7. Chapter 7
Sunny
My apartment feels like a shoebox compared to this place. After today's disasters, this cabin looks like something from a storybook. It’s solid, secure, and exactly what I imagined when Beck described his mountain home.
A deep bark breaks the silence. As Beck opens the door, a German Shepherd bounds out, circling us with excitement before pressing against Beck's legs.
"Rex, meet Sunny." Beck scratches behind the dog's ears. "Be nice."
Rex approaches cautiously, sniffing my hand before pushing his head against my palm. The simple gesture brings tears to my eyes. Great, now I'm getting emotional over a dog. Today has wrecked me completely.
The cabin's interior wraps around me with warmth and smells of pine and wood-smoke. High ceilings with exposed beams. A stone fireplace dominates one wall. Everything looks handcrafted but natural.
Beck moves through the space lighting lamps, revealing bookshelves packed with paperbacks, a kitchen with copper pots hanging above a serious-looking stove, and a sofa that begs to be curled up on.
"Tea?" He fills a kettle without waiting for my answer.
"God, yes."
In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection. Puffy eyes, wind-tangled hair, mascara tracks like war paint.
My recipes. My clothes. My business plan. The reality hits me again—it's all gone. But somehow, being here makes it bearable.
When I return, Beck stands by the fire. He glances up, and my stomach does a little flip.
"Found some clothes that might work." He gestures to a folded stack. "They'll be big, but comfortable."
The clothes smell like him as I inhale forest and smoke with something underneath that's just Beck.
The fabric holds his warmth, his scent surrounding me like an embrace.
As I change, I imagine what it would feel like to have his hands instead of cotton against my skin.
The sweatpants need to be rolled up four times, and the shirt hangs to mid-thigh.
Beck's eyes crinkle when I emerge. "You look like a kid playing dress-up."
"Excuse you, sir, this is high fashion." I strike a runway pose that pulls a low chuckle from him. "Mountain chic is very in this season."
The tour reveals Beck's handiwork. The kitchen cabinets he built himself, an office with a desk facing the mountains, a guest room with no bed.
He pauses at the last door. "My room."
The bedroom holds a massive bed with a headboard carved with pine trees, more bookshelves, and windows that must frame an incredible view by daylight. The bed dominates the space, and heat creeps up my neck as I fantasize about sharing it with him.
"You'll sleep here tonight," he says.
"No way. I'm not kicking you out of your bed."
"You're not kicking me out. I'm offering."
"Beck—"
"Sunny." The way he says my name, low and rough, makes my argument die in my throat. "The couch is comfortable."
Our eyes lock, and suddenly I'm thinking about activities that have nothing to do with sleeping. The air between us crackles with tension. Rex breaks the moment by squeezing between us, tail wagging against my leg.
"Hungry?" Beck asks, his voice still carrying that rough edge.
"We just ate."
Beck shrugs but decides we should eat anyway. He cooks with quiet confidence. Venison steaks, potatoes, greens. I perch on a stool, watching his hands work. Damn those hands. I've been fantasizing about them since he sent that coffee photo weeks ago.
"Where'd you learn to cook like this?" I ask as he flips the steaks with perfect timing.
"Trial and error. Lot of burned dinners that first year."
"I bet your ex was devastated to lose her personal chef."
His hands pause for just a beat too long. "She wasn't much for home cooking.” He serves up our food. "So what brought you to Evergreen Lakes?"
I know a diversion when I hear one, and I sigh as I sit at the dining table.
"Well, I lived in Reno after graduation from college.
Became an accountant and hated it. Realized I was doing it for all the wrong reasons.
Everything was the safe option. Couldn't keep doing it.
Especially after Josh dumped me, so I quit and moved here because Maya moved back here after college, it's her home town and I loved it every time I visited.
And Honey is amazing and hired me knowing about my food truck goals even though I had no practical experience.
