Chapter 3
chapter three
Sadie
His fingers linger against my cheek after tucking that stray lock of hair behind my ear.
The heat of his calloused skin sends a shiver racing down my spine, and for one dangerous second I think he’s going to kiss me.
My lips part, my pulse thunders, and every inch of me leans into the promise of it.
But Brock doesn’t close the distance. He pulls back just enough to look at me, those hazel eyes dark and intense, jaw tight like he’s fighting himself. The air between us crackles with everything unsaid.
“Inside,” he says, voice low and rough. “I’m making you breakfast.”
I blink, trying to steady my breathing. Part of me is relieved. The rest is… disappointed? God, I’m a mess.
He steps back, giving me space, and jerks his chin toward the door. I follow him inside on shaky legs, the cool morning air of the cabin a welcome slap against my flushed skin.
The kitchen smells like heaven, bacon, coffee, something warm and savory.
Brock moves around the space like he owns every inch of it (which he does).
He’s still shirtless, sweat from the wood-chopping glistening on his broad back and shoulders, muscles shifting with each efficient movement. I should look away. I don’t.
“Coffee’s fresh,” he says without turning around. “Mugs are in the cabinet above the sink.”
I hesitate in the doorway. Part of me wants to retreat to the guest room and hide under the covers until my body stops betraying me. The rest of me is drawn forward by the smell of bacon and the simple fact that I’m starving.
“You didn’t have to cook,” I say, voice still a little breathy. “I could’ve grabbed something later.”
He plates the food and sets it on the island. Two plates. Eggs, bacon, toast with butter already melting into the crust. “I know I didn’t have to. Sit down and eat, Sadie.”
I slide onto the stool. The first bite makes my eyes close. Salty, warm, perfectly cooked. “This is really good. Thank you.”
He grunts and sits across from me, digging into his own plate.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, but it’s not uncomfortable.
His presence fills the kitchen, solid, steady, a little overwhelming.
Every time his forearm brushes the table or he reaches for the pepper, I’m hyper-aware of how big he is. How close.
I keep waiting for the questions. About the fire. About why I’m in Silver Lake with nothing but a suitcase and bad luck. About Ryan. He doesn’t ask any of them. He just refills my coffee when it gets low and nudges the bacon closer without a word.
It’s… nice. Too nice. Men like Brock, bossy, protective, built like they could carry the world, don’t come without complications. I learned that the hard way.
After breakfast, he clears the dishes. I try to help, but he waves me off. “I got it. You go shower. There are clean towels in the bathroom. I picked up a few things this morning while you were sleeping.”
I pause halfway down the hall. “What things?”
He doesn’t look up from the sink. “Toothbrush, soap, shampoo. Basics. Nothing fancy.”
My chest tightens at the thought, he just went out and bought me things I needed without saying anything or wanting something in return. I mumble another thank you and escape to the bathroom.
The hot water feels like heaven on my skin, even though I showered last night. I scrub away the last traces of smoke from my hair and stand there longer than I need to, letting my shoulders drop.
When I come out dressed in the same clothes, Brock’s in the living room. He holds up a couple of shopping bags. “These should fit. Got your sizes from the tags on what you were wearing. Jeans, shirts, socks, underwear. If they’re wrong, we can exchange them.”
I stare at the bags. Practical cotton underwear. Soft shirts in my favorite earthy tones. He even got my size right. Heat climbs up my neck. “Brock. You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to.” His hazel eyes meet mine. “You lost everything last night. Least I can do.”
I take the bags, my fingers brushing his. That small touch sends a spark straight through me. “Thank you. Really.”
He nods once. “We’ll head into town after lunch for the rest. Boots, jacket, whatever else you need. My truck’s ready when you are.”
The morning passes in small moments I can’t ignore.
He shows me where the firewood’s stacked if I want a fire later.
He adjusts the thermostat when he notices me rubbing my arms. Every time I try to insist I can handle something myself, he just does it anyway without argument.
I catch myself watching him move around the house, the way his big hands handle things with unexpected care.
My body notices too, warmth pooling low in my belly every time he gets close.
