Chapter 2
Lexie
I change my outfit four times before I finally admit I’m losing my mind.
Not in a dramatic, call-for-help kind of way.
Just in the specific, deeply embarrassing way of a woman standing in front of a tiny vanity mirror in a mountain cabin, trying to decide what says I’m casually going to a small-town dance with a devastatingly handsome lumberjack and not I’ve already imagined our future children.
“Get it together, Lexie,” I mutter at my reflection.
The reflection looks unconvinced.
The first dress is too flimsy for a mountain night. The second makes me feel like I’m trying too hard. The third is cute, but the neckline keeps slipping, and if Weston looks at me the way he did earlier, I do not trust myself to handle a wardrobe malfunction with dignity.
So I settle on soft and simple.
A dark green sweater dress that skims my curves without clinging too much. Black tights. Brown ankle boots. I leave my hair down, brushing the honey-colored waves until they fall over my shoulders in a way that looks almost intentional, and put on just enough makeup to make my blue eyes stand out.
Mascara. Blush. Lip gloss.
I stare at myself for a long moment.
I look... nice.
Not polished. Just soft. Me.
That should not matter this much. It is one dance. One evening. One very inadvisable outing with a man I met a few hours ago.
A man whose voice has been replaying in my head ever since he left.
Seven, Lexie.
My stomach swoops.
I smooth both hands down the front of my dress just as headlights sweep across the curtained windows.
He’s here.
My heart trips over itself.
I grab my coat, slip it on, and open the door.
Then I forget how to breathe.
Weston stands on the porch in dark jeans, boots, and a clean flannel under a heavy jacket that strains across his shoulders in a way that should not be legal.
His hair is still a little wild from the wind.
His beard catches the porch light. And his eyes, those impossible blue eyes, land on me and stay there.
He just looks at me.
Slowly, heat blooms low in my belly.
“Hi,” I say, because apparently my vocabulary is now limited to one syllable.
His gaze drifts over me, then back to my face.
“You look pretty.”
Pretty.
Not hot. Not sexy. Not something slick and practiced.
Pretty.
The word lands somewhere tender inside me and squeezes.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “You clean up nice too.”
One corner of his mouth lifts.
He steps back from the door. “Ready?”
I lock the cabin and turn to him, trying not to notice how naturally he takes my elbow as I step off the porch, or how warm his hand feels even through my coat.
His truck is huge. Of course it is.
Weston opens the passenger door for me, waiting until I climb in before shutting it behind me. A second later he slides in beside me, bringing cold air, cedar, and that clean male scent with him.
The truck smells like leather, pine, and Weston.
It is a problem.
The drive into town is quiet at first, but not awkward. Settled. Easy. His hand rests loose on the wheel, broad and capable, and I have to physically drag my eyes away before I start acting like I’ve never seen a man drive before.
Which, to be clear, I have.
I’ve just never seen this man do anything.
“So,” I say, because silence is starting to make me aware of every beat of my pulse. “Do you invite all stranded city girls to mountain dances?”
His head turns slightly, enough for me to catch the flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“No.”
“Good,” I blurt.
His grip tightens on the wheel for half a second.
The truck goes even quieter.
Heat climbs into my cheeks. “I mean, good for me. Not good in general. Obviously. You should probably keep being welcoming. For tourism.”
That almost-smile appears again.
“I got what you meant.”
Did he?
The community hall glows warm against the dark mountain evening when we pull in. Music spills through the walls. Trucks and SUVs crowd the lot, silvered with frost.
Inside, it is somehow even better than I imagined.
String lights zigzag across the rafters.
Long tables hold crockpots, pies, and enough homemade food to feed a small army.
A band is set up in one corner, fiddle and guitar weaving something lively through the room.
The wooden floor is already full of dancing couples, laughing kids, and older townspeople watching everything with shameless interest.
Weston takes my coat before shrugging out of his own jacket, hanging both on the long rack by the door like this is the most natural thing in the world. Then his hand finds the small of my back, and he guides me farther inside.
Heads turn.
Not hostile. Curious. Warm. A little nosy.
“Locals pretending they don’t gossip?” I murmur.
Weston glances down at me. “Told you.”
A silver-haired woman near the food table beams at us. “Well, aren’t you a sight?”
I nearly trip over my own boots.