I used to eat at food trucks all the time getting ideas, and trying recipes.
It was the only sane thing I did to survive.
" I laugh, but not with mirth and Beck watches me closely.
“Tell me about the food truck," he says as we eat. "The real version. The business side of things."
I tell him about my menu ideas, which are comfort food with unexpected twists. The business model I've researched. The calculations showed how many meals I'd need to sell each day.
He asks questions proving he's listening. Asking about food costs, location strategies, and marketing ideas. No one has ever engaged with my dream like this, not even Maya.
"You're going to make it happen," he says when I finish. Not as a question, but as a simple fact.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"For what?"
"For not telling me I'm crazy. Let me stay here. For all of this."
"Anyone would have done the same."
"No, they wouldn't." I take our plates to the sink. "Most people would've blocked my number after that first text."
He follows me to the kitchen. "I'm not most people."
"No." I turn to face him, aware we're standing close enough for his body heat to radiate toward me. "You're not."
His eyes drop to my lips, then travel lower, taking in how his oversized shirt hangs on my frame. The look sends fire racing through my veins.
"Sunny—"
My hand finds his chest, feeling his heartbeat thunder beneath my palm. "I've been wanting to do this since the first week of texts."
I rise on tiptoes, giving him time to back away. He doesn't. Our lips meet, and that first contact sends electricity shooting through every nerve ending.
His calloused hand cups my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone. Heat pools low in my belly at the gentle touch that contrasts with the hunger in his kiss. My fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer as the kiss deepens.
When we break apart, his eyes have darkened to storm-cloud gray. "This isn't a good idea."
"Why not?" I press closer, feeling his hard length against my hip.
"You've had a day from hell. You're vulnerable."
"I know what I'm doing." I pull him back to me, my body fitting against his like we were made for this. "I've been imagining your hands on me since you sent the fence repair photo. Wondering if they'd feel as rough against my bare skin as they look."
The confession breaks something loose in him. This time, there's nothing gentle about our kiss. My ass hits the counter as his arms wrap around me, caging me in. My hands tangle in his hair, softer than I expected.
His mouth moves to my neck, finding the sensitive spot where it meets my shoulder. His beard scratches my skin, making me arch into him, wanting more contact, more pressure, more everything.
"Beck," I gasp as his hands slide down to grip my hips, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there.
"You taste better than I imagined," he murmurs against my throat, his hot breath making me shiver.
His hands find the hem of the oversized shirt, calloused fingers brushing the bare skin of my thighs. The touch burns, and I can't stop the soft moan that escapes.
"We should slow down," he says, but his hands don't move away from where they're tracing patterns on my skin.
"Probably," I agree, even as my body screams in protest. I can feel how much he wants this, can see it in the way his chest rises and falls, the tension in his shoulders. The heavy bulge pressed against my stomach.
He rests his forehead against mine, breathing hard. "I want this. Want you. But not when you're dealing with everything else."
The consideration only makes me want him more. Most men would take what's being offered without a second thought. But Beck cares about my emotional state, about doing this right.
"Rain check?" I ask, my voice breathier than I intended.
"Absolutely." He brushes hair from my face with a gentleness that makes my chest ache. "When you're ready. Really ready."
His thumb traces my bottom lip, and I have to resist the urge to draw it into my mouth.
He insists on taking the couch despite my protests.
"Goodnight, Sunny." His gaze lingers on me, making my skin tingle. "I'm glad you texted the wrong number that night."
"Me too."
The door closes, and I sink onto his bed, surrounded by his scent.
My fingers touch my lips, still feeling the pressure of his kiss, the scratch of his beard.
The day's disasters seem distant now, pushed aside by the memory of his hands on my waist, his mouth on my neck, the evidence of his desire pressed against me.
My body hums with unfulfilled need. The phantom touch of him caressing my thighs, and how hot it’d be if he'd let them wander higher plays over in my mind.
Making my body ache for more than sleep.