Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
WREN
Saturday's wedding is beautiful. The bride cries during the vows. The groom's hands shake when he slides on the ring. Their families cluster together for group shots in the golden hour light, everyone laughing, everyone touching.
My camera captures all of it. Perfect exposures. Sharp focus. Professional smile when the mother of the bride asks if I got her good side.
Behind the lens, I'm hollow.
Two weeks. That's how long it's been since I drove down that muddy access road with my tires slipping, gripping the steering wheel hard enough to leave nail marks in the rental leather, refusing to look in the rearview mirror.
Two weeks of editing photos at my desk in Reno.
Shooting a bridal session in Tahoe. Answering emails, invoicing clients, keeping the machine of Halloway Photography running.
Two weeks of reaching for a coffee mug doctored with condensed milk and finding regular creamer in my fridge. Waking up alone in a queen bed that feels too big. Reaching for a dog that isn't there.
My apartment is fine. Clean, bright, a nice view of the Truckee River from the kitchen window. All my things in their right places. Camera equipment organized in the spare bedroom. Gran's Pentax on the shelf above my desk, the one she taught me on.
Everything exactly where I left it. Nothing out of place. Nobody's flannel on the back of a chair. Nobody's boots by the door.
At the reception, the couple's first dance is to a song I don't recognize. Something slow, something about coming home. The bride tucks her face into her husband's neck, and he closes his eyes, pulling her tight against his chest. My shutter clicks, clicks, clicks.
I cry in the bathroom during the cake cutting. Wash my face. Reapply mascara. Go back out and shoot the bouquet toss with steady hands.
Gran would be ashamed of me. No. Gran would sit me down with a cup of tea and say, "Wren Elizabeth, you don't leave your heart on a mountain and then pretend you're fine."
I'm not fine. But I'm functioning, and sometimes that's the best you can do.
Sunday morning, I edit Saturday's photos on my laptop at the kitchen table. The bride is radiant. The groom is besotted. Every image tells their story clearly, cleanly. My best work is invisible. You see the love, not the photographer.
But mixed in with the wedding shots, at the beginning of my camera roll, are the ones from the mountain. His garden in the morning light, rain on the pepper leaves, the tomato cages casting long shadows. The cabin porch at sunset. Ash with his head on his paws.
And one of him. The only one I got before he told me to stop. He's in the garden, half turned, hazel eyes caught by the lens before he could close down. The burn scar visible at his collar. Mouth almost smiling.
Beautiful. Lonely. Mine. For three days, mine.
My phone sits on the table. No messages from unknown numbers. No missed calls from a mountain with no cell service. The business card I left on his porch railing has my cell number on it. He hasn't used it.
Fine. I told him where to find me. The rest is his choice.
A knock on my apartment door at eleven a.m. on a Sunday isn't unusual. My neighbor borrows eggs. The building manager checks smoke detectors monthly.
Opening the door in leggings and an old t-shirt with my hair in a disaster bun, I'm expecting Mrs. Alvarez from 4B with her empty egg carton.
Silas is standing in my hallway.
Jeans. Clean t-shirt. Boots. Two weeks of extra beard growth. Hazel eyes burning gold under the fluorescent hall lights. A German Shepherd sitting at his heel, tail sweeping the hallway carpet.
My hand tightens on the doorframe. The air leaves my lungs in a rush, and for a second I can't speak.
Can't think. Can only stand here staring at this man who sent me away, who I've been grieving for two solid weeks, who is somehow in my apartment hallway in Reno looking at me with an expression that's equal parts terrified and certain.
"How did you find my apartment?"
"Your website has your studio address. The woman at the coffee shop next door said you live upstairs."
"You drove three hours to knock on my door."
"Two and a half. I broke some speed limits." He swallows. "Can I come in?"
Every reasonable part of me wants to say no. Make him stand in the hallway. Make him earn the right to step back into my space after pushing me out of his. But Ash is already nosing through the doorway, tail going faster, and my traitorous body steps aside before my brain can overrule it.
He walks into my apartment. Looks around at the bright kitchen, the river view, the photo equipment, Gran's camera on the shelf. Takes it in the way I took in his cabin that first night.
"Your grandmother's?"
"Yeah."
His jaw works. He turns back to me. Standing in the middle of my kitchen, this massive, quiet, scarred man who looks completely out of place under regular ceiling lights and completely right in front of me.
"I was wrong." Low. Rough. No preamble, no small talk. "Everything I said on the porch. I was wrong."
"I know."
"Bobby Callahan died nine years ago. His crew boss.
My crew boss. He was the best man I knew, and the fire took him.
