“If only,” I sigh.
I slide into the oversized shirt, ridiculous on my much smaller, though curvy frame. The softness and warmth of the fabric envelops me like his arms, caged against the rough bark of the apple tree. Wrapped in smoke and spice, I roll up the sleeves, pulling flour, sugar, and other baking items from the pantry. Finding white porcelain pie dishes with fluted edges, pre-warming the oven as I work.
Nothing feels more familiar. Almost as if Grandma were here with me. I long to call or text her. Ask about a few measurement details that remain fuzzy. But I can’t. If Cary ever found out I’mstill talking to them … a shiver rushes through me. Just one Facebook post, one comment is all it would take.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a blur of flesh and muscle. My hands freeze in the butter–flour–sugar I’m working into crust, the bare-chested man chopping wood outside eclipsing all other thought.
Anson’s back muscles strain beneath his golden skin, bursting beneath the surface, husky, defined, powerful. He chops with an ease I can’t fathom, like this is every day for him. Considering it’s remote Montana with winter on the way, I take it for what it must be, a well-worn habit.
My mouth waters, not from the cinnamon, vanilla, and fruity sweetness filling the kitchen. But from his effortless strength. He stops for a moment, wiping his forearm across his brow, and I jerk my gaze from him back to the pile of dough in front of me.
“Pies, Lacey. Get back to the pies,” I scold under my breath, fully conscious of the crowd I address, piles of peeled, sliced fruit and heaps of golden dough.
The front door swings wide, and the lumberjack enters. My face goes red, knees buckle.
“You been standing near that oven too long?” he teases.
“Between the cookies earlier,” I say, nodding to a tin piled so high I can barely close the lid. “And now these pies, you could say so.”
“Pie?” he asks, corners of his mouth turning up, eyes hungry.
“Apple pie. Willow says it’s your favorite.”
“Not anymore,” he says gruffly.
“Oh?” I ask, instantly deflated.
“Much prefer the apple we shared yesterday—in the orchard,” he murmurs, sweat glistening across his broad shoulders and firm chest.
I look down, scrutinizing the cold dough squished between my fingers, trying to hold it together.
He clears his throat, and I force my eyes to meet his. He thumbs over his shoulder toward the new woodpile. “How about I get a fire going, grab a quick shower, and then lend a hand?”
I shake my head. “No, they’re my gift to you. A peace offering of sorts … for all the trouble I’ve caused.”
His eyes flicker with recognition at the unspoken simmer beneath my words. “Already got more of a gift than I could ever possibly ask for. Worth all the trouble in the world … wrapped in my flannel. Could get used to that.” He pauses, one stolen glance, then wheels back around, heading for the door to gather wood.
The hearth glows brilliantly, crackling and flooding the cabin with a quiet peace as I continue working, determined to get a pie cooked before he emerges from his shower.
Of course, those two Navy minutes aren’t nearly enough, though he spends a little longer this time, emerging in gray jogging pants and another white V-neck T-shirt. His chill clothes—the deliciously painful death of me.
Padding across the room, his big, warm palm comes up, wiping my cheek. “You’re covered in flour.”
“Oh,” I sigh, looking at my feet.
He snags his finger under my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Couldn’t sleep last night. Kept thinking about what went wrong, what went right. What I wish I’d done differently in the orchard.” He draws so close I have to crane my neck to look up at him, heat radiating from his body, a hair’s breadth from touching mine.
My hands are covered in dough. I hold them away from him, not wanting to cover his shirt, but needing him so entirely, my breath shudders in my throat.
“If I kiss you again, are you going to startle? Run off? Won’t do one thing that makes you feel uncomfortable, but…” His voice drops, eyes trailing to my lips.
“But?” I squeak.
“But one taste isn’t nearly enough, Lace.”
He leans closer, doesn’t take much because I’m the one who crosses the distance, standing on tiptoes, seeking his lips. His kiss is smoke and spice, not harried or frantic—confident, worshipful, like nothing could rush him.
I dissolve, melting against him, my hands still awkwardly suspended mid-air. His hands are fire, burning my flesh with each pass, large, possessive, steady and strong.
