"I don't believe that for a second."
"Why not?"
"Because simple people don't make me feel like this."
Chapter 6 - Christine
“Because simple people don't make me feel like this.”
I stare at his profile in the dashboard light… The strong line of his jaw, the way his hands grip the steering wheel like he's holding onto control by a thread and wonder what exactly I make him feel.
Because whatever it is, it's probably a pale shadow of what he makes me feel.
"How do I make you feel?" The question slips out before I can stop it, breathy and far too revealing.
His knuckles go white on the steering wheel. "Like I've been sleepwalking my whole life and you just woke me up."
Oh. Oh.
Heat pools low in my belly, spreading outward until I'm sure I'm glowing in the darkness. No one has ever said anything like that to me before. Hell, no one has ever looked at me the way Marc does, like I'm something precious and dangerous all at once.
"I don't understand what's happening here," I whisper, because honesty seems to be the theme of this evening and I might as well lean into it.
"Neither do I." He glances over at me, and even in the dim light, I can see the intensity burning in his amber eyes. "But I know I don't want it to stop."
"It scares me," I admit.
"Good. If it didn't scare you, it wouldn't be worth having."
There's something almost eerie about the way he says it, like fear is just another obstacle to overcome. It should probably concern me, this edge of darkness I sense in him, but instead it makes mefeel... alive. Like I've been playing it safe my whole life and he's offering me something wild and real and completely outside my comfort zone.
He drives in silence for a few minutes, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. I try to focus on the scenery rushing past—the familiar landmarks of Cedar Falls giving way to countryside I don't recognize—but my attention keeps drifting back to the man beside me.
He mentioned deployments. Military, then, which explains the scars on his hands, the way he moves like he's always assessing for threats.
It doesn't explain what brought him to our quiet little town.
"So," I say, desperate to break the silence before I do something embarrassing like reach over and touch him, "you were deployed. Army?"
"Marines." His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Two tours in Afghanistan."
"That must have been..." I struggle for the right word. Difficult seems inadequate. Terrifying, maybe, but that feels presumptuous. "Hard."
"It was what it was." The dismissal is casual, but I can hear the walls going up. "I did my job and came home."
There's more to it than that. There's always more to it when someone deflects that quickly, but I can tell he doesn't want to talk about it. Which is fair. We barely know each other, and whatever happened over there is probably not first-date conversation material.
Still, I'm curious. More than curious.
"Is that how you ended up in Cedar Falls? Looking for somewhere quiet after...?"
"Something like that." He signals for a turn onto a road I don't recognize. "What about you? Ever think about leaving? Seeing what's out there beyond small-town life?"
The subject change is so smooth I almost miss it, but I let him redirect because the alternative is pushing a man I barely know about what are obviously painful memories. And because, honestly, I'm not sure I'm ready for his full story yet. There's something about Marc Steel that feels too big, too intense for the safe little world I've built for myself.
"I used to," I say instead. "When I was younger, I had all these grand plans. College in the city, a career in event planning, maybe travel the world coordinating destination weddings." I laugh, but it sounds wistful even to my own ears. "But then Mrs. Chelsea offered me the shop, and Cedar Falls just... it's home, you know? Sometimes the life you're supposed to have isn't the one you end up wanting."
"Do you regret it? Staying?"
