Chapter 34
Greyson
Days pass and I wonder how I got so lucky. Because ever since I found Trouble one dark and stormy night, my life has changed. And I think it might be for the better.
Spring in the mountains doesn’t arrive politely.
It ambushes you.
One day there’s snow crusted along the ridge lines. The next there’s rain. Mud thick enough to swallow a boot.
Then suddenly—like the mountain got bored of sleeping—everything explodes green.
Wildflowers push through the earth.
Trees bud with soft, fragile leaves.
Birds return.
Fawns wobble on uncertain legs.
Even the air smells different.
Alive.
I’ve always loved spring mornings up here.
But lately?
I’ve been waking up at the base of the mountain instead.
Next to her.
My Clara.
She bought Kelly’s house.
Bought it.
When she told me, I think my brain short-circuited for a solid thirty seconds.
Then I dropped to my knees in the middle of her half-unpacked living room and thanked her in the only language I knew how to speak without fumbling.
With my hands.
With my mouth.
With every ounce of restrained hunger I’ve been carrying since she walked into my life.
She laughed through it.
Cursed at me.
Clutched my hair and told me I was insane.
Then she came so hard, her legs shook and she damn near collapsed us both.
And you know what? I’ve never been happier.
Kelly’s settled into one of the lower mountain cabins for now. Evan thinks it’s the greatest adventure of his life.
Spring break. Ten days off.
A new place that smells like pine and possibility.
Meanwhile, Clara’s house is transforming.
Her furniture from Manhattan arrived in sleek trucks that looked wildly out of place on dirt roads.
I helped unload solid chairs and abstract art and books—so many damn books.
We painted two rooms already—one a warm buttery yellow, the next a soft, pale blue.
She stands in the middle of each space with her hands on her hips, eyes lit up, explaining her vision like she’s building a future in real time.
Big ideas.
Bright ideas.
And every time she talks about the house—this house—her voice softens. Her eyes get misty.
Her voice hitches when she says the word home.
And I can’t help but hope—will it be ours someday?
I know it’s crazy. A hermit like me wanting to live so close to the city.
But for her? I’d do it.
In a heartbeat.
Because I can see how she’s already adopted this house.
The town.
The mountain.
And fuck me if I’m not right there with her.
I still drive up to my cabin every day. Half hour there. Half hour back.
It’s not a bad commute.
Actually, it’s kind of perfect.
I get my mountain solitude.
Then I get to come back to her.
To the convenience of town—proximity to the things the woman I love needs in her life.
And Christ, I do love her.
Not in a casual way.
Not in a manageable way.
This love feels obsessive. Possessive.
It is all the things.
Every day I learn something new about her, and it wrecks me a little.
Why she smells like wildflowers—it’s a bath oil she’s used since college.
How she likes a snack before bed.
Cheese and crackers. A glass of wine. Sometimes olives if she’s feeling fancy.
She prefers trashy reality TV over sitcoms. Claims it’s anthropological research.
She writes best in the early afternoon with instrumental music playing low.
Each detail just opens another door.
Another layer.
Another reason I’m hooked.
A lifetime won’t be enough to learn her.
And I don’t think I’ll ever stop wanting more.
I try to show her every day.
In small ways.
Fixing a hinge.
Carrying groceries.
Kissing her shoulder when she’s distracted.
Just me, showing up.
But there’s something I haven’t told her yet.
Something big.
And tonight’s the night.
She’s standing at the kitchen island, reorganizing paint batches and laughing at something on her phone when I clear my throat.
“Hey,” I say casually, which immediately makes her suspicious.
She turns slowly, eyebrow arching.
“Hey, yourself. Um, why do you sound like you’re about to confess to arson?”
“I do not.”
“Greyson.”
I rub the back of my neck.
“What are you doing this weekend?” I ask.
She narrows her eyes. “I don’t know. Why?”
“Well, see, I have to fly out to the city.”
Her posture stills.
“The city?”
“Yeah.” I shift my weight. “Manhattan.”
She sets the phone down slowly.
“What for?”
I hesitate for half a heartbeat.
Then I step toward her.
“The Lumberjack Artist has a show,” I say. “At a gallery. It’s a very important thing apparently, announcing a new theme. A new charity.”
Her lips part slightly.
“I thought your agent handled those,” she says softly.
“She does. But this one’s different.”
I step closer.
Close enough to feel the warmth coming off her.
“See, I want to go,” I admit. “And I want you there with me.”
Her breath catches.
“Need you by my side, Trouble,” I finish.
Silence stretches between us.
Not awkward.
Just heavy.
“You want to take me to Manhattan?” she asks carefully.
“I want to take you everywhere I go,” I correct quietly. “I’m done hiding. Done pretending GCM and Greyson Cole are two different people. And I am done living in a world that doesn’t know you’re mine or that I’m yours.”
“What are you saying?” she whispers.
I lift my hand and tuck a loose curl behind her ear.
“I want them to see me,” I say. “And I want them to see you with me.”
Her eyes shine in a way that makes my chest tighten.
“That’s a pretty big deal,” she says, voice still low.
“Yeah,” I say. “It is.”
I swallow, nerves finally catching up to me.
“So. Will you come with me?”
For a man who can face down a bear, I’ve never felt more exposed.
But I don’t look away.
Not this time.