Chapter 13
Thirteen
We pulled into a smaller parking lot at the end of a long road, where a narrow dirt path led toward our assigned cabin.
It was beautiful, tucked away down a private stretch of wilderness. The cabin was larger than I expected. Wooden beams. Stone accents. High, floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a private view of the lake.
It was breathtaking.
Nature seemed to stretch out for miles here. Like we’d entered the Garden of Eden. Everything untouched. Plants growing without any kind of irrigation system to keep them alive. An ecosystem so wildly different from LA.
I stepped through the door and turned in a slow circle, taking in the space.
The cabin was open-concept, but everything had its own corner—defined without really being separate.
To the left, a sitting area with a stone fireplace, a worn leather couch, and a matching armchair angled toward a wall of windows that looked out onto the forest. Straight ahead, a small kitchenette with dark wood cabinets and a slate countertop.
And off to the right, a queen-sized bed sat beneath a bank of tall windows, framed in soft light that spilled across the quilt and floorboards.
It was warm, quiet, and impossibly intimate—like stepping into a life that already belonged to someone else.
I paused, breath catching in my throat.
I hadn’t thought to ask about the sleeping arrangements before we left. There had been so many details to memorize, so many events to pack for, that it hadn’t even crossed my mind.
But when I turned around, Dean was already at the couch, stacking blankets on the arm rest as he tossed the throw pillows onto the chair.
I exhaled, relieved. “That’ll work. I’ll just grab a pillow and—”
Dean shook his head and let out a short laugh. “Oh, no you won’t.”
I froze. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll take the bed. I'll take the couch.”
I blinked a few times. “That’s absurd. I’m smaller than you—I’ll be…”
But the way he looked at me made the words dissolve on my tongue.
His expression wasn’t smug or angry. It was steady, grounded in a kind of quiet confidence that made my skin tingle. As though he’d already imagined every version of this argument and had calmly decided none of them mattered.
It was protective in a way that felt… intimate. Like he wasn’t just offering me the bed—he was refusing to let me shrink myself for his comfort.
And it wasn’t fair, the way something in me responded to it.
My chest went tight. Heat curled low in my stomach, unexpected and disorienting.
I turned away—not because I was upset, but because something inside me unfolded. I wasn’t used to this. To someone quietly choosing my comfort over their own. Not a man like him. And definitely not a man who was paying for my presence.
It shouldn’t have meant anything.
But it did.
My throat tightened and heat crept up the back of my neck before I could stop it. I swallowed hard, trying to breathe past the pressure building in my chest.
Behind me, Dean was already moving—bent over the couch, unfolding blankets with steady hands as if it were just another chore. As if he hadn’t just knocked something loose in me I didn’t know how to hold onto.
I opened my mouth to thank him—or maybe offer help—but before I could get a word out, George launched himself onto the bed, stretched out on the comforter, then dropped to his haunches in one dramatic huff.
The sound cut through the silence, catching me off guard. I’d been too tense, too tightly wound—and suddenly, without meaning to, I let out a quiet giggle.
It bubbled up before I could stop it, light and unsteady, as if I’d forgotten how to laugh and was just now remembering.
Dean and I exchanged a look—one of those weary, resigned glances parents give each other when their kid does something naughty in public.
“George. Down,” Dean said, clearly embarrassed by his rebellious pup.
But George didn’t budge. He tilted his head, stretched out farther, and made himself even more at home.
Dean crossed the room with heavy steps, gently took George by the collar, and tugged until he reached the edge of the bed.
The noises George made reminded me of a sulking teenager—but reluctantly, he climbed off the bed, pranced over to the couch, and flopped onto the blankets Dean had just laid out for himself.
Dean rubbed his forehead, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “He’s only two,” he muttered. “Still very much a puppy. Who, I’ll be enrolling in obedience school the second we get home.”
The last part he said a little louder—definitely intended for George to hear.
“We’ll get you new bedding,” he said as he moved toward the bed again. “I just need to figure out who to call—”
I shook my head before he could finish. “That’s not necessary.”
He paused with his hand on the edge of the comforter.
“Really,” I nodded. “I don’t mind at all.”
He met my eyes, as though he wasn’t sure if he should believe me or not. As though he wasn’t used to someone making things so easy.
“You’re sure?” he asked, his tone softer this time.
I nodded, but my eyes drifted, because the way he looked at me was too intense. Too damned honest.
I walked over to the small table by the window, where a phone sat beside a welcome basket—wine, fresh fruit, and enough snacks to last a week were inside. But it was the contents that made my heartbeat start to react. A folder was tucked inside—thick, ivory paper, embossed with our names:
Mr. Dean Weston and Ms. Vivienne Blackwood.
My stomach dipped.
I pulled the folder from the basket and spread its contents across the table. Page after page of meals, gatherings, parties, projects. Every hour packed with something to do.
The busy schedule made my head spin.
“They really don’t mess around, do they?” I said, glancing at the itinerary and realizing the welcome dinner started in exactly two hours.
I turned—and bumped right into him.
Dean had moved behind me so quietly I hadn’t noticed. My hands flew out on instinct, catching his arms for balance, while his hands settled at my waist. His fingers brushed just beneath the hem of my shirt… then stilled.
We both froze.
His closeness stole my breath, his warm, steady hold lingering as though he wasn’t ready to let go. I wasn’t sure I wanted him to.
I looked up to find his gaze already on me.
