Chapter 5
Lexie
I wake up warm.
Not just warm. Cocooned.
Heavy arm over my waist. Broad chest at my back. A hard, solid wall of man curled around me like he went to sleep and decided there was no version of the night where he was letting me go.
For one dazed second, I lie there blinking at the gray morning light filtering through the curtains, trying to figure out why my whole body feels pleasantly boneless and deliciously sore.
Then I remember.
The dance.
The kiss.
The storm.
Weston.
Oh.
A slow, helpless smile pulls at my mouth.
I am in bed with the lumberjack.
A very naked lumberjack, if the warm length of him pressed along the back of my thighs is anything to go by.
My cheeks heat even though there is no one awake to catch it.
Yet.
As if summoned by the thought, the arm around my waist tightens. A rough palm slides once over my stomach, slow and absentminded and somehow possessive even half asleep.
A shiver runs through me.
Behind me, Weston makes a low sound and buries his face more firmly against my hair.
I freeze.
Then his voice, rough with sleep and deeper than usual, rumbles against the back of my neck.
“You’re awake.”
I bite my lip against a smile. “No, I’m still sleeping.”
His hand drifts higher, spanning the curve of my waist like he has every right in the world. “Liar.”
I turn slowly in his arms.
Big mistake.
Because now I’m face-to-face with him in the soft gray morning, his dark hair mussed, beard rough, blue eyes still heavy with sleep, and absolutely none of last night feels like a dream anymore.
He is beautiful.
Rugged, masculine, overwhelming, and somehow softer around me than I would have believed possible less than a day ago.
His gaze moves over my face, steady and quiet.
“You okay?”
The question is low, serious, immediate.
As if the answer matters more than anything.
That does something dangerous to my chest.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m okay.”
His whole body seems to ease.
“Good.”
Only then do I let myself really feel it. The ache between my thighs. The lazy warmth still humming through my body. The sweet, stunned satisfaction of remembering exactly how careful he was. How patient. How reverent. Like he had all the time in the world for me.
Like I was worth taking his time for.
No one has ever made me feel like that.
His thumb brushes lightly over my cheek. “You’re thinking hard.”
“You did that.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Did what?”
“Made me all... floaty.”
That almost-smile deepens, just a little.
“I made you floaty.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I laugh softly, and the sound seems to please him even more.
He leans in and kisses me once. Slow. Morning-soft. Nothing like the hungry heat of last night and somehow no less devastating.
When he pulls back, I blink up at him.
“You kiss very confidently for a man who claimed he hadn’t done this before.”
His eyes darken with amusement. “I said I hadn’t gone all the way before.”
“Still.”
He shrugs one broad shoulder against the pillow. “Wanted to get it right.”
My heart does a clumsy little tumble inside my chest.
Of course he did.
Outside, wind rattles the windows again, followed by the steady hiss of snow against glass.
Weston’s gaze shifts toward the sound.
I follow it.
The world beyond the curtains is still white and wild and very much storming.
“So,” I say. “That looks... dramatic.”
He exhales through his nose. “Yeah.”
“You’re still trapped here?”
“For a while.”
The words should probably make me nervous.
Instead, warmth blooms low and sweet in my belly.
“Oh no,” I say solemnly. “What a terrible hardship.”
That earns me a full look, the kind that makes my pulse misfire. “You making jokes because you don’t realize how bad it is, or because you like having me here?”
Heat floods my face.
“Weston.”
His hand slides to the back of my thigh under the blanket, slow and warm and very distracting.
“That wasn’t a hard question.”
I look down, suddenly fascinated by the quilt. “Maybe both.”
A rough, satisfied sound leaves him.
Then he tips my chin up until I have no choice but to look at him.
What I expect is teasing.
What I get is something else entirely.
Something quieter. Deeper.
“Last night meant something to me.”
The breath leaves my lungs.
Just like that.
No games. No hedging. No pretending it was the storm or the mood or a moment that got away from us.
He said it plain.
Weston goes on, eyes locked on mine. “I’m not the kind of man who says things he doesn’t mean, Lexie.”
I can barely breathe.
“I know we just met,” he says. “I know how this sounds. But I knew the second I saw you standing in that cabin doorway that you were going to matter to me.”
My throat tightens.
No one has ever said anything like that to me.
No one has ever looked at me like the ground under his feet shifted the moment I showed up.
“I don’t regret last night,” he says. “Not one second of it.”
“I don’t either,” I whisper.
His jaw flexes once, like that answer cost him something just by how much it means.
