4. Jace
Jace Wilder had made a mistake.
Not rescuing Sophie Lane from a snowbank. He would do that again.
Not bringing her to his cabin. He wasn’t the kind of man who left a woman stranded in a storm, wedding dress or not.
Not feeding her, giving her dry clothes, or placing her half-frozen bouquet in a mason jar by the window like it had earned a second chance.
No.
His mistake was thinking he would be able to sleep with Sophie Lane under his roof.
Jace lay on the couch, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling while the fire burned low and snow brushed against the windows.
The cabin was quiet.
Usually, quiet settled him.
Tonight, quiet had teeth.
Because down the hall, Sophie was sleeping in his bed.
In his flannel.
After telling him she was afraid of disappearing.
Jace closed his eyes.
Bad idea.
The second he did, he saw her standing in his kitchen, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, looking up at him like he was the first person who had ever asked what she needed and meant it.
He should have kissed her.
No.
He absolutely should not have kissed her.
The woman had run from a wedding that day. Her life was chaos wrapped in satin, panic, and one purple duck boot. She needed safety, warmth, and space to think.
She did not need Jace Wilder wanting her so badly his chest felt too tight.
He turned onto his side and punched the pillow.
The poor pillow did not deserve it.
A thump sounded from the bedroom.
Jace sat up instantly.
Another thump.
Then Sophie’s muffled voice.
“No. Absolutely not. We are not doing this again.”
Jace was on his feet before he thought better of it.
He crossed the hallway and knocked once.
“Sophie?”
Silence.
Then, “Everything is completely under control.”
That meant no.
He opened the door a crack.
Sophie stood beside the bed with his flannel twisted halfway around her shoulders, one sleeve inside out, her hair wild, and a look of intense betrayal on her face.
The wedding dress lay on the chair in the corner, apparently innocent.
Her phone buzzed from somewhere inside it.
Again.
Jace stared.
Sophie lifted her chin.
“The dress is haunted.”
He pushed the door open farther.
“It’s calling?”
“Preston is calling. The dress is enabling.”
Jace leaned one shoulder against the doorframe.
“You got out of bed to argue with fabric?”
“It buzzed.”
“Fabric doesn’t buzz.”
“This fabric has ruined my life twice. I’m not ruling anything out.”
The phone buzzed again.
Sophie pointed at the dress.
“See?”
Jace crossed the room and picked up the gown. It was lighter than it looked but still ridiculous. He found the hidden pocket and pulled out the phone.
PRESTON.
His jaw hardened.
Sophie’s face changed the second she saw the name.
Humor vanished.
Fear didn’t replace it exactly.
Exhaustion did.
A deep, worn-down tiredness that made Jace want to drive through the storm, find Preston Whitaker, and explain several things with his hands.
He held the phone out.
“You want it?”
“No.”
“Want me to turn it off?”
“Yes.”
He did.
Simple.
The silence afterward felt like a door closing.
Sophie sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed both hands over her face.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For being the most inconvenient woman ever to pass through your cabin.”
He set the phone on the dresser.
“You’re not.”
She peeked at him through her fingers.
“Jace. I brought a wedding dress into your house. I cried into your chili. I accused your bathroom hamper of judging me.”
“It was.”
Her hands dropped.
A laugh burst out of her.
The sound moved through him, warm and dangerous.
He should leave.
He did not.
Sophie’s smile faded slowly as she looked at him standing in the bedroom doorway.
The air shifted.
The room was lit only by the small lamp beside the bed, soft gold against the log walls. Snow tapped at the window. The bed was rumpled from where she had slept, and his flannel hung loose over one shoulder.
Jace gripped the doorframe.
“Go back to sleep.”
“You sound bossy.”
“I’m tired.”
“You don’t look tired.”
“What do I look?”
She studied him for a second too long.
“Like a man trying very hard to be noble.”
He said nothing.
Her mouth curved faintly.
“It’s annoying.”
“Nobility?”
“Men deciding what’s best for me.”
That hit.
Jace straightened.
“I’m not deciding anything for you.”
“No?”
“No.”
She stood, the flannel sleeves falling over her hands.
“Then why did you look at me in the kitchen like you wanted to kiss me and then send me to bed like I was a fragile Victorian orphan?”
His pulse kicked hard.
“Sophie.”
“There’s that voice again.”
“It’s a warning.”
“For me or you?”
He stared at her.
Too smart.
Too honest.
Too close to the truth.
“For both,” he said.
That seemed to take her by surprise.
Good.
Maybe honesty could still save him from stupidity.
Sophie took one step closer.
“I’m not asking you to fix my life.”
“I know.”
“I’m not asking you to make decisions for me.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not asking you to pretend this isn’t a terrible time to be attracted to someone.”
His jaw tightened.
“You are not attracted to me.”
She gave him a look.
“I ran from a wedding, Jace. I did not lose my eyesight.”
A rough laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
Her smile came back, soft and pleased.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The laugh. I like that one even better than the almost-smile.”
He should have walked away.
Instead, contrary to both his common and pragmatic senses, he stepped into the room.
Just one step.
Enough to make Sophie’s breath catch.
“You are vulnerable,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You are upset.”
“Yes.”
“You are standing in my bedroom wearing my clothes after leaving another man at the altar.”
Technically not the altar, but close enough.
Sophie nodded gravely.
“When you list it like that, it does sound like I’m making complicated lifestyle choices.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“No,” she said softly. “It isn’t.”
The humor faded again, but this time it left something steadier behind.
Sophie moved closer until only a few feet separated them.
“I have spent years letting men call their control concern. Preston did it politely. Daniel did it accidentally. My mother does it with floral arrangements.”
His mouth almost moved.
