Chapter 2
Titus cut through clover and cheatgrass, his boots darkening where sweat had already soaked through his socks. Roscoe moved ahead of him at an easy lope, gray-flecked fur bright under the high summer sun.
Titus carried his shirt in one hand while the heat pressed along his back. Each step was set by habit, the rhythm of a man who crossed property lines without thought but rarely stepped into kitchens.
The Victorian house came into view. It was once grand but now appeared worn, its boards curling and the porch shifting under the passing years.
Montana mornings like this passed for mercy. The temperature had already pushed toward eighty, but the air stayed dry enough that even the flies lost interest before reaching him.
Titus narrowed his eyes against the glare breaking over the roofline and dragged his forearm across his face before sweat reached his eyes. He adjusted the shirt over his shoulder, long past any concern for modesty. Roscoe never missed his way home, and lately that path always led here.
The porch steps shifted under his boots as he climbed, the paint peeling away in strips large enough to catch against his soles. He ran his hand along the post near the door, his fingers tracing rough wood and shallow cuts left by years of use.
Someone had tried to patch the gaps with caulk and left the job unfinished, creating seams that stood out. His heart moved in a steady rhythm that matched the land he worked, but the air pressed tighter through his chest the closer he came to the door.
Roscoe moved without hesitation. He pushed his nose against the sagging screen and slipped through the opening, his nails clicking against the worn linoleum inside. From the threshold, Titus took in the kitchen in a single sweep.
Sunlight crossed the floor in narrow bands, broken by the frame of the window and the angle of the cabinets. The smell of scorched coffee lingered in the air, layered with the sharp trace of onions left behind from the night before.
Titus stayed just outside, shifting his grip on the shirt, deciding whether to announce himself or let the moment stand on its own. He let the door swing wider.
Kyla stood at the sink.
Her posture stayed upright, every line of her body tight with control. Her shoulders were squared and her spine was straight. Her fingertips pressed hard against the edge of the counter.
From where he stood, her shape ran clean from the base of her neck down to her hips, steady and defined.
Roscoe brushed against her calves as he passed. The same dog that would run off anything that crossed the property settled near her without resistance. Kyla did not turn, but her elbows drew in slightly. A faint tremor moved through her left arm before she stilled it again.
She kept her focus on the garden beyond the window, but her breathing marked the space between them. Each inhale came tight, and each exhale was measured.
Titus remained where he was, filling the doorway with everything he carried into it.
The counter in front of her held a dish towel bunched beneath one wrist, with soap clinging in thin streaks where water no longer ran.
The air inside felt warmer than it had outside, with the heat caught and returned by tile and wood.
He did not move. Sweat gathered along his jaw and tracked down across his chest, but he ignored it. Her shirt, a faded green, had shifted at her waist and exposed a narrow strip of skin above her dark denim. Her grip on the counter tightened, and his body answered with a pull low in his stomach.
One step forward would close the distance. Another would change the room. He stayed where he was and waited for her to turn.
Kyla pivoted on bare feet, her shoulders still set as if she expected a fight. Her gaze locked onto his without hesitation, sharp and unwelcoming. Titus met it without blinking.
The peach rested in his hand. The skin felt soft beneath his fingers, and a drop of juice gathered near the curve of his wrist. Her eyes narrowed, then flicked to the fruit before returning to his face. He lifted it slightly, his arm extended between them, offering the fruit without pushing.
The scent reached her first. It was warm and sweet. Her focus slipped for a moment, just enough to notice. Her gaze dropped and then rose again, landing on his mouth. Her lips parted as she pulled in a breath.
Titus let a small smile settle along one side of his mouth and ran his thumb across the surface of the fruit.
“Brought you something.”
The words stayed even and rough at the edges, set to meet her where she stood without pressing further.
Kyla did not reach for it.
He stepped inside.
The screen door shut behind him with a sharp rattle, closing the space.
Each step forward narrowed the distance between them.
The floor creaked beneath his boots, and the heat from his skin settled into the cooler air of the room.
He moved without rushing, testing whether she would step back or stand her ground.
She did not move.
He reached the counter and set the peach down near her hip, close enough that she would have to acknowledge it.
His forearm brushed the sleeve of her shirt as he moved, the contact brief but unavoidable.
He kept his fingers light against the fruit, careful not to linger, while making sure she registered how close he stood.
