5. Sophie
Sophie woke up in Jace Wilder’s bed with three immediate realizations.
First, she had slept better in a strange mountain cabin than she had in months.
Second, Jace’s flannel smelled like cedar, smoke, and the kind of man who fixed problems without needing applause.
Third, her wedding dress was staring at her from the chair in the corner like a disappointed ghost.
She turned her head and glared at it.
“Don’t start.”
The dress said nothing.
Which was wise.
Sophie sat up slowly, hair falling into her face. Outside the window, the storm had softened into a quiet snowfall. Pale morning light filtered through the curtains, turning the room silver and gold.
For one blissful moment, she almost forgot everything.
Preston.
The wedding.
Her mother’s horrified voice.
The fact that somewhere, hundreds of guests had probably eaten cake while discussing Sophie Lane’s apparent hobby of fleeing formal commitments.
Then she remembered Jace kissing her.
Her entire body warmed.
That kiss had not been polished or practiced or socially acceptable.
It had been real.
So real she could still feel the rough tenderness of his hands on her face. Still hear the low restraint in his voice when he told her he wanted her, but not if there was any doubt in her mind.
Sophie pressed a hand to her chest.
That was the problem with Jace Wilder.
He did not say much.
Then he said exactly the thing capable of rearranging her entire understanding of men.
Her stomach growled.
Loudly.
She looked down.
“Traitor.”
From somewhere beyond the bedroom door, a deep voice said, “Breakfast is ready.”
Sophie froze.
Then whispered to herself, “The cabin has excellent acoustics. Terrible development.”
Jace’s voice came again, faintly amused.
“Also heard that.”
Sophie closed her eyes.
“Wonderful.”
She climbed out of bed, found the oversized sweatpants where she’d folded them on the dresser, and tugged them back on. His flannel hung nearly to her thighs, the sleeves still covering half her hands.
She tried to tame her hair with her fingers.
It did not respond well to negotiation.
When she stepped into the main room, Jace stood at the stove wearing a dark thermal shirt and jeans.
Sophie stopped walking.
That seemed unfair.
Unreasonably unfair.
His shoulders filled out the shirt. His dark hair was slightly messy. His beard shadowed his jaw, and the morning light made him look even more rugged than he had the night before.
Mountain men should come with warning labels.
Warning: Possible side effects include poor judgment, elevated pulse, and sudden belief in destiny.
Jace glanced over his shoulder.
“You okay?”
Sophie blinked.
“Yes. Sorry. I was just having a private medical event.”
His brow furrowed.
“What?”
“Nothing. Breakfast smells good.”
His mouth almost curved.
“Eggs. Toast. Coffee.”
“A man of many talents.”
“Three talents.”
“Don’t undersell yourself. You also rescue repeat runaway brides and provide haunted-dress containment.”
“Four.”
“There we go.”
She slid onto a stool at the kitchen island and noticed that her bouquet was still in the mason jar by the window. The flowers had perked up slightly overnight.
Sophie narrowed her eyes at them.
“Of course you’re thriving.”
Jace set a plate in front of her.
“You talking to the flowers now?”
“We’ve been through a lot together.”
“They holding up?”
“Better than my reputation.”
He poured coffee into a mug and pushed it toward her.
“Reputations survive.”
“Do they?”
“Usually.”
She wrapped both hands around the mug.
“Mine may require professional restoration.”
“Could start with breakfast.”
“That is a very mountain-man solution to public humiliation.”
“Works for most things.”
She smiled despite herself and took a bite.
The eggs were perfect.
Of course they were.
She pointed her fork at him.
“You are dangerously domestic.”
He leaned against the counter opposite her.
“Dangerously?”
“Extremely. If more women knew you cooked breakfast after rescuing them from snowbanks, you’d have a line of brides crashing cars outside your cabin.”
“No, thanks.”
“No?”
“One’s enough.”
Sophie’s fork paused halfway to her mouth.
Jace’s expression did not change much, but his eyes did.
Warm.
Steady.
Unmistakably focused on her.
Her heart gave a painful little tug.
“One?” she asked softly.
He held her gaze.
“Yeah.”
The air between them shifted.
Breakfast suddenly felt much less casual.
Sophie looked down at her plate because if she kept looking at him, she might do something reckless before coffee.
Her phone sat on the far end of the counter, still mercifully dead from its low battery. Jace had apparently plugged it in, though it remained powered off.
“You charged my villain,” she said.
“Thought you might need it later. Villains are essential for story development.”
“Of course they are.”
“You decide when to turn it on.”
There it was again.
You decide.
Such a simple thing.
Such an unfamiliar gift.
Sophie set down her fork.
“I need to go into town today, don’t I?”
