Chapter 10
Clara
Okay, so maybe—maybe—I was expecting something other than a “here’s your hat, don’t let the door hit ya” kind of goodbye this morning.
Because last night?
Last night Greyson was heat and hands and hunger.
He was a storm that didn’t ask permission.
A man who looked at me like I was the answer to a question he’d been trying not to ask.
This morning?
He’s ice.
Not the sexy Lumberjack Artist.
More like Abominable Mountain Man with a moral code and a grudge.
I wake up to sunlight and emptiness on the other side of the bed.
The sheets are still warm where he was, which makes it worse, honestly.
Outside, the world is bright and calm.
Like yesterday’s thunderstorm didn’t happen.
Like I didn’t almost die on a mountain road and end up in a stranger’s arms—and then in his bed.
I sit up, hair a mess, heart doing that stupid, hopeful flutter even though I know better.
The bedroom door opens and Greyson steps in, fully dressed.
Boots. Jeans. A heavy flannel—this one’s a dark green and blue plaid.
His hair is tied back like he’s trying to contain himself.
He doesn’t look at the bed like it holds memories.
He looks at it like it’s a job he’s already finished.
His eyes flick to me—fast, impersonal—then away.
“I got someone coming for you,” he says, gruff. “They’ll be here soon. Then a tow will be by to get your car.”
I blink, still half asleep. “Someone is coming for me?”
He doesn’t answer the question.
Of course he doesn’t.
“Clothes are on the bed,” he adds, nodding toward a neat pile like I’m a package he’s prepared for pickup. “Coffee’s on the stove.”
My throat tightens.
The words land like cold water.
Not even a good morning.
Not even a you okay?
Just logistics.
Just management.
My chest squeezes, sharp and humiliating.
“Wait,” I say, because I can’t not. “Where are you going?”
He pauses at the doorway like the question annoys him.
“I have work to do,” he replies, voice dark, and then he’s gone without a backward glance.
The click of the door feels final.
And for a second I just sit there, staring at the empty doorway like an idiot.
Like a teenager who believed a kiss meant something more than it did.
Except I’m not eighteen.
I’m thirty-five.
And I know exactly what it feels like to be dismissed.
To be made small.
To be treated like an inconvenience once the excitement wears off.
A hot flush crawls up my neck—anger, embarrassment, something that tastes like regret.
Fine.
If he wants me gone, I’ll go.
I swing my legs out of bed and grab the clothes he left—borrowed sweats, a soft undershirt, and one of his flannels folded on top like an afterthought.
I pull it on last and freeze for a second when the scent hits me.
Him.
Woods and smoke and mountain air and that spicy male warmth that should not make my mouth water when I’m furious.
It does anyway.
Because my body is downright rude.
Because last night absolutely happened.
And because my stupid heart keeps trying to attach meaning to things that might not deserve it.
I button the flannel halfway, hands trembling with leftover adrenaline, then stalk into the kitchen like I’m going to start a fight with the coffee pot.
The cabin is quiet.
Almost painfully so.
Coffee sits on the stove in a battered percolator, exactly where he said it would be.
A mug is already out, as if he expects me to pour it and leave without making a mess.
I don’t pour it.
I stare at it instead, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
Used. I feel so damn used.
At least, that’s the word my brain keeps trying to feed me.
Which is ridiculous because I chose last night. I wanted it.
And to my undying shame, I still want parts of it so badly it makes my skin hum.
But being wanted for one night and then shoved out the door the next morning?
Yeah. That hits a nerve.
A few minutes later I hear a truck engine growling outside.
That’s good. It arrives a second before I can spiral any further.
Gravel crunches.
A door slams.
Then a voice calls out—bright and friendly.
Not a man.
A woman.
My stomach drops.
I run to the window and see her.
The woman. The pretty, and oh my, pregnant woman, from the way she cradles her belly with one hand.
Is he involved with someone? Oh my God, am I the other woman?!
Then she speaks to someone, “Careful, babe—watch the step!”
Oh.
Oh no.
My mouth goes dry.
She is not alone.
I turn and step away fast, pretending like I’m not about to witness—or star in—a crime of passion.
The front door opens, and cold mountain air rushes in.
A woman steps inside with rosy cheeks and a thick knit hat, bundled in a coat that still manages to look cute.
She’s visibly pregnant—hands automatically cradling her belly as she kicks mud from her boots.
Behind her is an enormous, gruff-looking man who fills the doorway like a boulder with shoulders.
Beard. Broad chest. The kind of presence that makes the cabin feel smaller.
They both look comfortable here.
Like this isn’t their first time.
Like they belong.
My heart does something stupid and painful.
“Hi! I’m Willow,” she says. “This is my husband, Thatcher. Grey told us you needed a ride.”
“Uh,” I gulp. “I-I’m Clara.”
I try to handle introductions like a normal human, but my brain—my traitorous writer brain—starts assembling a narrative at lightning speed.
Willow.
Willow trees everywhere on everything he makes.
On leather. On wood. Coats. Belts. Purses. Bookshelves.
Burned into the wood like prayer.
Willow.
His muse.
His love, maybe?
The reason he carves and etches willows into everything.
The reason he pushed me away this morning.
Because, of course, he did.
Because, of course, I would sleep with a man who’s secretly in love with his best friend’s pregnant wife.
That would be exactly my luck.