Chapter 23
Greyson
The drive up the mountain is quieter than before.
Not tense.
Not awkward.
Just charged.
Clara sits beside me in the passenger seat, one hand resting on the giant flower plush in her lap like it’s a talisman.
The dash lights cast a soft glow across her face, catching in the loose curls falling over her shoulders.
I glance at her more than I should.
She catches me once.
“Eyes on the road, mountain man,” she teases.
I huff a breath. “Road’s fine. I’ve driven it in worse.”
“That’s reassuring.”
When the cabin finally comes into view, a strange calm settles over me. The porch light cuts a warm circle into the dark. The trees sway gently in the night breeze.
And for just a second—I swear I see movement near the tree line.
A heavy shape.
Broad shoulders.
Familiar hump.
Scar.
The old grizzly stands half in shadow, watching.
Not approaching.
Just there.
I don’t know if I’m imagining him. Don’t know if my mind is stitching symbols into the dark.
But tonight isn’t for bears.
Tonight isn’t for storms or running or hiding.
Tonight is for second chances.
I cut the engine.
The silence that follows feels different than it used to.
Full instead of empty.
Clara steps out first, smoothing her dress, looking around like she’s trying to memorize the place instead of fear it.
“It’s prettier on a clear night,” she murmurs.
“You’re biased,” I say. “You’ve only seen it in a thunderstorm.”
She smiles softly.
Inside, the cabin feels warmer than usual.
I lit the fire before we left.
Cleaned up more than I’ve ever cleaned in my damn life.
She steps in and turns slowly, taking it all in again.
No panic this time.
No emergency.
Just choice.
I close the door behind us.
The click of the lock sounds louder than it should.
She turns to face me.
And the air shifts.
“You sure about this?” I ask, voice lower now.
She steps closer.
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
My pulse kicks up.
I reach for her slowly this time. No urgency. No fear. Just intention.
My hands find the zipper at the back of her dress.
“You’re breathtaking,” I murmur.
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she whispers back.
I ease the zipper down.
Slow.
Careful.
Like I’m unwrapping something precious.
Because I am.
The navy fabric slides from her shoulders, pooling at her feet.
And my lungs seize.
Because she didn’t ignore me. She didn’t forget.
A growl builds in my throat.
Because she’s wearing it.
Yellow.
Butter yellow lace against her skin.
Soft. Delicate.
Bright as sunlight in spring.
“You requested yellow, if I recall,” she says, voice husky.
I drag a hand down my face, stunned.
“Yes, I did.”
“Well,” she replies, stepping into me, hands sliding up my chest, “is it what you wanted?”
Holy.
Fuck.
“It’s so much better, but you already knew that. Didn’t you, Trouble?”
She’s warm beneath my palms when I touch her.
Curved.
Real.
Alive.
I brush my thumb along the edge of the lace at her hip and she shivers.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” I tell her.
“Show me,” she whispers.
I lift her then.
Not because I need to.
But because I want to.
Her legs wrap around my waist like they belong there.
I carry her toward the bedroom, the firelight flickering behind us, casting shadows that dance along the walls.
Outside, the wind rustles the trees.
Maybe Scar is still watching.
Maybe he isn’t.
Doesn’t matter.
Tonight isn’t about solitude.
It isn’t about fear.
It isn’t about hiding behind my work or my mountain.
Tonight is about her fingers in my hair.
Her breath against my throat.
The way she looks at me like I’m not a ghost or a headline or a legend.
Just a man.
And when I lay her down and lean over her, brushing my mouth slowly along her collarbone, her shoulder, the swell of her—I let myself feel it.
All of it.
Desire.
Hope.
Terror.
Possibility.
Second chances.
First touches.
And for the first time in a long time—I don’t pull away.
I don’t retreat into my head. Don’t armor up. Don’t turn the moment into something casual so I don’t have to feel the weight of it.
I give.
I don’t just take.
I let her in.
And I know—deep in my bones—that this woman could break me.
But I let her in anyway.
Because the alternative?
Moving away from her.
Pretending I don’t ache for her.
Not touching her?
That’s worse.