Chapter 5
Greyson
I fill the kettle at the sink, letting the water run until it turns ice cold, like that’s going to rinse the last five minutes off my skin.
Storm. Bear. Screaming. Mud.
A woman in designer heels—on my mountain—clinging to my arm like I’m the only stable thing left in her world.
My world does not include women.
It doesn’t include company, either.
That’s the whole point.
I set the kettle on the stove with more force than necessary and glare at it like it’s responsible for the problem currently dripping in my mudroom.
Then I reach for the tea.
Because I’m not an idiot or a fucking caveman.
She’s soaked to the bone, shaken up, and if I don’t get something warm into her, she’s going to crash hard.
I grab the old metal pot with the mesh insert—scratched, dented, familiar—and dump in a generous handful of tea leaves.
Am I usually a tea guy?
Yes, I am. Fuck you very much.
I drink coffee in the morning because I’m not a psychopath and I do, in fact, need my brain to boot up.
But tea is my go-to the rest of the day.
Coffee leaves a weird taste in my mouth after the first cup.
Tea doesn’t.
Tea settles.
Tea warms.
Tea doesn’t buzz under my skin like bees trapped in a jar.
And no, that doesn’t make me soft, you unrefined swine.
I turn the burner on and watch the flame catch, blue and steady.
Behind me, the storm hammers the cabin like it’s trying to break in. Wind rattles the windows. Rain and sleet scrape the glass in ugly bursts.
And behind the mudroom door, I hear it. Movement. Hers.
The faint rustle of fabric. A soft thump. The sound of a zipper.
I freeze with my hand on the counter.
Because yes, I sure as fuck can hear her taking off her clothes.
And my body, traitorous bastard that it is, reacts like it hasn’t been civilized in years.
Heat punches through me low in my gut—sharp, immediate—and my grip tightens on the edge of the counter until the wood creaks.
This is not happening.
Not here.
Not with a stranger in my house.
Not with a city woman who smells like expensive perfume and trouble.
But there it is anyway—my pulse jumping, my skin tightening, my brain throwing a flicker of imagery I don’t ask for.
And yeah, my dick is getting hard.
Because mere feet away—there are soft curves.
Wet hair.
Smooth skin.
I swallow hard and force my gaze back to the stove, like I can intimidate my own hormones into submission.
Get it together.
She’s cold. She’s scared. She’s stranded.
This isn’t a damn fantasy.
This is a problem.
I move on autopilot—hands busy so my head doesn’t wander.
Bread out. Peanut butter. Strawberry jelly. Nutella.
I’m not much for company, but I keep basics around.
Some habits don’t die, even when you’ve carved your life down to the essentials.
I make two sandwiches fast, clean, and efficient.
Cut them in equal halves, like I’m feeding a kid. Set them on a plate.
I tell myself it’s practical.
I tell myself I’m being decent.
I tell myself I’m not listening for her.
Then her footsteps shift closer, and the door handle clicks.
My spine tightens.
The mudroom door opens.
And there she is.
Wearing nothing but my robe.
Her hair is wrapped in a towel.
Her bare legs are pale, peeking through the dark fabric when she walks.
Her knees are slightly pink from cold.
The robe hangs on her like a stolen thing—too big, sleeves bunching, belt tied tight around her waist like she’s afraid it’ll fall open and expose her to the world.
I stop breathing.
Jesus. H. Christ.
She’s fucking beautiful.
I thought so outside—half obscured by rain and darkness and the panic in her eyes—but inside, in the warm light of my cabin, she’s unreal.
Her eyes hit me first.
Hazel, but not the dull kind.
They’re luminous, shifting—green at the edges, brown at the center, with a gold halo around the irises that makes them look like they’re lit from within.
Her skin is pale and smooth, flushed at her cheeks.
Her lips are full and pink, a little chapped from the storm, and I have the sudden, violent urge to see what they’d look like softened by heat.
Or by my mouth.
The thought punches through me so hard I have to clench my hands into fists to keep from reaching out and doing something catastrophically stupid—like touching her face.
Like brushing the wet strand of hair I can’t stop staring at.
Like pulling that robe belt and—stop.
I force my eyes away from her legs.
From the curve of her hips under the robe.
From the way her throat moves when she swallows.
I look at the stove.
At the kettle.
At anything that isn’t her.
Because attraction is dangerous.
And this attraction? It has teeth.
But it’s pointless.
I know what happens when I want someone.
Want becomes need.
Need becomes weakness.
And weakness is how you lose the life you built with your own hands.
She steps closer, gaze skimming the kitchen like she’s trying to understand what kind of man lives like this.
Like she’s cataloging my cast iron pans and the stack of firewood by the hearth and the faint smell of cedar smoke that never leaves the place.
Her eyes land on the teapot.
“You made tea?” she asks.
Her voice is softer than it was outside.
Still sharp at the edges, but calmer.
Like the warmth has loosened her enough to remember she’s human.
The question breaks the spell.
I blink. Inhale.
My lungs finally work again.
“Yeah,” I say, and the word comes out gruffer than I intend. I clear my throat and nod at the table. “Sit.”
She hesitates like she doesn’t trust the chair not to bite.
Then she sits anyway, carefully, keeping the robe tight around her.
I set the plate down in front of her and realize—too late—that I’m playing host.
That I’m doing domestic things for a stranger.
That she’s in my space.
And worse—that I don’t hate it as much as I should.
I pour the tea into two mugs. The steam curls upward, carrying the scent—earthy, strong, calming.
I hand her one.
Our fingers almost touch.
Almost.
And that almost sends a jolt up my arm like the storm came inside.
She wraps both hands around the mug, absorbing the heat like she’s starving for it.
I watch her for half a second too long.
The way her lashes clump slightly from damp.
The way the towel is twisted high on her head like she has no clue how to do it properly but she’s trying anyway.
The way her shoulders are still tense, like she’s braced for something worse.
And the question I’ve been avoiding rises up again.
Why the hell is she here?
A woman like this doesn’t end up on my mountain by accident.
Not unless the universe is laughing at me.
I pull my attention back to the food before my brain betrays me again.
“You allergic to anything?” I ask, nodding at the sandwiches.
Her brows knit. “No. Why?”
“I made sandwiches. Nutella and PB&J.” The words feel weird in my mouth, like I’m confessing something. I slide the plate an inch closer. “You pick first.”
She stares at the options like she’s never seen a sandwich in her life.
Then she looks up at me, eyes bright with something that isn’t fear this time.
Amusement.
“Is that your way of being hospitable?” she asks, and there’s a faint smile tugging at her mouth.
I scowl on instinct.
“It’s my way of making sure you don’t pass out.”
Her smile widens like she’s decided I’m entertaining.
“That’s almost sweet,” she says.
I grunt. “Don’t get used to it.”
She leans forward a fraction, lowering her voice like we’re conspiring.
“How about we go half and half?”
I pause.
It’s such a normal thing to say. Such a small thing. The kind of thing people who know each other for a long time say without thinking.
My stomach tightens.
My hands twitch.
But her eyes are open, steady, offering me an out from the tension without even realizing she’s doing it.
I exhale through my nose and slide the plate between us.
“Deal,” I say.
And as she reaches for the first half—fingers still trembling slightly, but steadier than before—I watch her, curiosity sharpening into something that feels like a warning bell in my chest.
Because I can’t stop thinking it.
She didn’t end up here by accident.
And when she tells me why she’s on my mountain, I’m not sure I’m going to like the answer.