“Good,” he says roughly. “Because I’ve been lying here trying to figure out how to say this without sounding like I’ve lost my damn mind.”
Despite the ache in my chest, I smile a little. “Have you?”
“Probably.”
That makes me laugh softly.
His thumb strokes my cheek again.
“I want you to consider staying.”
The words hit me so hard I go still.
“Staying?” I repeat.
“In Lovestone Ridge.”
I stare at him.
He is watching me with that same steady intensity, not forcing, not pleading, just telling me the truth in the only way he seems to know how.
“I know it’s fast,” he says. “I know it sounds crazy. But I don’t want this to be one storm and one night and then you disappear back to the city.”
My heart is beating too hard, too fast, all over the place.
The wild thing is... I know exactly what he means.
Because the thought of leaving already feels wrong.
Because this cabin, this mountain, this town, this man, all of it has settled into me with terrifying ease.
Because for the first time in months, maybe years, I don’t feel like I’m scrambling to keep my life from collapsing.
I feel still.
Safe.
Wanted.
Weston searches my face. “Say something.”
I swallow.
“It meant something to me too.”
The words come out quiet, but they’re true all the way through.
Something shifts in his expression. Not surprise exactly. More like relief he was trying hard not to need.
I push on before I lose my nerve.
“I know this is fast,” I say. “And maybe it is a little crazy. But... nothing about this feels wrong to me.”
His hand on my thigh tightens.
“I don’t want it to be just one night either.”
That gets his full attention.
The air between us goes thick and still.
I wet my lips. “And if I stayed... it wouldn’t just be because of you.”
One dark brow lifts slightly.
Which, wow, does unfair things to me in the morning too.
“I mean,” I say, scrambling a little, “obviously you are a very compelling argument. Extremely compelling. Distractingly compelling. But that’s not the point.”
His mouth twitches.
I take a breath.
“The point is... I don’t think I even wanted that life anymore.”
“What life?”
“The waiting one.”
He stays quiet, letting me find it.
So I do.
“The waiting to be noticed. Waiting to be picked. Waiting for someone at a magazine to decide I’m good enough to write something that matters.
” My fingers twist in the blanket. “I kept telling myself that if I just worked hard enough and stayed useful enough and helpful enough, eventually I’d get my chance. ”
Weston’s eyes don’t leave my face.
“But I was building someone else’s dream,” I say softly. “Not mine.”
Something opens in my chest as I say it.
A truth I think I’ve known for a while but have been too scared to touch.
“What’s yours?” he asks.
The question settles over me.
Simple.
Honest.
Dangerous in the best way.
I look past him toward the snow-paled window, and for one strange, shimmering second, I can almost see it.
A small desk by a window. Coffee steaming beside a laptop. Mountains outside. My words on the screen. Mine. Not waiting for permission. Not trimmed down into someone else’s voice.
“I could write from here,” I say slowly.
Weston goes still.
“I could start my own blog.” The idea rushes through me faster now, gathering shape.
“Write about the town. The cabins. The people. Lovestone Ridge. Small-town life. The mountain. Recipes maybe, local events, stories, interviews...” I turn back to him, breathless.
“I wouldn’t have to wait for some editor to let me do it. I could just... do it.”
The more I say it, the more real it feels.
The more possible.
The more it feels like mine.
A laugh escapes me, shaky and bright and a little disbelieving.
“Oh my God.”
Weston’s whole face changes as he watches me.
Softens.
Warms.
“You want that.”
It is not a question.
And maybe that is why it cracks me open a little.
Because he sees it. Not just me. The part of me I’ve barely even admitted to myself.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I think I really do.”
His hand leaves my thigh only long enough to cup my face.
“Then do it.”
Two words.
No hesitation.
No polite doubt.
No careful maybe someday.
Just that.
Then do it.
And suddenly I am tearing up.
Which is rude, honestly.
I laugh at the same time, swiping quickly at my eyes.
“You cannot just be ridiculously supportive while looking like this. It’s too much for one woman before breakfast.”
Something dangerously tender moves through his expression.
“You think I’m joking?”
“No,” I say, voice catching. “That’s the problem.”
He kisses me then.
Not because I’m crying. Not to distract me.
Because he means everything he’s saying.
Because this man seems physically incapable of giving me affection that isn’t honest.
His mouth moves over mine, warm and slow, and I melt into him all over again.
When we break apart, I rest my forehead against his and let out a shaky breath.
“If I stayed,” I whisper, “you’d have to be sure.”
“I am sure.”