Silence filled the space between them. Her breathing shifted first, drawing deeper now and lifting her chest in a way that pulled his attention before he forced it back down. He kept his focus steady, resisting the urge to close the last inch between them.
She stayed where she was. He lowered his gaze to the peach, his thumb pressing into the skin where juice had begun to gather, and waited.
He reached into his pocket and pulled free a folded slip of paper, softened at the edges from being carried against him. Without asking, he slid it beneath the peach, leaving it where she would find it without him needing to say more.
Morning, Chef. Welcome home. —T
Kyla’s hand moved before her expression changed. Her fingers closed around the note, gripping it tight enough to crease the paper further. For a moment, her body went still.
Her breath caught high in her chest before she pulled it back under control. Her throat moved as she swallowed, and his focus followed the motion before he forced it away.
He stayed where he was, watching. Her shoulders shifted, the tension easing by a fraction, and her weight tipped closer before she checked it. His knuckles brushed the inside of her wrist as he reached for the peach again, the contact brief but clear. Neither of them stepped away.
Kyla moved first. She lifted the peach and bit into it without hesitation. Juice broke free, running along her chin before she caught it. The sound of the bite carried through the room, grounded and real.
Titus moved without thinking. His thumb traced the path the juice had taken, moving from her chin to the line of her throat. The contact stayed light but direct, enough to mark the space between them. He lifted his hand, his gaze still locked on hers, and drew his thumb across his own mouth.
The taste came through clean and sharp, sweet and cut with salt. She did not look away. Her jaw tightened, and her lips stayed parted. Her eyes stayed fixed on his, wide enough that the color struggled to hold its place.
Titus drew in a breath that did not settle as easily as he wanted. The line between what he wanted and what she would allow narrowed until her gaze became the only thing that kept him still. The moment stretched, and the air between them became thick.
Titus lowered his hand and stepped back, giving space where there had been none. Sweat moved along his jaw, the taste still lingering as he pulled himself into something he could control.
Kyla raised her hand to her mouth, wiping at the place his thumb had been. The note remained clenched in her other hand, wrinkled and tight. For a moment, her hands shook, then steadied as she pressed them against the counter. She kept her eyes on him. There was no distance left to hide behind.
Roscoe circled once before lowering himself onto the floor at her feet.
His presence broke something in the room that neither of them had touched.
Kyla’s shoulders dropped slightly, and the line of her posture loosened by a fraction.
She drew in a longer breath and let it out in a controlled release.
She still did not turn away. Her tongue moved across her lower lip, catching what remained there, and his stomach tightened again in response.
He hooked his thumbs into his belt loops, grounding himself in the stance. The pit of the peach rested slick in his other hand, forgotten but not discarded. He needed her to decide what came next.
The kitchen stayed quiet except for the faint mechanical sound from the refrigerator and the distant buzz of summer beyond the walls. He held his place.
The sound of tires over gravel broke through the quiet. Titus stepped back and turned toward the porch, crossing it in a few strides. The light outside hit hard, bright enough to force his eyes to narrow as he adjusted.
A mail jeep rolled to a stop near the drive. The carrier stayed seated, one arm resting out the window, and extended a stack of envelopes toward him. Titus stepped forward and took them, his attention moving immediately to the thickest envelope on top.
His name sat printed clean above the return address: McAllister Bank.
He opened it where he stood, the seal giving way under his thumb. The paper inside listed terms without softness. Ninety days. No extension. Amounts due. Consequences followed. His stomach tightened as he read.
The screen door sounded behind him. Kyla stepped into the doorway, the light outlining her form. A trace of juice remained at the edge of her mouth. Her attention moved from the envelope to his face, then to his hand where the paper began to fold under his grip.
Titus slid the notice into his back pocket, keeping his movements even and controlled. His expression settled into something neutral, the same face he used when questions came that he had no intention of answering.
She watched him without speaking. The peach and the note remained inside, markers of something neither of them had addressed. For a moment, he thought she might press him or demand an answer he was not ready to give.
She did not. She stayed where she was, framed by the doorway, her stance balanced between stepping forward and stepping back.
Titus lifted one hand in a small gesture and then moved down the porch steps, taking them at a steady pace. His boots hit the dirt, with dust shifting under each step. He did not turn around.
The sun stretched wide across the sky, bright and unrelenting. The notice pressed against his back pocket with each step he took. Two debts followed him. One was written in ink, and one was carried in silence. Both were waiting.