“What?”
“They aren’t especially appetizing-looking.” I’m much better at writing about food than making it.
“What are you talking about? Can’t wait to get my lips around a piece.” Cautiously spoken, a hint of naughtiness, but taking his time, letting me get used tothis. What it’s like to be with a good man … a safe one. Even though everything about his sexy looks and dark voice scream danger of the most delicious kind. “Besides, pretty sure I was behind the top of this one.”
I cock my head. “Maybe you’re right.”
Candelight like golden pools bleeds into the rustic wood grain where Anson takes our plates and forks. He sits at the head, me next to him. Like our first dinner together. Intimate temptation. But this time, instead of apprehension or concern, I’m flooded with contentment, gratitude. Like maybe I deserve this.
“Tell me if it’s got enough love this time.” He winks, grabbing his fork, slicing off a piece and offering it to me.
My tongue darts out, catching a sugary, spicy drop of filling. His eyes go black, nostrils flaring, face flushing.
Cinnamon, butter, a faint apple tang burst on my tongue. The fire pops contentedly in the living room. Large windows soaking up the ethereal glow of twilight in Big Sky Country.
I laugh, mock-serious. “Needs more practice. Guess you’ll have to bake another.”
He takes a forkful, rolls it around on his tongue, deliberate, contemplative. My mind wanders to other places I’d like to feel that heated velvet.
“Not spicy enough for my pepper?” he says it like a joke, but my throat tightens, chest tugs at the possessive pronoun.My. Could that really happen?
My past, the pain feels like lifetimes ago. Like I could blink and make it go away. It’s a risky thought, the kind that leads to guards down, the wrong kinds of invitations.
“When your eyes get that haunted look, what are you thinking about?”
My gaze flickers to his, how the candlelight dances over his skin—a revelation. “Wish things were different. That I had made better choices. Didn’t have so much baggage.”
“You don’t have to carry it alone now.” He says it like a man who knows. His scar flashes, dancing in the warm glow of fire.
“His name is Cary Brantley. Former Marine. Dangerous man. Obsessive, stalker, psychotic…” I breathe through my mouth,voice trembling. “Violent, narcissistic. Demonic on alcohol.” My hand goes to my neck, finger tracing an almost imperceptible scar.
Anson’s eyes drop to the pad of my finger, recognition flaring.
I inhale slowly, trying to separate my words from the weight they still carry. “He can never find me. But he already has?—”
I exhale, looking down. He covers my hand with his.
“The cut fences. Open chicken coop.”
He nods, face stern but steady, letting it sink in.
I level my gaze. “The other night, in the middle of dinner. When I got that text. It was fromhim. Ugly words, nasty intent … and a photo of the welcome sign for Forest Grove.” The last words burn my tongue like dry ice.
His fingers glance over the inside of my wrist, tiny circles grounding me to this moment—to him. “Easy. Take your time.”
“Went to town to report things to Chief Patrick. You already know about that.”
He nods, jaw tensing. “Couldn’t tell me much, confidential. But he said to keep you close.”
“Is that really what’s best, though?” My voice hitches. “Safest for you and Ash, Willow and Ro, Eldon and Laura? All the people I’ve only just met but who already feel like family.”
“Youarefamily,” he says quietly. “Knew the first time I set eyes on you. And family sticks together through the good and the bad, no matter what.”
I shake my head, the backs of my eyes dangerously stinging. I hang on by a thread, throat tightening against the sob I fight. “But if anything ever happened to you, to anyone here at the ranch, I could never forgive myself … for coming here, hiding here, tangling you in my mess.”
“You’re not hiding here, Lace. You’re healing. There’s a difference.”
The words slam into me. My fork drops mid-bite, sharp metal against solid stoneware. “Sorry, it’s just?—”