Weston just nods like being publicly inspected is a normal part of his evening.
I lean closer. “Am I being evaluated?”
“Yeah.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
His eyes move over my face, slow and steady. “Because you’re with me.”
It is such a simple answer.
Quiet. Matter-of-fact.
My knees nearly stop working.
He gets me hot cider before I can protest, then guides me through a blur of introductions.
Smiling faces. Firm handshakes. Flannel.
At least three women calling me sweetheart like they’ve known me all my life.
By the time the third one pats my hand and gives Weston a look full of suspicious satisfaction, I’m starting to think I’ve just met whatever passes for a matchmaking committee in Lovestone Ridge.
It should feel overwhelming.
Instead, with Weston’s hand at the small of my back, it feels strangely easy.
Safe.
We stop near the edge of the dance floor while the band finishes a fast song, and I peek up at him over the rim of my cup.
“So how famous are you here, exactly?”
He frowns. “I’m not.”
I snort softly. “Weston, half this room has looked at you, looked at me, and immediately started mentally planning our wedding.”
“That so?”
“Yes.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. “Maybe they’re efficient.”
I inhale wrong and nearly choke on my cider.
He takes the cup from my hand before I spill it, sets it on the nearest table, and offers me his hand.
“Dance with me.”
I stare at his palm for half a second before slipping my fingers into his.
His hand closes around mine, warm and rough and careful, and then he leads me onto the floor.
I am not prepared for what happens when he pulls me in.
One hand settles at my waist. The other keeps hold of mine.
My body fits against his far too well, like some traitorous part of me has been waiting all day to find this exact place.
He moves with confidence, guiding without crowding, and I follow because there is nothing else to do when Weston touches me like this except surrender and hope I do not melt into a literal puddle on the floor.
“You can dance,” I murmur.
His thumb shifts lightly against my hand. “So can you.”
“I wasn’t sure rugged mountain men believed in rhythm.”
His mouth brushes the edge of a smile. “You got a lot of ideas about rugged mountain men?”
“An embarrassing number, actually.”
That earns me a real smile.
Quick. Rare. Completely devastating.
I miss a step.
His hand tightens on my waist, steadying me. “Easy.”
I laugh softly. “You are very distracting.”
His eyes darken.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You too.”
The song slows, and so does the room around us.
I can feel the heat of him through my dress. The strength in the hand at my waist. The weight of his gaze every time it leaves my eyes and comes back again. It would be terrifyingly easy to rest my head on his chest and stay there.
Instead, I blurt, “So. Exes. Or, in your case, maybe current relationships.”
One dark brow lifts.
“That’s abrupt.”
“It’s either that or I keep thinking about your hand on my waist, and I feel like maybe we should pace ourselves.”
His stare goes heated and entirely too knowing.
Then he surprises me by answering.
“There was someone. Long time ago.”
The honesty in his voice gentles something in me. “Serious?”
He nods once. “Was supposed to marry her.”
I blink. “Oh.”
His jaw shifts. “She wanted a different life.”
The words are simple. But there is enough beneath them for me to hear the old bruise.
“Bigger?” I ask softly.
“Richer. Louder. Not here.” He glances around the hall, then back at me. “I was never gonna be that man.”
My chest squeezes.
“She was stupid,” I say.
One side of his mouth lifts. “That so?”
“Yes. Very scientific opinion.”
A low sound rumbles out of him, not quite a laugh, but close.
“And you?” he asks.
I hesitate for only a second. “Mine was just pathetic.”
His eyes sharpen.
“He liked my paycheck more than he liked me,” I say, trying for light and not quite getting there.
“Six months of my hard-earned money paying for his groceries, his bills, his rent, and then I lost my job and apparently I stopped being convenient. He used to act like being with me was some kind of favor, like I should be grateful he wanted a body like mine at all.”
The change in Weston is instant.
Subtle, if you aren’t paying attention. But I am.
His shoulders go harder. His jaw locks. His hand at my waist flexes once.
“What was his name?”
I blink up at him. “Why?”
“Just asking.”
“Weston.”
His gaze holds mine.
I feel it then, beneath the quiet and control. That dark, possessive current in him. Intensely displeased on my behalf.
My pulse skips.
“Darren,” I admit.
Something in his face says Darren is lucky to be nowhere near me.
The song ends before I can think too hard about that, and a burst of cheers rises from the far side of the hall.
