Chapter 4
Gavin
Since I'd tasted her lips under the comet's light, and I couldn't dice an onion without thinking about the way she'd hummed against my mouth.
The prep kitchen behind the community center usually kept me grounded, with stainless steel surfaces, gas burners that responded to my touch, the familiar rhythm of knife work. Today it felt like a cage.
Every time I tried to lose myself in the meditation of cooking, I'd catch myself listening for her voice from the main stage or remembering the soft sound she'd made when my thumb traced her lower lip.
Focus, MacLeod. People needed to eat.
Grammy's venison pie recipe lay open on the counter beside me, her handwriting faded but still legible. The secret ingredients were lined up—wild mushrooms, tender venison, root vegetables, Christmas spices that made her pies legendary in three counties.
The kitchen door swung open behind me, letting in festival chatter and the scent of snow. Probably another volunteer looking for supplies.
"Gavin?”
The voice made my knife pause mid-chop. Sadie. But not the polished performer or even the vulnerable woman from the mountain. This voice was rough, strained.
I turned to find her leaning against the doorframe, one hand pressed to her throat. Her stage makeup was smudged, exhaustion clinging to her again.
"Your voice," I said, setting down the knife. "What happened?"
"Too many songs, not enough rest." She stepped into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind us. "Sound guy kept asking for level checks, then the interview ran long."
Jesus. No wonder she looked ready to collapse. I pulled out a stool and gestured for her to sit.
"Stay put."
I moved through the kitchen with purpose, assembling Grammy's remedy—honey from local apiaries, fresh ginger, lemon juice, and a shot of good whiskey. The tea kettle was already steaming. I measured everything with the same precision I'd use for a sauce that could make or break a dish.
"Grammy's cure for singers and preachers," I said, carrying the steaming mug over. "Sip it slow. The whiskey bites, but it works."
She accepted it with both hands, breathing in the aromatic steam before taking a careful sip. Her eyes closed in appreciation, and that unconscious hum started in her chest—soft, barely audible, but unmistakably there.
There she is. The real one.
"Better?" I asked after she'd taken several sips.
"Much." Her voice was already less strained. "You're going to make someone a very happy spouse someday."
We both blushed. I turned back to my prep work, using the knife to channel energy that had nowhere else to go.
"I should get back soon. Keisha's expecting me to—"
"Keisha can wait five minutes for you to eat something that isn't caffeine."
She was quiet for a moment, then: "Okay. But only if you let me help."
"Help?"
"Cook with you. I'm tired of being taken care of. I want to participate."
The idea of her in my workspace, those graceful hands working alongside mine, sent heat straight through my chest and south. But the practical part of my brain rebelled at someone disrupting my flow.
"Fine. But you follow my lead."
I pulled out another apron and handed it to her. She had to stand on her toes to loop it over her head, and when she tied the strings behind her back, the movement emphasized the curve of her waist.
Focus on the food, MacLeod.
"We're making Grammy's pie," I said, moving to the prep station. "Pastry's chilling, so we start with the filling."
She moved to stand beside me, close enough that I caught her scent—something floral and warm mixed with kitchen herbs. The space between us felt charged.
"What first?"
"Vegetables. Quarter-inch dice, uniform as you can manage."
I handed her a chef's knife and watched her test the weight, adjust her grip with instinctive intelligence. Her first cuts were tentative, but she found her rhythm quickly.
"Relax your shoulders," I said, moving behind her. "Let the knife do the work."
Without thinking, I covered her hands with mine to guide the motion.
She went very still against me—close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body, close enough that when she breathed, her back pressed against my chest. My hands completely covered hers on the knife, and I could feel her pulse thundering where my thumbs brushed her wrists.
"Better?" I asked, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
"Much better," she whispered, and there was nothing about knife technique in her tone. “ But, I can't concentrate when you're standing that close."
Good. Neither can I.
She turned in my arms, and suddenly we were facing each other, barely an inch apart. The knife clattered to the cutting board, forgotten. Her amber eyes were dark with want, and I could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
"We shouldn't—" she started.
"Shouldn't what?" I backed her against the prep counter, my hands finding her waist. "Shouldn't want this?"
"Someone could come in."
"Let them." I lifted her easily onto the edge of the stainless steel counter, stepping between her legs. The hem of her skirt rode up, and she made a sound that was pure need.
She pulled me closer, her legs wrapping around my waist, and kissed me with desperate hunger. Her mouth was warm and willing, and when I groaned against her lips, she answered with a sound that made my vision blur.
My hands were everywhere—tangling in her hair, tracing the curve of her waist, sliding under her sweater to find bare skin that felt like silk beneath my calloused palms. She shivered at the contact, arching into my touch.
"God, you're soft," I murmured, my hands exploring the gentle curves of her body. "So perfect."
Her answer was lost when I kissed her again, harder this time, more demanding. She met my hunger with her own, her tongue dancing with mine while her hands worked frantically at my shirt buttons.
I helped her push my flannel shirt off my shoulders, and the way her eyes darkened when she saw my bare chest made something primal roar to life in my belly. Her hands traced over my shoulders, down my chest, mapping scars and muscle with reverent fingers.
"Beautiful," she whispered, and the word made my chest tight.
