over the back of a chair. My boots wait by the front door, clean and dry, the leather free of dust and mud from the trail.
I crouch beside them and run a thumb over the toe.
He cleaned them. Of course he did. The leather feels smooth and supple under my thumb, the faint scent of saddle soap still clinging to it.
Simon didn’t just wipe them down. He’d taken the time to condition them properly.
The small kindness hits me somewhere soft and vulnerable.
My laugh catches in my throat before it can become sound.
Outside, the mountain is waking under a pale blue sky. Soon Gloria will unlock the visitor center. By lunch I could be filming again. Tomorrow I could be somewhere else entirely.
Back to leaving before anything starts to feel permanent.
Pulling on my clothes in silence feels a little too much like sneaking out after making a mistake. I dress robotically, body moving through the motions, but I pause when I spot Simon’s black T-shirt.
It’s soft between my fingers, the fabric stretchy and cool. My tank top gets shoved in the bag without a care. I’m not one for casual hookups or one-night stands, but stealing one of his shirts feels fair.
It feels like taking a piece of him with me. A stupid, sentimental piece I’ll probably cry over somewhere down the road. I tell myself it’s just a souvenir. But deep down I know I’m already looking for reasons to come back.
I slip it on. The worn black fabric swallows me, the hem brushing cool against my bare thighs. It carries his scent so strongly, that unmistakable masculine warmth that makes my chest ache. I bury my nose in the collar for just a second before pulling back, cheeks heating.
Fuck it. I’m taking the damn shirt.