People are crowding around a wide wooden target near the wall.
I look over. “What’s that?”
Weston’s expression goes oddly blank.
“Axe throwing.”
I turn back to him slowly. “You say that like it’s a perfectly normal thing to have at a dance.”
“It is here.”
Someone passing by grins at me. “You should see him throw.”
I point at Weston. “Him?”
The woman laughs and keeps walking.
Weston rubs a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly looking almost reluctant. “It’s nothing.”
That is how I know it is absolutely not nothing.
A board hangs proudly beside the target with a list of yearly winners and best scores.
Weston Stark’s name is on it so many times it feels less like a competition and more like a public service announcement for other men to give up.
I gape up at him. “You have got to be kidding me.”
He shrugs. “Town tradition.”
“You are the tradition.”
That almost-smile appears again, and before I can recover, someone shouts his name.
The crowd parts.
Weston takes the axe handed to him with easy familiarity. The room goes quieter. Expectant.
I find myself holding my breath.
He glances at me once, like he already knows I’m watching.
Then he throws.
The axe spins clean and fast through the air and lands dead center with a solid, satisfying thunk.
The room erupts.
My hand flies to my chest. “Oh my God.”
Weston looks faintly annoyed by the applause, which only makes it hotter.
“Show-off,” I murmur when he comes back to me.
“Didn’t show off.”
“You threw a murder weapon into a bullseye while looking like that. I need you to be serious.”
His eyes drop to my mouth. “I am.”
My knees go soft.
Before I can combust, an older woman presses a smaller throwing axe into my hand. “Your turn, honey.”
I stare down at it. “I’m sorry, my turn for what exactly? Public humiliation?”
Weston takes the axe from me before I can lose a toe. “Come here.”
He leads me to the line, then steps behind me.
Every functioning thought in my brain leaves the building.
His body is a wall of heat at my back. One hand closes over mine on the handle. The other settles at my hip, turning me a fraction.
“Feet here,” he says, low near my ear. “Shoulders square.”
I swallow hard.
“Weston.”
“Yeah?”
“You are being very calm for a man actively ruining my life.”
A rough breath warms the side of my neck. It might be a laugh.
“Hold it tighter,” he murmurs. “Now bring it back.”
I do, or try to, though my coordination has abandoned me completely.
“That’s it,” he says. “Let it go when it feels natural.”
“With you pressed against my back, nothing feels natural.”
This time he definitely laughs, low and brief and dangerous.
Then his fingers tighten over mine for one guiding second, and we throw.
The axe lands near the outer ring with a clumsy thunk.
The crowd cheers like I’ve slain something enormous.
I spin toward him, grinning. “Did you see that?”
His gaze is fixed on my face, hot and unreadable.
“Yeah,” he says.
And suddenly the noisy hall feels too small.
Too bright. Too full of people.
He must feel it too, because his hand closes around mine. He grabs my coat from the rack by the door and helps me into it before leading me quietly outside.
Cold mountain air hits my cheeks the second we step outside. The music turns muffled behind us. The night stretches dark and wide around the lit windows of the hall.
Weston stops under the eaves and turns to face me.
For a second neither of us says anything.
Then I whisper, “Hi.”
His mouth twitches. “Hi.”
I should say something clever. Or cautious. Or sane.
Instead, I ask, “Are you going to kiss me?”
His eyes go darker than the mountain night.
“Yeah,” he says.
And then he does.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, warm and careful and impossibly firm, and his mouth meets mine like he has been holding himself back all evening and has finally decided he’s done trying.
The kiss is not gentle.
It is not rough either.
It is deep and hungry and full of restraint, like he wants more than he is allowing himself to take. My hands clutch at his shirt, and a soft helpless sound escapes me when he tilts his head and kisses me again, slower this time, like he is learning the feel of me.
Everything inside me goes soft and hot at once.
His beard brushes my skin. His breath mingles with mine. His thumb strokes once at the side of my neck, and I swear I feel it everywhere.
When he finally lifts his head, I am breathing like I ran all the way up the mountain.
Weston rests his forehead lightly against mine.
“Lexie.”
Just my name.
But it sounds like a decision.
I blink up at him, dazed. “That was...”
“Yeah,” he says roughly.
I think coming to this dance was pretty much the best bad decision I have ever made.