I've been punishing myself for surviving ever since, and when you showed up, I thought wanting you meant I was done paying the debt.
" His hands flex at his sides. "But it doesn't work like that.
Bobby would've called me a damn fool for pushing you away. Jenny would've too."
"His wife?"
"His wife. Who moved on. Who rebuilt her life. Because that's what Bobby would've wanted." He exhales. "And here I am, three years on a mountain, telling myself that staying alone honors the dead. It doesn't. It just wastes the living."
My eyes are burning. Not crying. Not yet.
"Two weeks, Wren. Two weeks of a quiet cabin with no humming.
No camera shutter. Ash slept by the door for three straight days waiting for you to come back.
" His voice breaks on the last word. Just a crack.
"I don't want quiet anymore. I don't want controlled.
I want the mess. I want the humming, the questions, the flowers in coffee mugs. I want you."
"You pushed me away."
"I know."
"You told me it was just three days."
"I was lying. To both of us."
"I cried in your bathroom."
His face goes tight with pain. "I know. I heard the water running."
A tear rolls down my cheek. Then another. Not sadness. Relief, breaking through two weeks of holding it together.
"Silas."
"I love you." The words come out raw. Unpolished.
Exactly him. "I've loved you since you threatened me with a stick on my own access road.
I love that you hum. I love that you reorganize everything you touch.
I love that you photograph my garden like it's a cathedral.
And I'm sorry it took me two weeks and a three-hour drive to say it. "
"Two and a half."
"Two and a half." That twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. Almost.
I cross the kitchen. Put my hands on his chest. Feel his heart hammering under my palms, fast and hard. This man who ran into fire for years is shaking.
"I love you too, you stubborn, infuriating mountain man."
His hands come up to my face. Thumbs tracing my cheekbones, wiping the tears. Then his mouth is on mine. Gentle at first, apologetic, tasting the salt on my lips. My fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer.
The kiss goes deep. His hands slide down my back, gripping my hips, lifting me onto the kitchen counter.
My legs wrap around his waist. He groans into my mouth as my body presses against his, and there's nothing tentative about any of this.
Two weeks of missing him pour into the kiss until we're both breathless.
"Bedroom," I whisper against his mouth.
He carries me down the hall. Ash stays in the kitchen, sprawling on the tile.
My bed is softer than his. He lays me down, pulls my shirt over my head. No bra again, and his eyes darken. His mouth traces down my throat, over my collarbone, closing around one nipple while his hand cups the other breast. My back arches off the mattress.
"Missed you." His voice vibrates against my skin. "Missed touching you."
My hands find his belt. Unbuckle, unzip. Push his jeans down his hips. He strips the rest while I shimmy out of my leggings. No underwear. His eyes go nearly black.
"Fuck, Wren."
He settles between my thighs. His cock is hard against my stomach. When his hand slides between us, two fingers stroking through my pussy, my hips jerk. Already wet. Already desperate.
"Need you inside me. Now."
Condom from his back pocket. He came prepared. I'd laugh if I weren't so gone. He rolls it on, lines himself up. Pushes in with one slow, deep thrust that steals my breath.
We move together. His pace is different from the cabin. Slower. Deliberate. Every stroke a promise. His forehead pressed to mine, hazel eyes open, holding my gaze while he fucks me.
"I love you." He says it again, mid-thrust, voice wrecked.
"I love you." My nails rake his back. "Harder."
He drives deeper. Faster. One hand grips the headboard, the other finds my clit. Circling, pressing, matching the rhythm of his hips. The orgasm builds fast, tight, relentless.
"Come with me." His thumb presses firm against my clit. "Right now."
We break together. His body shudders, mine arches up to meet him. His mouth finds my neck, groaning my name against my pulse point.
Afterward. Still tangled. His weight on me, my fingers tracing the scar across his shoulder. He doesn't tense. Doesn't pull away.
"What happens now?" My voice is soft. Practical. One of us has to be.
"Now you come back to the mountain. Whenever you want. As much as you want. We figure it out."
"My business is here."
"Your business is a camera and a truck. The mountain's got better light." That twitch again. "And I'll get creamer."
The laugh breaks out of me before I can stop it. Full, bright, loud. His face transforms. Not a twitch. Not an almost. A real smile, wide and unguarded.
The most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Deal." Kissing his jaw, his cheek, the corner of that smile. "But I'm bringing the condensed milk. I've been converted."
Ash barks once from the kitchen. Apparently he heard the whole thing.
"He missed you more than I did," Silas says.
"Liar."
That smile again. Real. Mine.
Ours.