I look away before Wyatt can catch me staring, taking another bite of pizza as my dad’s phone starts to ring. He answers it.
“Yes?” he says gruffly.
Dad hates his phone—hates being available to people all the time. He needs it for work, but if he had it his way, he’d probably toss it into the river right now.
There’s a moment of silence as the person at the other end says something. I feel Dad shift beside me, straightening up.
“What?” His tone makes me pause, and I set my pizza down. “Fuck…when did this happen?” He sounds pissed. Panicked and pissed. My heart lurches unpleasantly as I try to figure out what’s going on. “Have you spoken to Nick? He’s my employee, so he can tell you—” There’s a long pause, and Dad’s expression darkens. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll be there. Five hours max.”
He ends the call, letting out a deep growl of annoyance. Wyatt and I watch him expectantly.
“That was the police back in Denver,” he says bitterly. “The shop’s been broken into.”
I gasp. “Oh my God.”
“Shop?” Wyatt asks.
“My auto shop.” Dad runs a hand through his hair. “Cops are there now. They’ve spoken to Nick, and he says we’re missing a ton of parts, tools, and my fucking motorcycle, too.”
“Shit,” Wyatt mutters.
“I need to get back to Denver.” Dad pushes himself off the ground, scowling. “I need to talk to the cops. See what else the bastards stole.”
My stomach sinks as I follow him back to the truck. We get in before Wyatt floors it out of Cherry Hollow and up the mountain toward Ralph’s cabin. I feel awful for my dad. I know how much the shop means to him—how much work he’s put into making it a success. But I don’t want to leave this place. Not yet. I could lie to myself and say it’s because of the beautiful landscape or Ralph’s cozy cabin, but it has nothing to do with that…and everything to do with the handsome mountain man in the driver’s seat.
“Sorry about this, Wyatt,” Dad mutters. “We’ll come back once all this has been straightened out, then we’ll finish up the cabin. Maybe in a couple of days, hell, maybe sooner if?—”
“I can stay,” I blurt out, interrupting him.
Dad looks back at me. “What do you mean, Izz?”
“I…well, there’s no point in me going home with you if you’re planning to come back so soon. I might as well stay here and work on the cabin while you’re gone. We can finish it faster that way.”
I try to sound calm and logical, blinking innocently at my dad. He hesitates. Scans my face like he’s searching for a lie. I know he’s caught me looking at Wyatt a few times, but I’ve tried to play it off—to stop him from getting suspicious. I’m not sureif it’s worked. He seems to be fighting with himself, having some kind of internal debate, but eventually my benign expression seems to win him over.
“Alright. Makes sense, I guess. That okay with you, Wyatt?”
I catch a flicker of movement in the rearview mirror and see those pale blue eyes burning into me before he says, “Sure. Whatever you want.”
Just like that, it’s settled. I’m staying here with Wyatt. The two of us, alone in the cabin. The thought sends a shiver through me, warmth flooding between my legs. I told myself I needed to stop thinking like this, but I can’t help it. I know he’s Dad’s friend. I know he’s off-limits. But he’s already under my skin, taking over, bubbling like adrenaline in my veins…and I’m starting to realize there’s nothing I can do about it.
6
WYATT
It’s nearlytwo p.m. by the time Holden floors it away from the cabin, hurrying back to Denver. He didn’t bother packing—left all his stuff here, expecting to be back soon. But still, he’s gone. Now I’m alone with his daughter, standing by her side in the living room, watching out of the window as Holden’s truck vanishes through the trees. The air is thick with tension, bearing down on me like a living thing.
But does she feel it too?
There’s no reason Isabelle would be attracted to an old grump like me. She’s barely into her twenties and gorgeous as hell, innocent and unburdened by the world’s problems. Not only am I nearly forty-five, but I’m scarred and jaded, and I’ve barely left these woods for the last twenty years. It makes no sense for her to want me.
And yet…
It doesn’t feel like my imagination. This feels real. Tangible. Impossible to ignore.
“Well,” Isabelle says, her voice a little too cheery, like she’s forcing it, “I guess we better get some work done. What needs doing?”
I glance around the living room, eyes landing on the front door. Repainting it is on my list of jobs—the color is flaky in places, faded with age—and I already bought a fresh can of paint for the job. When I tell Isabelle this, she smiles and says, “Great!” She seems happy at the prospect of having something to do. I wonder if it has anything to do with the atmosphere in here.