For a second, everything in the room fell away—the itinerary, the schedule, the world outside the cabin. There were just his hands on my waist. Mine on his arms. Breath caught somewhere in the middle.
Then, slowly, his fingers eased back. Not a sharp release, but a quiet one—his touch dragging slightly before falling away.
I stepped back, but somehow, I still felt him.
Then his gaze dipped to my mouth, and I forgot how to breathe again.
“I guess I should go get ready,” I whispered. Because if I didn’t speak, I wasn’t sure that I wouldn’t do something else. Like reach for him again.
The moment broke like a wave pulling away from shore. Whatever had been holding us there unraveled.
Dean stepped back too, running a hand through his hair as if the tension had finally caught up to him. He turned toward the table, grabbed an apple out of the basket, and took a large bite.
“That’s probably a good idea,” he agreed.
I wasn’t sure how long I stayed in the bathroom. Long enough to shower, blow-dry my hair, and overthink that moment by the window for way too long.
There was no denying it anymore—there was chemistry between Dean and me.
The kind that pulled when I pushed.
The kind that turned silence into foreplay.
How the hell was I supposed to survive another week of this?
I gripped the counter and stared at myself in the mirror.
“This is a job,” I said firmly. “You cannot go lusting after the man who hired you to be his fiancé.”
But the part of me that hadn’t been touched in over a year raised a very compelling eyebrow.
“It could be fun.” I tilted my head—then turned away, instantly disgusted with myself.
It must have been my biological clock talking. Because that awful, horrible, voice was wrong.
My chest tightened, and something low in my belly clenched.
I felt like there was a ticking time bomb inside me, and I had no idea when it was going to blow.
My mind slipped back to the way his hands gripped my waist—steady and sure. The kind of touch that knew its strength and held back just enough to not be overwhelming. A pressure that was commanding, yet safe at the same time.
I exhaled and went to my garment bag, which hung on the back of the door, then stared blankly at the outfit hanging there.
“What the hell do you wear to a square dance, anyway?”
I’d contemplated this question for days and had finally settled on a pair of denim shorts—cute, but not overly short, and a green flannel blouse that I would tie at my waist.
“Why do you care so much?” I asked myself.
But I already knew the answer.
I wanted to please him––and the thought instantly left an unsettled feeling in my gut.
Frustrated, I yanked the shirt off the hanger, put it on, then sat on the edge of the tub and shoved my feet into the embroidered brown-and-green boots I’d found at a thrift store a few years ago.
I hesitated for half a second. Then stalked toward the door.
I flung it open, forced myself into the room—
And stopped cold.
Because Dean—
He was standing in front of the window, and he looked...
God.
I blinked, trying to absorb the sight.
While I’d been in the bathroom, the whole room had shifted—washed in the golden light of early evening. And there he was, caught in the center of it, like a fantasy come to life.
His profile was lit just enough to make out the sharp cut of his jaw. One hand was braced against the window frame, his stance easy, relaxed. But the shadows in the room didn’t play fair—because they made every line of his arms and back look sharper. Stronger.
His flannel shirt—dark green and navy—stretched across shoulders that looked like they were designed to carry heavy things. Like, I don’t know... my entire emotional baggage.
And then there were the worn denim overalls that did me completely in.
I smiled before I could stop myself because he wasn’t wearing them ironically. They weren’t a joke or some kind of costume. No. He wore them like they were part of his everyday wardrobe.
I snapped my gaze away, heart pounding, as the beginnings of a lumberjack fantasy bloomed somewhere behind my ribs.
“You ready?” he asked, turning toward me—his voice casual, because how could he know that he’d just knocked the wind out of my lungs?
I wiped the corner of my mouth—thankfully no drool—and lifted my chin. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, though even as the words left my lips, my fingers drifted to the knot at my waist.
For the third time, I untied it.
A wave of unease crept up my spine. The sliver of skin that peaked above my waistband suddenly felt too much. Too visible.
Dean’s gaze flicked to mine, and his brows pulled together. Then he started walking toward me—slow, deliberate steps—until he stopped just inches away.
“Don’t,” he said quietly.
Before I could ask what he meant, his hands were on me—reaching, not hurried, not rough—just steady. Intentional. His fingers found the loose ends of my shirt.
I stilled.
Something about the way he moved made it impossible not to.
He retied the knot at my waist with the kind of quiet focus that made my breath catch. His knuckles brushed my skin—just above the waistband of my shorts—and it shouldn’t have felt like anything.
But it did.
It felt like everything.
My pulse thundered. I stared at the center of his chest, willing myself not to move, not to react—but every nerve in my body had already betrayed me.
“There,” he said, voice low.
I looked up.
And found his eyes already on mine. Something unreadable passed between us—something weighty and unspoken—and for one suspended beat, I thought he might kiss me.
I didn’t move.
God, I didn’t breathe.
But he didn’t kiss me.
Instead, he reached into his pocket, slow and smooth, and pulled out the same small box he’d shown me at the hotel.
“You’re only missing one thing,” he said, barely above a whisper. Like the moment might shatter if he spoke too loudly.
“What’s that?” I asked, my voice already breathless.
He flipped the lid open, revealing a ring. Identical to the one I’d left behind on my nightstand.
“I didn’t know if you still had it,” he said. “So, I ordered another.”
I swallowed, hard.
The weight of a thousand things I could’ve said pressed tight against my ribcage.
But not one of them made it out.