Chapter 4 – Hugh
I stand on my porch, coffee mug clutched in one hand, surveying the aftermath of last night's storm. The air smells clean and sharp—pine sap, wet earth, and the lingering metallic scent that always follows mountain thunderstorms.
Aria is inside, eating breakfast and working on a drawing she insisted couldn't wait. I promised her fifteen minutes of quiet time to finish before we head into town for supplies. Fifteen minutes I'm using to avoid thinking about the woman who slept on my couch last night.
Except I am thinking about her. I haven't stopped thinking about her since I woke before dawn to find her curled up under my mother's blanket, her blonde hair spilled across the pillow, her face softened in sleep.
I stood there longer than I should have, watching the gentle rise and fall of her breath, before forcing myself to move away.
Now, she's at her cabin, assessing the damage.
I can see her from here, a splash of color against the weathered wood and broken branches.
She's wearing yesterday's clothes, still damp in patches, her hair pulled back in a messy knot.
Even from this distance, I can see the determined set of her shoulders as she tugs at a branch that's too damn heavy for her.
"Stubborn woman," I mutter into my coffee.
I should stay here. Finish my coffee. Check on Aria. I've done enough—given her shelter during the storm, dry clothes, a place to sleep. Her cabin isn't my problem. She isn't my problem.
I head back inside, finding Aria exactly where I left her at the kitchen table, crayon clutched in her small hand as she works intently on her drawing.
"I'm going to help the neighbor lady for a bit," I tell her, resting my hand on her dark head. "You okay staying here and finishing your art?"
She looks up, nodding seriously. "I'm making a picture of the storm. See?" She points to angry black scribbles above a brown rectangle I assume is our cabin.
"It's good," I say, meaning it. "You remember the rules when I'm not in the house?"
"Don't answer the door, don't touch the stove, and if I need you, use the special radio," she recites dutifully.
"That's right." I grab the baby monitor receiver from the counter—a relic from when Aria was smaller that's proven useful for situations like this. I clip it to my belt and test it. "Can you say something loud?"
"UNICORNS!" she shouts gleefully into the monitor base unit.
The receiver at my hip crackles with her voice, making me wince. "Perfect. I'll be just over at the neighbor's cabin. One hour, then we'll head into town."
She's already back to her drawing, tongue poking out between her teeth in concentration. "Okay, dad."
I ruffle her hair once more before heading back outside, the monitor a reassuring weight against my hip.
But my feet are already moving, carrying me down the porch steps and across the muddy yard before I can talk myself out of it. I set my mug on a fence post as I pass, jaw clenched against the unwelcome surge of protectiveness that's driving me forward.
Carrie doesn't notice me approach, too focused on trying to drag a section of broken branch away from what's left of her porch. Her boots slip in the mud as she pulls, a soft curse escaping her lips. She's going to hurt herself at this rate.
"You're doing it wrong," I say, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
She startles, nearly losing her balance, then straightens with a flash of defiance in her eyes. "Good morning to you too, Hugh."
I ignore the greeting, nodding toward the branch. "You need to lift, not drag. It's caught on the porch rail."
"I've got it," she insists, giving another stubborn tug that accomplishes nothing.
"Clearly."
She blows a strand of hair out of her face, leaving a smudge of mud on her cheek. "I didn't ask for your help."
"Didn't offer it," I retort, crossing my arms. "Just pointing out that you're going to throw your back out doing it that way."
She stares at me for a long moment, then releases the branch with a sigh. "Fine. How would you do it, then?"
I move closer, trying to ignore how her scent—something floral mixed with rain and earth—fills my senses as I step past her.
"Like this." I grip the branch at both ends, lifting it clear of the tangled porch rail before setting it aside. "See? Simple physics."
"Show-off," she mutters, but there's no real heat in her voice.
I glance up at the gaping hole in her roof, mentally calculating the damage.
It's worse than I thought. The branch punched straight through the aging shingles and support beams, exposing the interior to the elements.
Water damage has already warped the wood floors inside, and a section of ceiling has collapsed entirely.
"It's bad, isn't it?" she asks, following my gaze.
I don't sugarcoat it. "Yes. That support beam is cracked clean through. Whole section needs to be rebuilt before the roof can be repaired."
Her shoulders slump slightly, but she lifts her chin, determination flashing in her eyes. "I'll figure it out. I can call someone to give me an estimate—"
"Nearest contractor is forty minutes away. And he's booked solid through summer."
"Then I'll find someone else."
"Suit yourself." I turn to leave, telling myself I've done my duty, given her the harsh truth she needs to hear.
"Wait," she calls after me, her voice softer now. "I... I could use some help clearing the debris at least. Just until I can figure out what to do next."
I should say no. I have things to do, a daughter to take care of, a life that doesn't include babysitting stubborn city women with impractical dreams.
"Fine," I say instead, already rolling up my sleeves. "But we do it my way."
For the next hour, we work in relative silence, clearing broken branches and debris from around the cabin.
