Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
The first fat raindrops hit the windshield just as Shane pulled onto the highway.
"Uh-oh," Kevin said from the back seat, twisting to look at the sky through the rear window. "Shane, I think the storm's coming faster than you thought."
April glanced at the darkening clouds rolling over the mountains, their earlier puffy innocence gone mean and heavy. Thunder rumbled—closer now, no longer a distant promise but an immediate threat.
"Yeah, bud, I see it. Just goes to show, you can be prepared, but mother nature can still outmaneuver you.
" Shane's hands were steady on the wheel, but his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, then to April.
"My place is about ten minutes from here.
We can wait it out there, have some dinner, wait until it passes. "
April's stomach did a little flip. Shane's place. She'd never seen where he lived, never been invited into that part of his world. The thought made her pulse kick up for reasons that had nothing to do with the weather.
"Okay," she heard herself say.
The rain started in earnest as they turned off the main road—big, heavy drops that splattered against the glass and turned the world outside into a watercolor blur. Lightning split the sky, close enough to make April jump.
"One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi—" Kevin counted from the backseat, his voice rising with excitement rather than fear.
Thunder cracked overhead like a whip.
"Three miles!" Kevin crowed. "It's getting closer!"
Pete whined softly from the back.
"It's okay, boy," Kevin soothed. "We're almost there, right Shane?"
"Right there." Shane pointed ahead where April could just make out the dark shape of a cabin through the downpour. "Hang on."
He came to the end of the driveway, which was at the base of a rock outcropping. A flight of wooden stairs led to the cabin about ten to fifteen feet above. Rain hammered the roof of the SUV, so loud April had to raise her voice to be heard.
"On three, we run for it!"
"I'll get Pete!" Kevin was already unbuckling.
“Hang on, you two,” Shane said, laughing. “Stay here. Let me get Pete out first, then we’ll make a run for it.” He handed April a collapsible umbrella.
“Don’t you need this?” But Shane was already out the door and into the storm. A moment later, the back of the SUV opened and Shane let Pete out.
"Okay, one—two—THREE!"
April and Kevin’s doors flew open and they entered the deluge, which seemed to be coming in sideways now.
April shrieked as cold rain hit her skin, soaking through her shirt in seconds.
She grabbed Kevin and held the umbrella over their heads as all of them raced up the steps to the covered porch.
Lightning flashed again, turning everything stark white for a heartbeat.
Shane got the door open and they tumbled inside, laughing and dripping and breathless. Pete shook himself immediately, spraying water everywhere, which made Kevin dissolve into giggles. He decided to shake himself just like the dog.
"Kevin! Sorry about the floor," April told Shane, but he was already halfway through the great room and saying something about grabbing towels from somewhere. "Hang on, let me help at least."
But April found herself looking around instead, taking in Shane's space for the first time.
The cabin was beautiful. Not showy, not trying too hard—just clean lines and warm wood and a kind of masculine comfort that fit Shane perfectly.
Log walls glowed honey-gold in the soft light.
Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on forest, rain streaming down the glass in sheets.
A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, cold now but clearly well-used. Its mantel was lined with photos.
The furniture was simple but quality—a big brown leather couch that looked butter-soft, draped with sheepskin throws.
More throws scattered on the floor over what had to be radiant heat, because even soaked to the skin, April could feel warmth rising from the polished wood beneath her feet.
Woven rugs—Afghan, maybe, from his time overseas?
—added splashes of deep red and navy on the bare floors.
Everything had a place. Nothing cluttered or messy. Neat as a pin, the way Shane had always kept his locker, his truck, his life.
It was so perfectly him that April felt her throat go tight.
"So." Shane appeared beside her with an armful of towels, watching her face with an expression she couldn't quite read. Hopeful? Nervous? "What do you think?"
April turned to look at him—really look at him, standing in his own home, offering her a towel and waiting for her verdict.
"It's perfect," she said, and meant it. "Very you."
His smile could have powered half of Colorado. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She took the towel, resisting the urge to step closer, to touch him, to say something ridiculous like I could be happy here when they'd barely started whatever this was between them. "It's really nice, Shane."
Kevin was already exploring, Pete trotting at his heels and shaking off water every few steps. "Whoa! Shane, you've got a huge TV! And is that a—Mom, he's got a whole shelf of books about wilderness survival!"
"Don't touch anything," April called, but there was no heat in it. Kevin was too excited, and honestly, so was she. “Actually, grab any book you want…if that’s okay with you?” she asked Shane, but he was already chuckling.
“Absolutely. I love that you’re comfortable enough to offer up my library.
” Shane handed her another towel. "You're not too wet, but the house is a little chilly.
I can turn up the heat, or..." He hesitated, then pulled a flannel shirt from a hook by the door.
Navy blue plaid, soft from washing. "You could wear this. If you want."
April took it, fingers brushing his. The flannel was warm and when she held it up she caught the scent—laundry detergent and something underneath that was pure Shane.
Clean and masculine and a little bit woodsy, like he'd been standing too close to the fireplace, or maybe the scent just lived in his clothes now.
She wanted to bury her face in it.
Instead, she smiled. "Thanks. I'll just—" She gestured vaguely toward what she assumed was a bathroom.
"Down the hall, first door on the left."
The bathroom was as neat as the rest of the house. White subway tile, dark fixtures, a shower that looked big enough for two—
Stop it.