Jace’s jaw tightened slightly.
“Tow truck should get to your car once the road’s clear.”
“That wasn’t exactly what I meant.”
“I know.”
She looked toward the window.
Snow still fell, but softer now. The world beyond the cabin looked quiet and bright, as if yesterday had not happened. As if she could simply stay here, wearing Jace’s flannel, drinking his coffee, pretending that Preston, her mother, and the entire wedding party existed in another universe.
A tempting universe to abandon.
But eventually, she had to call people.
She had to say the words clearly.
I’m not coming back.
I’m not marrying him.
I am not sorry for saving myself.
Her stomach twisted.
Jace came around the island and stopped beside her.
Not too close.
Close enough.
“You don’t have to do everything at once.”
Sophie looked up.
His face was serious. No judgment. No pressure.
Just Jace.
Her throat tightened.
“I think if I stop moving, I’ll realize how big the mess is.”
“Maybe.”
“That’s your comfort?”
“Mess is already there. Running around won’t make it smaller.”
“Again, wildly practical.”
“But you don’t have to clean it alone.”
The words moved through her like warmth.
Sophie stood slowly.
The stool scraped softly against the floor.
“Jace.”
His eyes darkened at the sound of his name.
She stepped closer.
“I meant what I said last night.”
His voice turned rough.
“About what?”
“Choosing.”
He went still.
Sophie’s pulse beat hard, but her thoughts were clear.
Clearer than they had been at the church.
Clearer than they had been in years.
“I’m not confused about you,” she said.
His jaw flexed.
“You should be.”
“That is a terrible argument.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know. You frequently are.”
“Sophie.”
“There’s that voice again.” She smiled faintly. “The noble one.”
“I’m trying not to take advantage of a woman who had the worst day of her life.”
“You’re not.”
“You ran from a wedding less than twenty-four hours ago.”
“Yes.” She stepped closer. “And maybe that should make me doubt everything. But it doesn’t. Not this.”
His hands curled at his sides.
She could see his restraint.
Feel it.
It was there in the tension in his shoulders, the tight line of his mouth, the way he held himself still as if one wrong move would send them both past the point of no return.
Sophie reached for his hand.
His fingers closed around hers instantly.
“You make me feel free,” she whispered.
Something broke open in his expression.
Not completely.
Jace Wilder was not a man who fell apart dramatically.
But she saw it.
The moment her words got through.
His other hand lifted to her cheek.
“You sure?”
Sophie smiled.
“For a woman with two runaway weddings and one duck boot on her record? Surprisingly, yes.”
A rough laugh left him.
Then he kissed her.
This kiss was not like the first.
Last night’s kiss had been restrained, careful around the edges, full of questions neither of them could fully answer.
This one had answers.
Jace’s mouth moved over hers with deep, hungry certainty, and Sophie melted into him like she had been waiting all her life to be held by a man who did not want to reshape her.
His hands settled at her waist, firm and warm through the flannel. Her fingers slid into his hair, and he made a low sound that sent heat rushing through her.
She rose onto her toes.
He pulled her closer.
The kiss deepened, turning slow and consuming.
Jace tasted like coffee and heat and the morning after a storm.
Sophie’s heart raced.
Not from panic.
From want.
From relief.
From the dizzying realization that she was standing in a cabin in the mountains, in the arms of a man she barely knew, and somehow felt more like herself than she ever had in a wedding dress chosen by a committee.
Jace broke the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against hers.
“Tell me again.”
Her breath trembled.
“What?”
“That you’re choosing.”
Her chest ached.
“I’m choosing this.”
His eyes searched hers.
“Me?”
“You.”
The word had barely left her mouth before he lifted her into his arms.
Sophie gasped, then laughed, wrapping her legs around his waist.
“Jace.”
“Still choosing?”
She grinned breathlessly.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He carried her toward the bedroom.
The same bedroom where her wedding dress still sat in the chair like an offended witness.
Sophie glanced at it over Jace’s shoulder.
“Maybe turn the dress around. It looks judgmental.”
Jace actually laughed.
The sound rumbled against her chest.
Then he kicked the bedroom door half-shut and set her gently on the bed.
He turned, picked up the wedding dress from the chair, and carried it to the closet.
Sophie propped herself on her elbows.
“Are you banishing it?”
“Giving it privacy.”
“For what?”
“Whatever dresses do when they judge people.”
She laughed so hard she fell back against the pillow.
Jace returned to the bed, and the humor in his face softened into something more intense.
He looked at her like he was memorizing the moment.
The laughter faded from Sophie’s lips.
“Come here,” she whispered.
He did.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like even now, after all the words, he was giving her space to change her mind.
She loved that.