Chapter 26
Hope
But in the morning, for the first time in a week, Zane isn’t in the kitchen for breakfast.
Instead, Ridge is the one pulling bacon out of the oven.
Immediately, I go on high alert. I get a cup of milk for Bellamy and put her at the dining room table before I return to the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”
He lifts his eyebrows, maybe surprised that I clocked the situation so swiftly.
But he treats me with enough respect not to bullshit me.
Glancing past me to make sure Luna isn’t in the hallway, he lowers his voice to a serious rumble.
“Got word of movement overnight. He’s moving your car under cover. He’ll be back soon.”
“And you’re my guard dog until he returns?”
Ridge shrugs. “Don’t mind.”
“You know, the first time I saw you out the window, I thought you were scary.”
He nods. “Good.”
I take a deep breath. “Movement?”
“Your ex loaded up his truck and headed to the ferry dock in the middle of the night. Cash’s guy says the homestead looks properly abandoned.” Ridge’s gaze is steely. Scary to the right people, for sure. “He doesn’t plan to return to it.”
I shiver. “Do you—” I take a deep breath. “Should I go to the police?”
It’s a question that’s been rolling through my mind for days. My one day at a shelter in Vancouver was terrible, and the stories I heard about police not being able to do enough put terror in my heart.
But maybe here…
Ridge’s gaze darkens to pure thunder. “Nothing they can do to protect you, unfortunately. And you run the risk of them not understanding if you protect yourself. Don’t give them any information they can use against you later.”
“Oh.”
The door opens and Zane comes in, hat still on.
He takes one look at my face, then swears at his brother. “What did you say to her?”
“Nothing she doesn’t already know. This girl’s heart is pure cowboy. She knows we were the original outlaws, don’t you, Hope?”
I stare at Ridge. Pure cowboy?
“News to this city girl,” I manage to say.
“You’re more than all that.” He heads to the door and pulls his boots on, then shoves his hat on as Zane takes his off.
Like they’re guards trading shifts. Inside, outside.
And maybe they are.
Zane glances at Bellamy, who is singing a soft song to herself. Then he crosses to me. “Sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up.”
“It’s okay. Your brother is growing on me.”
“Cash’s guy is going to try to get on the same ferry as Derek, but once he gets to Vancouver…”
“I don’t expect a stranger to follow him all over the country.” I reach for Zane, patting his chest, then tightening my grip in his shirt. “You’re doing so much.”
“We’ll know tonight or tomorrow if he was able to track the car through here. If he goes to the garage…Cash will be ready for him. Will send him on his way, too.” Zane brushes his lips against my cheek.
I turn my face, wanting more.
He doesn’t hesitate. He gives me a proper good morning kiss, firm on the mouth.
Both of us are aware that Bellamy is right there, through the open arch to the dining room.
But I don’t mind her seeing me kiss Zane. Not like this. Not when my pulse is pounding like a drum and he’s keeping us safe.
I wrap my arms around him and whisper, “I’m sorry about last night.”
“I’m not.” He ruffles my hair, his fingertips finding my scalp. “I like the idea of you taking care of yourself because of a kiss.”
I blush at the accurate assumption about what I did when I came back from the barn.
He told me to, after all.
So I did.
And it was wonderful.
But…
“It’s just not fair for me to take and not give.”
He lifts my chin so I’m forced to look at him.
“You give me so much. I love your hungry gaze. Your eyes are always on me. But your hands are, too. I get your touch, Hope. You never miss a chance to move me out of your way, or touch my back as you slip past. And your hugs are so fucking sweet. Your kisses are…incredible.” He lowers his voice to the most private register.
“Don’t think you’re depriving me of your touch just because it’s not on my cock yet. ”
Yet.
Because we’re a foregone conclusion.
My head swims as I brush my lips against his jaw. “Will your mother notice if I slip downstairs tonight?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all.”
It feels important that we take advantage of what time we have left.
Before shit gets real.
Before we need to go full outlaw, maybe. Just in case.
All day, I’m on edge. Cash doesn’t send an alert. Zane would tell me if he did, and by dinner, Zane is still shaking his head when I look at him.
Putting Bellamy to bed, I feel removed from my body, like I’m watching myself go through the motions.
But I return to myself, sinking into every twitching, nervous cell of my body as I tiptoe downstairs once the house is quiet.
My pulse picks up, an excited smile curling my mouth as I turn at the bannister on the main level and keep descending. Baby monitor in hand. Doors locked, child asleep.