April shrugged out of her damp shirt and pulled on Shane's flannel, rolling the sleeves up her forearms. It smelled even better when she was wearing it, surrounding her in that scent that made her want to do extremely inappropriate things. If only her son wasn’t twenty feet away in the next room.
She caught her reflection in the mirror—cheeks flushed, eyes bright, drowning in Shane's clothes—and had to take a breath.
Get it together.
When she came back out, Shane had a fire going. Or rather, he was in the process of building one while Kevin watched from a careful distance, firing questions faster than Shane could stack kindling.
"Why do you start with the small stuff?"
"Because it catches faster. Big logs need heat to get going."
"What if you don't have matches?"
"Then you use a ferro rod. I'll teach you sometime."
"Can you teach me now?"
Shane glanced up, caught April watching, and smiled. "Maybe after dinner, bud. Your mom's probably starving."
April was starving, but not for food. She was hungry for this—the easy way Shane talked to Kevin, the patience in his voice, the way he took her son's endless curiosity seriously instead of brushing him off. The way Kevin looked at Shane like he hung the moon.
The way Shane looked at Kevin like the feeling was mutual.
This could be my life, April thought, and the realization hit her with unexpected force. This could be us. Every Sunday, every day. Coming home to this. To him.
The thought should have terrified her. Instead, it felt like walking out of a casino with her lucky purse full of cash.
Shane struck a match and the kindling caught, flames licking upward. Kevin leaned in, fascinated, and Shane's hand came out automatically to keep him at a safe distance—protective without thinking about it.
April's chest went tight.
This should have been my life all along.
The thought slipped in uninvited, bringing with it a complicated tangle of emotions she didn't want to examine too closely.
She could have had this years ago if things had been different.
If Shane's father hadn't been a bastard.
If Shane had been brave enough to stand up to him then instead of later.
If she'd continued on to California instead of Vegas.
She could have been this happy all along.
Except—
April's gaze landed on Kevin, his face lit by firelight as Shane explained the physics of combustion, and something in her chest twisted.
If she'd gone to California with Shane, she wouldn't have Kevin.
She'd have different children—Shane's children—in some alternate universe where they'd stayed together and built a life.
But not this child. Not her wild-hearted, brilliant, sometimes difficult, perfect boy.
The dissonance sat heavy in her stomach. She couldn't regret the path that brought her Kevin, but by God, she could grieve the years she'd lost with Shane. The life they could have had if the world had been kinder.
If they'd both been braver.
Stop it, she told herself firmly. You're here now. That's what matters.
Shane looked up again, caught her watching, and raised an eyebrow. "You good?"
April pushed off the doorframe. "Yeah. Just hoping your kitchen is as well-stocked as the rest of this place and isn’t full of protein powder or old MREs,” she teased.
"Oh ye of little faith." Shane stood, brushing his hands on his jeans. "I've got everything you need."
I'm starting to believe that, April thought, but didn't say it out loud.
The kitchen was open to the great room, divided only by a long island topped with butcher block.
April opened the fridge and blinked. Vegetables.
Actual fresh vegetables, not just beer and leftover takeout.
Cheese, milk, eggs. A drawer full of deli meat and another with various cuts of fresh meat wrapped in butcher paper.
"You really do cook," she said, impressed.
Shane came up behind her—close enough that she could feel his warmth. When he reached past her for the butter, his arm brushed hers and sent electricity straight through the flannel.
"Learned from Elias and Waylon when they were running out of the firehouse," he said, his voice low and close to her ear. "Can't live on MREs and protein bars forever."
April's fingers tightened on the refrigerator door. "Good to know."
"I was thinking chili. There's ground beef, chili powder, garlic—" Shane pulled open the freezer. "And I've got tamales from this little place on the edge of town. Best in Colorado."
"Kevin loves tamales."
“I love tamales!” Kevin shouted from in front of the fire.
“Ears like a bat, that one.” April laughed.
"Then it's decided." Shane pulled out the package and set it on the counter, then looked at her—really looked at her, in his kitchen, wearing his shirt.
His eyes went a little hazy for a moment and his gaze skimmed up and down her body in a way that made her skin tingle and lady bits clench. "You cook, I'll help?"
"Deal." The word came out a little rough and she cleared her throat.
Shane turned on a radio and they fell into an easy rhythm—April browning the meat while Shane chopped onions, their hips bumping as they moved around each other.
The fire crackled in the background. Rain lashed the windows and thunder boomed.
Kevin set the table under Shane's patient direction, learning where the plates and silverware lived.
It felt like they'd done this a thousand times before instead of this being the first.
April caught Shane's eye as she reached for the cumin, and the look he gave her was so full of want and hope and careful restraint that her breath caught.
He leaned in close, his lips just brushing her ear.
"Careful," he murmured, his breath hot and close. "You keep looking at me like that and I'm going to forget we have an audience."
April glanced at Kevin, who was trying to fold napkins into some kind of elaborate shape.
"Noted," she breathed. "But for the record, you're looking at me the same way."
"Can't help it." Shane's voice dropped lower. "You're in my kitchen. Wearing my shirt. Cooking dinner with our kid setting the table." He shook his head. "I've imagined this more times than I can count."
Our kid.
The words hit her square in the chest. Not your kid or Kevin. Our kid.
Like Shane had already claimed him. Claimed both of them.
She waited for him to correct himself. He didn’t.
April turned back to the stove before the emotion could show on her face. "Chili's almost done. Just needed a little more cumin."
"Good." Shane's hand found the small of her back—just a brief touch, a promise. "I'm starving."
So was April.
But not for chili.