By the time we climb into his truck, I feel more relaxed than I have in weeks. The mountain road winds down toward town, sunlight filtering through the trees. Brock drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. He catches me looking and the corner of his mouth lifts.
“What?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“You look better already. Less like you’re ready to bolt.”
I laugh softly. “I wasn’t going to bolt. Maybe just... keep my distance.”
“Hard to do in a truck this size.” His voice has that low rumble I’m starting to like way too much.
We spend the afternoon in town together.
He takes me to a small clothing store first. I pick out a couple pairs of jeans and some sweaters.
Brock waits outside the dressing room, and every time I come out to check the mirror, he gives his opinion.
“That one looks good on you,” he says when I step out in a deep green sweater that hugs my curves.
His eyes linger on my waist and hips. “Brings out your eyes.”
I turn in front of the mirror, feeling the soft fabric against my skin. “You think? It’s not too tight?”
“Looks perfect.” There’s heat in his voice. I meet his eyes in the reflection, and something pulls tight between us.
We keep shopping. He pays before I can argue, sliding his card across the counter like it’s the most natural thing. “Consider it part of the rescue package,” he says when I protest.
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “You’re going to spoil me if you keep this up.”
“Good.” He holds the door open for me. “That’s the plan.”
Afterwards, we stop for coffee and walk along the lake path. The afternoon sun warms my face. We talk about nothing important at mostly our favorite foods, our tastes in music then how he became fire chief.
“You’re tough,” he says. “You’ll land on your feet. But you don’t have to rush it.”
I bump his arm with my shoulder. “Says the man who carried me out of a fire like I weighed ten pounds.”
“You don’t weigh much more than that to me.” He bumps me back gently. “I could carry you around all day if you wanted.”
The teasing flows easier now. I sass him about his bossy tendencies. He fires right back about my stubbornness. Laughter comes naturally. My chest feels lighter with every step. I haven’t laughed like this in months. Maybe longer.
We load the bags into the truck and head back up the mountain as the sun starts to dip.
The cab feels smaller on the way home. Tension builds in the quiet.
I keep glancing at his hands on the wheel, strong, capable.
I remember how they felt brushing my hair last night, gentle despite their size. My pulse quickens.
Back at the house, the sun has fully set and the temperature has dropped. Brock carries the bags inside while I follow, wrapping my arms around myself against the chill. The house feels quiet and safe in that way I'm starting to associate with him: solid, dependable, warm.
"I'll get a fire going," he says, setting the bags down in the living room. "Make yourself comfortable."
I sink onto the couch and watch him work.
He moves with practiced efficiency, stacking logs in the fireplace, crumpling newspaper, striking a match.
The kindling catches quickly, flames licking up around the wood.
Within minutes, warmth begins to radiate into the room.
Firelight flickers across his face, softening the hard lines, making him look almost peaceful.
He settles onto the couch beside me, close enough that our thighs touch. His arm drapes along the back of the cushions, not quite around my shoulders but near enough that I feel surrounded by him. Protected.
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching the fire dance.
The crackling wood is the only sound. My mind drifts back over the day, the shopping, the laughter, the easy way he's made space for me in his life without asking for anything in return.
It's so different from what I'm used to. So different from Ryan.
The thought makes my chest tighten. "Can I tell you something?" I hear myself say before I've fully decided to speak.
Brock doesn't turn to look at me. He just nods, his hand moving to rest gently on my shoulder. "Anything."
I take a breath and let it out slowly. "I told you I came here to get away from my ex. Ryan. But I didn't really explain what that meant."
"You don't have to," he says quietly. "Not if you're not ready."
"I know." I lean into his side, drawing strength from his solid presence. "But I want to. I need you to understand why I was so scared that night at the cabin. Why I'm still looking over my shoulder."
His arm tightens around me just slightly. An invitation to continue.
"We were only together for a month," I start, my voice steadier than I expected.
"At first, everything seemed normal. He was charming, attentive, said all the right things.
But then something shifted. Little things at first, comments about what I was wearing, who I was talking to, how I spent my time.
He'd get upset if I didn't text back right away.
He needed to know where I was every minute of the day. "
The fire pops and I flinch. Brock's hand moves to my hair, stroking gently.