I haven’t come down here yet. I think I knew, deep down, that if I did, something significant would happen.
I wasn’t ready before. But I’m ready tonight.
In the lower level, a bright light glows from the open bathroom door. Right across from Zane's bedroom, where no light is on, but from the spilling illumination, I can make out that his bed is empty.
I turn toward the bathroom. The door is open. That’s a clear invitation to watch Zane, who’s standing at the sink.
Shirtless.
Hello, cowboy.
His face is covered in shaving cream, and he’s leaning forward, about to start shaving his cheek. Razor in hand, his brow is furrowed in concentration, and his eyes focus on the mirror.
My feet stop moving and my brain goes offline.
Just—fully shuts down. No thoughts. No fear.
There's nothing in my head but healthy appreciation for the broad, muscled expanse of his back and side. I’m close enough to see the shift of individual muscles when he moves, the faint constellation of freckles across his shoulders, the way his jeans hang low on his hips.
And then Zane's gaze flicks to me in the mirror. He smiles. “Come on in.”
Busted.
"What are you doing?" I ask, which is a monumentally stupid question given the obvious evidence, but my brain-to-mouth filter has been compromised by the sight of his bare torso and I'm running on fumes.
He smiles, amused. “Shaving so I won’t have stubble for you.”
For me.
I don't know what my face does, but whatever it is makes him set the razor down on the edge of the sink. He turns from the mirror and catches my hand.
I let him.
His fingers wrap around mine with a sureness that makes my breath stutter. He goes slow, tugging me in to the bathroom, into this private moment.
And then his hands are on my waist, his palms spanning the curve of my hips, and he lifts me onto the bathroom counter like I weigh nothing.
The porcelain is cold through my flannel pants. His shaving kit clatters as my hip nudges it aside. I can see the individual flecks of gold in his warm, brown eyes.
"You want to help?"
“I don’t mind your stubble.” I have to make that clear. But also, yes I want to help. I trace my fingers over his moustache. “How do you shave around this?”
“Carefully.” He picks the razor back up and holds it between us, handle toward me.
"I've never shaved anyone before," I say.
“I’m thrilled to be your first.” He takes my right hand and positions the razor in my grip, adjusting my fingers. His hands are steady around mine. "Short strokes. Go with the grain at first. Down on my cheeks. Along my jaw, it goes forward. And my neck—" He tilts his chin up. "Goes up."
“That’s complicated.”
“No, don’t worry. You can’t fuck this up. I don’t mind if you shave against the grain, either. I sometimes do that, because it’s a closer shave, but I have to hold the skin just so…” He takes my left hand and demonstrates.
Or maybe he just wants me to press my fingertips against his throat, because his pulse leaps against my touch.
Taking a deep breath, I start on his cheek. I press the razor to his skin and draw it down in a short, careful stroke. Cream and stubble clear in its wake, revealing smooth, tanned skin underneath.
He doesn’t move.
I rinse the blade under the tap and do it again.
Then another, moving down his cheek toward the hard angle of his jaw, and the concentration required to do this without cutting him narrows my world to a pinpoint.
Nothing exists beyond the razor and his skin and the almost imperceptible flex of his throat when he breathes.
Heat licks up my core.
His hands settle on my knees, his thumbs curling to the inside of my thighs.
"You're good at this," he murmurs.
"Don't talk. I'll cut you."
"Worth it." His moustache twitches.
I tilt his chin with my free hand, angling his jaw to catch the light. The intimacy of feeling this man's heartbeat against my hand while I hold a blade to his throat makes my eyes sting.
I blink hard and move to his other cheek, working in short, precise strokes. The quiet between us is different now. Thicker. Warm, and heating up fast.
When I reach the delicate area around his moustache, I slow down. He's left the borders sharp and clean, and I trace the edge of the shaving cream with the tip of the razor, clearing away the stray bits without touching the moustache itself.
When I finish, I set the razor down and trace my fingers over his moustache, following the curve of it from the centre of his upper lip out to the corner.
When I pause my touch there, his eyes open.
We're very close.
His breath changes.
"Hope." His voice is stripped down to gravel now, bare and uncivilized.
“All done,” I whisper.
And then we crash together. I whimper into his mouth and his hands tighten on my thighs, pushing them apart. Curving his touch up to my waist as he pulls us together. He tilts his head at the same time, deepening the angle of his kiss in a way I feel all the way to my toes.