Chapter 20
Surge
Darcy
Rain hammered the camper, shrinking the world to candlelight and shadows.
Darcy curled her bare toes against the vinyl floor. The soft string lights tucked beneath the cabinets cast a warm amber glow over the tiny space. A single candle flickered on the dinette, sweet wax mixing with the faint scent of rain drifting through the vents. Cozy. Homey.
The knock came hard—sudden, sharp against the door. She jumped. The storm had swallowed every sound outside—no footsteps, nothing but rain. For all she knew, whoever it was had been standing there for minutes, listening. Watching.
She stopped cold. Instinct carried her to the side window; she parted the blinds with two fingertips.
At first, it was only a tall, rain-blurred shape on her stoop—water running off the brim of his cap, jacket plastered to his frame. Then the faint glow from her lights caught the Sheriff’s Department patch at his sleeve.
Safe. It was just him.
Relief left her weak.
She padded barefoot to the door, tugging the hem of her cami as if that might make her look less undone. She felt too bare, too intimate.
But when she opened the door, the look in his eyes said different—like the storm hadn’t touched him. Only she had.
She cracked the door; wind shouldered the rain inside, chilling her skin.
He filled the doorway—drenched, blond hair plastered to his forehead, department jacket soaked dark at the shoulders.
Water slid down his face, catching on the stubble at his chin.
In one hand, he held a bottle of red—casual despite the weather, as if he had all the time in the world.
“Storm this bad, figured a glass of red might make it bearable,” he said, voice steady, gaze lingering—bare legs, sun-warmed shoulders, teal-blue eyes shining in the glow.
“Come in,” she managed.
He ducked under the frame. She swung the door shut, slid the latch, and handed him a dish towel. He shrugged out of the jacket, set it over the towel by the door, and in that small, ordinary motion, the world steadied.
The wind rattled the windows, but inside the quiet thickened—just the candle’s flicker, the low glow of the lights, the two of them close in a space too small to ignore.
She slid into the dinette booth, tucking one leg beneath her. He sat opposite; his knees brushed hers beneath the table. He tried to fold himself small, but his tall frame crowded the curve of the seat. The intimacy of it dried her mouth.
He uncorked the wine and poured, candlelight catching in the glass. His hand brushed hers—rough skin, an electric spark that lingered long after he pulled back.
“Cozy little place,” he said, voice low, as if speaking louder might break the spell.
She sipped. The wine was warm, rich—but nothing compared to the heat gathering in the small space between them.
His knee pressed firmer into hers. He didn’t move away.
Neither did she.
He set his glass down, eyes never leaving hers.
“Darcy,” he murmured, her name rough as gravel. Before she could think, his lips found hers.
His mouth was warm, sure—hungry in a way that stole the air from her lungs. She trembled, and he deepened the kiss, his hand sliding up to cradle her neck. The rough pad of his thumb stroked beneath her ear, urging her closer.
She melted, every nerve sparking alive. His stubble grazed her skin as he angled her head; his kiss deepened—claiming. Her fingers curled in his damp shirt, clutching him like he was the only solid thing in the storm.
His mouth left hers, trailing lower—across her cheek, along the graceful line of her neck. Heat pressed to the tender place beneath her ear. She shivered, tipping her head back; he kissed lower, each press slow and devastating.
A slight sound escaped—soft, helpless—and he groaned against her skin.
“God, you drive me crazy,” he rasped, restraint fraying his voice.
He sifted his fingers into her bun, loosening it until strands fell around her face and shoulders. His mouth found hers again—hungrier. The room tilted. The space between them burned—want tangled with fear until she couldn’t tell one from the other.
When his hand skimmed beneath the edge of her cami, sliding up her ribs, thumb grazing the curve of her breast—a touch so hot and careful—desire crashed into fear, want colliding with caution.
She broke the kiss, resting her forehead against his. Both of them breathed hard while rain pounded the roof.
“Burke…” Her voice trembled. “I can’t—”
She wanted to say, I’m married. Because Darcy Nolan isn’t even real. Because the man holding her wears the badge that could end all of this.
His thumb traced her cheek, gentle where moments ago he’d been fierce. He pressed one last kiss to her temple, lingering.
“I know,” he whispered. “Not yet.”
He eased back, eyes burning—storm-gray and relentless.
Burke
He hadn’t planned to come. He’d told himself to leave it alone—give her space, keep things simple. But ever since the hike that morning, he hadn’t been able to shut her out of his head.
The way she’d looked at him at the falls when he told her about Anna—his fiancée—no pity, just quiet understanding. The way her fingers had found his and stayed there. He’d felt that touch all day, warm against his palm.
When the storm rolled in, it hit like a hammer, wind shaking the glass on his porch. He pictured her out there alone in that little camper—rain pounding the roof, creek rising—and before he could talk himself out of it, he’d grabbed a bottle of wine and his keys.
Now he was dripping on her mat, bottle in hand, trying like hell not to second-guess himself. What was he even doing? Showing up unannounced in the middle of a downpour like some fool teenager?
But then she opened the door.
Darcy stood there barefoot, candlelight spilling over her bare shoulders, hair coming loose from a knot.
The tiny camper behind her glowed warm and golden, a cocoon against the storm.
For her five-two frame, it was perfect. For his six-two, it felt impossibly small—yet somehow he wanted to fold himself right into it. Right into her.
She tugged at her cami like she wasn’t sure she should’ve answered at all, and every protective instinct in him pulled tight.
He mumbled something about the wine—anything to steady himself—because her eyes made it impossible to remember why he’d come.
Inside, the space was close enough that his knees brushed hers when they sat.
Candlelight played over her skin. She smelled like soap and maybe cookies—something warm he couldn’t quite name.
He tried to focus on the wine, the weather, his badge—anything but her lips curving around the rim of the glass.
Then she looked up, eyes catching the glow, and he was finished.
She had no idea what she did to him—how soft could feel dangerous, how home could fit inside something this small.
He told himself to be steady. To be Sheriff Scott, not a man who forgot himself. But then she whispered his name—soft, uncertain—and the restraint he’d been clinging to snapped.
She tasted like wine and warmth and everything he’d been trying not to need. He kissed her until the storm fell away—until all that existed was the sound she made when his mouth found her neck.
He wanted more. God, he wanted all of her. His hand slid beneath the hem of her cami—and he stopped. Muscles locked, breath shaking, he let his forehead rest against hers.
“Burke… I can’t—”
The words hurt, but he understood. Better than she knew.
“I know,” he said quietly, thumb brushing her cheek. He pressed a kiss to her temple, memorizing the feel of her before forcing himself to pull back.
Because no matter how much he wanted her—how every inch of him thrummed with it—he needed her trust more.
Rain battered the mountain while he sat in the gold glow of her camper, heart pounding like a fist in his chest. He had never wanted anyone the way he wanted her.