She pointed at him.
“Do not laugh at the floral arrangements. They are a real weapon in her hands.”
“I believe you.”
Her expression softened.
“I know you’re trying to be careful. I know that’s different.”
He swallowed.
“Is it?”
“Yes.” Her voice grew quieter. “Because you keep giving me room. Even when you’re clearly angry on my behalf. Even when you think I should eat, sleep, answer, not answer, sit, warm up, drink tea, or stop fighting haunted dresses.”
“Sounding less different.”
“You ask,” she said. “Or you back off when I ask you to. That matters.”
Jace looked at her, and the last thread of distance inside him pulled thin.
Sophie Lane had arrived in his world like a storm siren wrapped in lace. She was messy, funny, tender, stubborn, and far braver than she believed.
And he wanted her.
Not as a stranded bride.
Not as a passing complication.
As Sophie.
“I don’t want to be another man taking something from you,” he said, voice rough.
Her eyes warmed.
“Then don’t take.”
She stepped closer.
“Let me choose.”
The words moved through him like fire.
Jace’s hands curled at his sides.
“What are you choosing?”
Sophie lifted her chin, but her voice trembled slightly.
“You.”
For a long second, he couldn’t move.
Then Sophie added, “Unless that is too direct, in which case, I can soften it with a joke about the duck boot.”
That did it.
Jace crossed the space between them, cupped her face in both hands, and kissed her.
The first touch of his mouth was soft.
Careful.
A question.
Sophie answered by gripping his shirt and rising onto her toes.
That snapped something in him.
His arms went around her, pulling her close as the kiss deepened. She made a tiny sound against his mouth, and Jace felt it in every part of him.
He had kissed women before.
He had wanted women before.
But this was different.
This felt like the moment the cabin stopped being silent.
Sophie tasted like tea and warmth and a dangerous kind of trust. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and Jace had to fight the urge to lift her straight into his arms.
Not yet.
Not like this.
Not until she was absolutely sure.
He forced himself to slow the kiss, then eased back just enough to look at her.
Her lips were parted.
Her eyes were wide and dark.
Her cheeks flushed.
“Wow,” she whispered.
His mouth curved.
“Good?”
“Terrible,” she said. “Now I have new problems.”
A laugh rumbled out of him.
Sophie looked briefly triumphant.
Then he kissed her again, because there was only so much restraint a man could reasonably be expected to practice in his own bedroom with a beautiful runaway bride wearing his flannel and looking at him like that.
This kiss was slower.
Deeper.
More certain.
Sophie melted against him, and Jace’s hands tightened at her waist. The flannel was soft beneath his palms. She was softer.
He broke away with a low curse.
Sophie blinked.
“What?”
“I need to stop.”
Her expression flickered.
He saw the old fear immediately.
Regret.
Rejection.
He hated that she expected it.
Jace brushed his thumb along her cheek.
“Not because I don’t want you.”
She searched his face.
“Then why?”
“Because when I have you in my bed, Sophie Lane, I don’t want there to be a single doubt in your mind that you chose it because you wanted me, not because you were hurt and I was here.”
Her breath caught.
For a moment, she only stared.
Then her eyes filled.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“That was…” She swallowed. “That was annoyingly decent.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
Her laugh trembled.
Jace pressed a kiss to her forehead because if he kissed her mouth again, decency was going to become a historical concept.
“You should sleep.”
“You keep saying that at very inconvenient moments.”
“I know.”
“Are all your house rules this frustrating?”
“Usually.”
She leaned into him for one brief second, resting her forehead against his chest.
Jace wrapped his arms around her and held on.
Just held her.
That, somehow, felt more dangerous than the kiss.
Because Sophie sighed like she had been waiting all day to be held without being steered.
His chest tightened.
After a while, she whispered, “I don’t want to go back.”
“You don’t have to decide tonight.”
“I know.” Her fingers curled lightly in his shirt. “But I don’t.”
Jace closed his eyes.
The words hit him harder than they should have.
Because some selfish part of him wanted to say good.
Wanted to tell her to stay.
Wanted to take that choice and build his whole damn future around it.
Instead, he made himself say, “Then tomorrow, you decide what you do want.”
She lifted her head.
“And if what I want is complicated?”
His mouth brushed her temple.
“Then we’ll start there.”
Her smile was small and tired and beautiful.
“We?”
The word slipped between them.
Jace heard it.
So did she.
He could have corrected it.
Should have, maybe.
He didn’t.
“We,” he said.
Sophie’s eyes softened in a way that nearly undid him.
Then, from the dresser, her phone buzzed despite being turned off.
Both of them froze.
Sophie slowly turned her head toward it.
“That is not normal.”
Jace stared at the phone.
The screen lit up.
LOW BATTERY.
Sophie exhaled.
“I thought Preston had achieved supernatural form.”
“He seems persistent.”
“Like mildew.”
Jace huffed.
She smiled against his chest.
“I’m going to sleep now before I ruin this moment by comparing my ex-fiancé to more household problems.”
“Good plan.”
At the door, Jace paused.
Sophie sat on the edge of his bed, wrapped in his flannel, looking nothing like the polished bride she had fled from and everything like the woman she had been trying to find her way back to.
“Jace?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for not making me feel crazy.”
He held her gaze.
“Thank you for not being boring.”
She laughed softly.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Sophie.”
Jace closed the door behind him and returned to the couch.
The cabin was quiet again.
But this time, the silence was different.
It carried her laughter.
Her warmth.
The memory of her pretty mouth under his.
Jace sat down, leaned forward, and dragged both hands over his face.
He had known Sophie Lane less than a day.
She was chaos.
She was temporary.
She was trouble.
And he was already halfway gone.