I handle the heavier sections while Carrie picks up smaller pieces, piling them at the edge of the property.
Despite her inexperience, she works hard, never complaining about the mud or the weight or the early morning chill.
I find myself watching her when she isn't looking—the determined set of her jaw, the graceful way she moves despite the difficult terrain, the flash of satisfaction in her eyes when she successfully clears a particularly tangled section.
There's something about her that draws my attention, something beyond the obvious physical appeal.
She has no business being out here in the mountains, trying to renovate a broken-down cabin on her own. She should be in the city, in an art studio with proper heating and people who understand her. Yet here she is, mud-streaked and stubborn, refusing to give up on her dream.
"You're staring," she says suddenly, catching me off guard.
"Just making sure you don't hurt yourself," I mutter, looking away.
A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth. "Sure."
We continue working, falling into an unexpected rhythm.
She anticipates which branches I'll grab next, clearing away the smaller debris around them.
I find myself automatically extending a hand when she navigates particularly slippery sections of ground, and she takes it without comment, her fingers warm against mine.
By mid-morning, we've cleared most of the yard. Sweat dampens my shirt despite the cool air, and Carrie's face is flushed with exertion. She steps back to survey our work, satisfaction evident in her expression.
"It already looks better," she says, pushing a loose strand of hair from her face. "Thank you for helping. I know you didn't want to."
I shrug, uncomfortable with her gratitude. "It needed doing."
She turns to face me fully, blue eyes searching mine. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to accept a thank you gracefully."
"Might," I deadpan, surprising myself.
She laughs, the sound bright and unexpected in the quiet morning air. Something shifts in my chest at the sound—a loosening of something I've kept tightly wound for too long.
"I should check inside," she says, still smiling. "See if anything can be salvaged."
She takes a step toward the cabin, but her foot catches on a hidden root. She pitches backward with a startled cry, arms flailing for balance that isn't there. Without thinking, I lunge forward, catching her against my chest, my arms wrapping securely around her waist.
Time seems to slow. Her body is warm and soft against mine, fitting against me like she was made to be there. Her hands clutch my shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt. I can feel her heart racing, or maybe it's mine—it's impossible to tell where her pulse ends and mine begins.
Her eyes, wide with surprise, meet mine. Her lips part slightly, a small exhale escaping them. Something electric passes between us, a current that raises the hair on my arms and sends heat pooling low in my gut.
I should let go. I should set her on her feet, step back, maintain the distance I've so carefully cultivated. But my body refuses to obey, hands tightening against the small of her back instead, drawing her closer.
"Hugh," she whispers, my name a question on her lips.
The last thread of my restraint snaps. I crush my mouth to hers, swallowing her gasp of surprise.
The kiss is rough, desperate, unleashing months—years—of pent-up longing I didn't even know I was carrying. Her lips are soft beneath mine, yielding for just a moment before responding with equal fervor.
She tastes like rain and possibility, her mouth warm and welcoming as it moves against mine. My hand slides up her back to cradle her head, fingers tangling in her hair, holding her steady as I deepen the kiss.
She makes a small, needy sound in the back of her throat that nearly undoes me.
This is madness. I know it even as I pull her closer, as my tongue sweeps into her mouth, as her body melts against mine.
I haven't kissed a woman in years, haven't wanted to.
But God, I want Carrie. Have wanted her since she stepped out of that car, all curves and determination and eyes that see too much.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. I pull back abruptly, breathing hard, staring down at her flushed face and swollen lips. Horror washes over me in an icy wave. What the hell am I doing?
Carrie blinks up at me, dazed, her hands still clutching my shoulders. "Hugh," she starts, her voice husky in a way that makes me want to kiss her again.
"That was a mistake," I say harshly, the words scraping my throat like broken glass.
Hurt flashes across her face before she masks it, stepping back from my loosened grip. "A mistake," she repeats flatly.
I run a hand through my hair, unable to look at her directly. "I don't... This isn't..." The words won't come, tangled as they are in the mess of what I want and what I can afford to have.
"Daddy?" Aria's voice crackles through the baby monitor, high and clear. "I'm hungry!"
The sound is like being doused in ice water. Aria. My responsibility. My priority. The reason I can’t indulge in whatever this is with Carrie.
"Be right there, kiddo!" I call back, already turning away from Carrie, from the confusion and hurt in her eyes, from the lingering taste of her on my lips.
"Hugh, wait," Carrie says softly. "We should talk about—"
"There's nothing to talk about," I cut her off, my voice harsher than intended. "It shouldn't have happened. Won't happen again."
I stride away before she can respond, before I can change my mind. Each step feels like moving through quicksand, my body rebelling against the distance I'm putting between us. But I keep walking, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
One moment of weakness. That's all it was. All it can be. I have Aria to think about, a life carefully constructed to keep us both safe from disappointment and loss.
I can't risk that for a woman who'll be gone as soon as her cabin is fixed, taking her art retreat dreams back to the city where they belong.