He lifts me easily, carrying me toward the bedroom like I weigh nothing at all. My arms loop around his neck, my laughter mixing with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my ear.
This time, there’s no storm to drown out the sound of our love.
Just the quiet promise of forever.
Chapter 9
Edward
Morning light drips into the cabin, and for the first time in days, the wind has stopped screaming.
My home has gone back to being isolated on a mountain. Quiet, heavy, watching.
The tarp we duct-taped over the blown window bellies in and out with a tired breath, and the cold that sneaks through it smells like clean snow and pine.
I put another log on the fire and listen to the soft roar as it catches. The kettle ticks on the stovetop and Penny’s perched on the hearth in my flannel jacket she won't stop wearing.
I don't care. It matches the wool socks that could fit three of her all the way up to those gorgeous thighs.
She's got her sketchbook propped on her knees, the end of a pencil tucked into her mouth like she’s trying to taste the scene before she draws it.
She looks like she belongs here. That thought hits me in the chest so hard I have to look away.
Inventory time. I do a slow walk of the room: tarp holding, table still wedged firm, tiny glass shards still appearing everywhere despite sweeping the floors three times a day for the past four days.
We lost some heat, some plywood from the stack, and most of my pride.
But we didn’t lose us.
I’ll take that trade every day.
I shake my head and huff a disbelieving grunt.
A week ago, if that storm came though and threatened to take my life… I probably would have let it.Welcomed it.
But not now. Not with her here with me.
I love you too.
The kettle chirps and those magical words swirl inside my head. I pour two mugs and set one next to her leg, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of her head.
“Coffee, sunshine. Just how you like it… strong enough to stand a spoon in it.”
She smiles without looking up. “Perfect. I like my coffee like my mountain men. Dark, dangerous, and overcompensating.”
“Cute.” I lean a hip against the warm hearth. “How’s the view?”
“Cold. Honest.” She draws a few more lines with the pencil and smudges it with the side of her finger. Then, with a heavy sigh, she glances up at the tarp. “Temporary.”
“Everything is.”
I hate how true that sounds. So I clear my throat and shift gears.
“Weather report says the county’ll run a plow down the main road by afternoon. I can chain the truck and cut a path to the switchback once they pass.”
She stills. I can feel the wordleavesuck the heat out of the room.
“Right,” she says, pencil hovering over the page. “My parents are probably pacing a groove into their kitchen floor.”
