Chapter 5
Chapter Five
CARMEN
Waking up in Owen McCall's bed with his arm around my waist has become the most dangerous part of my morning routine.
His hand rests flat against my stomach. Heavy, warm, possessive even in sleep.
Every morning for the past week, this. His chest against my back, his breath in my hair, his fingers spread over my skin.
My body curves into his without permission, fitting against him so naturally that the separation anxiety starts before my eyes are fully open.
Three weeks. That's how long I've been in Bear Creek Valley. Three weeks since a mail-order mix-up delivered me to a mountain man who feeds me soup and kisses me slow and wraps around me at night.
Two weeks left on the deal.
Rolling out of bed without waking him takes practice. His arm tightens when I move, a low grumble in his chest. Then he settles. Buries his face in the pillow where my hair was.
Coffee first. Always coffee. Then the porch, the blanket, the quiet.
But this morning the kitchen counter has papers on it. Spread out where Owen usually sets my mug. Printed emails. A letterhead from Weston Development Group. Numbers with a lot of zeros.
The top page is an offer letter.
Dear Mr. McCall, Following our conversation on October 3rd, we are pleased to present a revised offer for the acquisition of the McCall Cabins property, including all structures, land, and water rights...
The number at the bottom of the page makes my stomach drop. That's enough to fix every cabin on this property twice over. Enough to clear whatever debts are keeping Owen awake at three in the morning when he thinks I'm asleep and stares at the ceiling doing math.
He's been doing that every night. Lying there running numbers while his hand rests on my hip. And every night I pretend to be sleeping because asking about it feels too close to caring too much.
The second page is a property tax notice. Three months overdue. Red ink at the top. FINAL NOTICE stamped in the corner.
Third page. A handwritten list in Owen's careful printing. Roof, cabin 2. Water heater, main house. Septic, cabins 3-6. Generator backup. Winterization, all units. Each item has a number next to it. The total at the bottom is underlined twice.
He can't afford to keep this place.
The knowledge settles into my chest with a weight that makes breathing harder. He's been feeding me, housing me, paying for my supplies, fixing things alongside me, all while the property is bleeding money he doesn't have.
"You're up early."
His voice comes from the hallway. Sleep-rough. When he rounds the corner into the kitchen, his eyes go straight to the counter. To the papers. To my face.
The warmth drains from his expression.
"That's not yours to read."
"It was on the counter."
"Because I was looking at it last night." Crossing the kitchen, he gathers the pages into a stack. Precise. Controlled. The steadiness in his hands is deliberate. "After you fell asleep."
"Owen."
"Drop it, Carmen."
"Three months behind on taxes? A developer offering to buy the whole property?" My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. Nurse voice. The one that delivers bad news because someone has to. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it's my problem." He shoves the papers into a drawer. Shuts it. "Not yours."
"I live here."
"For two more weeks."
The words land clean. Direct hit. Two more weeks. My deal expires. The cabin gets cleaned. Someone else checks in, or more likely nobody checks in because the property is sinking.
"So that's what this is." The coffee I haven't made yet is irrelevant now. My arms fold across my chest. Armor. "You needed help with the cabins, and I showed up at the right time. Free labor for a property you're about to sell anyway."
His jaw locks. "That's not fair."
"Fair? You've been pouring soup on my porch every morning while you can't pay your property taxes. You've been sleeping next to me every night staring at the ceiling doing math. You've been acting like everything's fine while some developer circles this place waiting for you to break."
"Everything is fine."
"Nothing is fine, Owen. You're drowning."
The kitchen goes quiet. Wind pushes against the windows. The woodstove ticks. Outside, the creek runs steady over rocks that have been there longer than either of us.
"I've been running this place alone for six years.
" His voice drops low. Flat. "Before you.
Before the developer. Before the roof started leaking.
My parents built this place, and I've been holding it together by myself since they died, and I don't need someone who's been here for three weeks to diagnose the problem. "
Every word is precise. Measured. The steadiest I've ever heard him sound, which means he's furious.
"Someone who's been here for three weeks." Repeating his words back feels necessary. To hear them. To make sure I understood. "That's what I am."
"Carmen."
"A temporary person in your temporary cabin with a temporary deal.
" Backing toward the hallway, I grab my jacket from the hook.
His jacket. Still wearing his jacket. Pulling it off, I drop it on the chair.
"You should've told me. Before the soup.
Before the kiss. Before you asked me to stay in your bed.
You should've told me this place might not exist in six months. "
"I'm not selling."
"You can't afford not to."
His hand grips the counter edge. Knuckles white. "I'm handling it."
"Alone. The way you handle everything." Stepping into my shoes by the door, I don't look at him. Can't look at him. "You take care of the cabins. You take care of the town. You take care of me. But nobody's taking care of you, Owen, because you won't let anyone close enough to try."
The door handle is cold under my palm.
"Where are you going?"
"Cabin six. My cabin. Where the temporary woman sleeps when she's not in your bed."
"Carmen, wait."
But my feet are already on the porch, then the steps, then the gravel path between the cabins. The morning air bites through my scrub top. Without his jacket, the cold finds every inch of exposed skin.
Behind me, his boot steps don't follow. He's standing in the doorway watching me walk away. I can feel it. The weight of his attention on my back, steady, even now.
At cabin six, I lock the door. Sit on the edge of the bed I haven't slept in for a week. Press my palms to my eyes.
The sheets smell like cedar from the closet. Clean. Unfamiliar now. Not like his bed, which smells like pine and sex and the space where his body was.
My phone buzzes.
Cat:
How's my big sister? Haven't heard from you in days. Everything ok with the job?
Owen treating you well?
Hello??? Should I worry???
My thumbs hover. What do I say? The job isn't real.
The man is drowning in debt. The property is probably getting sold to a developer who'll tear down the cabins and build condos.
I slept with him. Multiple times. In his bed, in his kitchen.
He makes me soup every morning. My hands don't shake anymore.
I might be falling in love with a man who's going to lose everything, and when he does, I'll have nowhere to go again.
Me:
Everything's fine. Just busy. Tell you more later.
Cat:
That's what you said last time. You sound weird. Call me.
Putting the phone face-down on the nightstand, I pull the quilt around my shoulders. The cabin is cold without a fire in the woodstove. Cold without his body heat.
From here, I can see the main house through the window. His kitchen light is on. His silhouette moves past the glass, stops, stands at the sink for a long time. Looking out toward my cabin, probably. Watching my light the way I'm watching his.
Stubborn man.
The property tax notice was dated a month before I arrived. He was already behind when some well-meaning member of his family posted him on a matchmaking site. Already sinking when a burned-out nurse showed up on his porch thinking she was applying for a job.
He didn't take me in because he needed free labor. He took me in because the door was open, the soup was hot, and Owen McCall doesn't know how to not feed someone who's hungry.
That makes it worse.
Because the developer's offer is real. The debt is real. The cabins need more than elbow grease and copper fittings. They need money Owen doesn't have. And staying here, sleeping in his bed, letting him take care of me while the roof caves in around us, is the most selfish thing I've ever done.
Houston is fourteen hours in the wrong direction.
But for the first time in three weeks, I think about it. The hospital. My old apartment. A life that was killing me slowly, but at least it was mine.
The kitchen light in the main house goes out.
Pulling the quilt tighter, I close my eyes. His pillow is in his bedroom, not here. Can't smell pine on these sheets. Can't feel his heartbeat under my ear.
The quiet that used to heal me now just echoes.