The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. I could offer her everything. My heart, my soul, my body, my life, all of it already belongs to her in ways she can't possibly understand. But I won't. I can't.
"That's bullshit," she says softly. "But I'll let you keep telling yourself that. For now."
The quiet confidence in her voice sends a shiver down my spine. It's not a surrender; it's a declaration of intent. Riley Hart isn't giving up. She's just changing tactics.
And God help me, part of me hopes she succeeds.
I retreatto my workshop out back, needing the mindless peace of woodworking to settle the chaos in my mind. The small building sits behind the cabin, filled with tools and half-finished projects. Right now, I'm working on a set of wooden animals for my niece's birthday, Lily, Cade's daughter, turning eight next month.
My hands find the half-carved doe, the knife moving in practiced motions as I shape the delicate legs. Carving has always centered me, given my restless hands something productive to do. I learned from my grandfather, who could turn a block of pine into something lifelike with nothing but a pocketknife and patience.
The methodical work usually empties my mind, but not today. Today, all I can think about is Riley on those porch steps, challenging me with that fire in her eyes. Looking at me like she can see right through every defense I've built.
The worst part is, she's right. I have been avoiding her. Have been making excuses, finding reasons to leave whenever we're in the same room, refusing to acknowledge what every nerve in my body knows is true.
I want her.
More than I've wanted anyone or anything since leaving the Rangers twenty years ago. More than makes sense for a man my age, with my history. More than is right, given who she is and who I promised to be for her.
The knife slips, nicking my thumb. I curse, watching blood well from the small cut. It's a minor wound, but telling. I've been carving for thirty years without a slip.
She's gotten under my skin that thoroughly.
I wrap a bandana around my thumb, tying it off with my teeth. The carving is nearly finished anyway, just needs sanding and a coat of sealant. I set it on the workbench, starting to clean up as the afternoon light fades.
A small wooden box catches my eye, a project I started months ago and never finished. It's beautifully grained cherry wood, meant to be a jewelry box. I'd planned to sell it at the summer craft fair, but now...
Now I find myself picking it up, running my fingers over the smooth surface, thinking of Riley. Of the necklace she alwayswears, a simple gold chain with her mother's wedding ring. The only thing she has left of a woman she barely got to know.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I tuck the box into my pocket. I'll finish it tonight, after she's gone to bed. Give it to her before she leaves, whenever that is. A parting gift, nothing more.
The lie doesn't even convince me.
The scent of cooking greets me as I approach the cabin, something spicy and rich that makes my stomach growl. Riley is in the kitchen when I enter, slicing peppers with practiced ease. She hasn't noticed me yet, and I take a moment to watch her, the graceful movements of her hands, the slight furrow of concentration between her brows.
She moves like her father. Bill had the same efficient precision, whether he was field-dressing a deer or cooking dinner. The same focus, the same quiet competence.
But everything else about her is pure Riley. The slight sway of her hips as she works. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The curve of her smile when something pleases her.
I must make some sound, because she looks up, catching me watching her. I quickly tuck the wooden box deeper into my pocket, embarrassed to be caught with it.
"You're cooking," I say, stating the obvious.
"Seemed like the least I could do." She keeps slicing, not looking up. "Hope fajitas are okay."
I grunt in acknowledgment, moving to wash my hands at the sink. She's right beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of her body. Smell the faint floral scent of her shampoo mixed with the spices from the cooking.
"You don't have to cook for me," I say finally.
"I know. I want to." She glances at me. "Besides, I'm a much better cook than you are."
The teasing draws a reluctant smile from me, easing some of the tension from earlier. "That wouldn't be hard."
"Dad always said you could burn water."
"He wasn't wrong." I lean against the counter, watching her work. "You cook like him, you know. Same way of holding the knife."
Emotion flickers across her face. "I miss him."