When I kissed her throat, she tilted her head back with a gasp, giving me better access. Her skin was salt-sweet and warm, and when I scraped my teeth gently along her pulse point, she made a sound that was pure desire.
My hands slid up her thighs, fingers trailing along the seam of her jeans, feeling the heat radiating from her core even through the denim. She was warm and perfect and I wanted to make her come apart in my hands.
"Please," she whispered, her hips moving against me shamelessly.
The kitchen door burst open with enough force to rattle the hinges.
"There you are!" A woman in designer jeans and cashmere coat blew in with a gust of cold air. "I've been looking everywhere for you."
Sadie jerked away from me so quickly she nearly fell off the counter. "Keisha. Hi. I was just—"
"Learning to cook, apparently." Keisha's gaze swept over the apron, then landed on me with assessing eyes. "You must be the famous pie maker."
"Gavin MacLeod." I grabbed my shirt, pulling it back on while trying to look less like I'd been seconds away from stripping Sadie bare on my prep counter.
"Keisha Chen, Sadie's manager." She shook my hand. "We need to discuss the offers that came in this morning. Big ones."
The word offers hit my stomach like ice water.
"Can it wait?" Sadie asked, but her voice had already changed, taking on careful neutrality. "I was just—"
Keisha's smile was warm but determined. "Nashville won't wait, and neither will these opportunities. The kind we've been working toward for years."
I could feel Sadie pulling away without physically moving, could see her mental walls going up as she shifted back into business mode. Whatever moment we'd been building was evaporating.
"What kind of offers?" Sadie asked, untying her apron.
"The kind we discuss in private." Keisha's gaze flicked to me with polite dismissal. "I'm sure you understand."
I understood plenty. Keisha wasn't just Sadie's manager, she was her best friend, her advocate. Whatever was happening between Sadie and me was a temporary distraction from her real world.
"The label wants an answer by tomorrow," Keisha was saying. "Three-year commitment, but the advance alone would set you up for life. Complete creative control, flexible tour schedule—they want to capture your Silver Ridge authenticity in the studio."
Silver Ridge authenticity. They were already packaging whatever she'd found here, turning her transformation into a marketing strategy.
"I should get back to prep," I said, turning away from their conversation and back to my vegetables. But I could still hear every word as Keisha painted pictures of Sadie's future that stretched far beyond Silver Ridge.
The kitchen door swung shut behind them, leaving me alone with the scent of honey and whiskey and the ghost of Sadie's warmth against my chest. I picked up my knife and went back to dicing vegetables with mechanical precision, but my mind was spinning.
She was leaving. Of course she was leaving. Women like Sadie Reynolds didn't sacrifice their careers for men they'd known less than a week.
I was halfway through browning the venison when the door opened again.
"Gavin?"
Sadie's voice, soft and uncertain. I set down my spatula and faced her, noting that she'd lost the apron but kept the slightly wild look that came from having her hands in food and flour.
"Forget something?"
"My sanity, maybe." She stepped closer. "That conversation with Keisha—it wasn't supposed to happen like that."
"Seemed straightforward to me. Good opportunities, big money, bright future." I turned back to the stove. "Congratulations."
"Are you angry?"
The question surprised me enough that I looked at her again. She was standing with her arms crossed, defensive but not closed off.
"Should I be?"
"I don't know. Most people get weird when my career comes up."
We stared at each other across the prep station, and I felt that same pull I'd experienced on the mountain—the sense that this woman saw something in me that most people missed.
"So what are you going to do?" I asked.
"I don't know yet." She picked up a piece of carrot from my cutting board and bit into it, making a small sound of appreciation that shot straight through me. "Keisha's right—these are incredible opportunities."
"But?"
"But I keep thinking about what you said on the mountain. About finding a new place instead of trying to get back to an old one." She set down the carrot and looked at me directly. "What if I don't want to go back to Nashville?"
The hope that flared in my chest was dangerous and stupid. She was talking about career decisions, not romantic ones.
"Where would you go?" I asked carefully.
"I don't know yet." Her smile was tentative but real. "But I know where I'd like to stay for the rest of the week."
Here. She wants to stay here.
"Keisha won't like that," I said.
"Keisha will adjust." Sadie moved around the prep station until she was standing directly in front of me. "Can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"When you left Calgary—did you know what you were looking for, or did you just know what you were running from?"
"Running," I admitted. "Had no idea what I'd find up here."
"And what did you find?"
You. But that was too much truth for a kitchen conversation. "Peace. Purpose. People who care more about being fed well than being impressed."
"And now?"
She stepped closer, her hand coming up to rest against my chest, right over my heart. Through my shirt, her palm was warm, possessive.
"Now that I'm here, asking questions you probably thought you'd already answered—what do you want to find next?"
The question hung between us. Her hand was warm through my shirt, and I could feel my pulse hammering against her palm. Behind us, the venison sizzled in the pan. Around us, the festival continued its cheerful chaos.
But all I could focus on was the way she was looking at me—waiting for an answer that mattered.
"I want to find out what happens when someone stays," I said quietly.
She rose on her toes, her free hand fisting in my shirt, pulling me down until we kissed.
This time, no one interrupted us.