I wanted to let my guard down.
Chapter 3: Bree
Waking up the next morning felt like I’d been hit by a truck. Every muscle ached, my arms felt like lead, and my back protested with every little movement. But underneath the soreness was a strange sort of satisfaction. I’d survived my first day working on the cabin, and working alongside Scott Fergus.
That part had been harder than I expected.
I stretched, wincing, then stumbled into the kitchen to start coffee. As the machine sputtered to life, my mind wandered back to yesterday. To the way Scott's broad shoulders flexed and the black ink that peeked from beneath the sleeve of his flannel shirt, tattoos I had never seen before. The way his forearms, thick with muscle and dusted with dark hair, worked as his large calloused hands gripped the hammer.
Stop it, Bree.
I shook my head, trying to focus on the fact that he was still the same grumpy mountain man who had spent most of my teenage years treating me like a kid sister he needed to keep out of trouble. The same man who made it very clear yesterday that this arrangement was out of duty to Jake, not any desire to spend time with me.
Still. Those arms.
The sound of his truck pulling into the driveway jolted me back to reality. I glanced at the clock. 7:58 a.m. Of course, he was exactly on time.
When I opened the door, he was stepping out of the driver’s seat, wearing another flannel, this one dark green, stretched over those same broad shoulders. His jeans were faded and snug in all the right places. His boots crunched against the gravel as he approached, toolbox in hand.
“You ready?” he asked, his eyes sweeping over me with that assessing gaze. I wasn’t sure if he was checking to see if I was prepared to work or just looking. Maybe both.
“Coffee?” I offered, trying to keep things casual.
He hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Sure.”
Inside, we drank in silence, leaning against opposite counters. I caught myself staring at the line of his jaw, the faint scar above his eyebrow, and the way his hand wrapped around the coffee mug like he could crush it if he wanted to.
“You got those in the Marines?” I blurted out, gesturing toward his tattoos.
His jaw tightened, eyes flicking to his arm, then away. “Some,” he said, voice clipped. “A long time ago.”
I waited for more, but he shut down like a steel door had slammed between us.
“You don’t talk about it?”
His gaze met mine, colder now. “Not much to talk about.”
I nodded, pretending like I wasn’t disappointed. But I felt it, that pang in my chest. I wanted to know more about him. Not just the man I had a crush on years ago, but the man who stood before me now, gruff, closed-off, but carrying a weight I could sense even if he refused to show it.
The moment passed as he set his mug down.
“Let’s get to work.”
We spent the day insulating the cabin, circling around each other in tight spaces, our bodies brushing more than once. Each touch was a spark. Each accidental graze of his hand against mine sent heat pooling low in my stomach. And every time he lifted a heavy beam, his muscles straining, the tattoos on his forearm shifting with every movement, I had to fight not to stare.
By mid-afternoon, I was exhausted, but the porch was coming together. We sat side by side on the steps, breathing heavily, both of us covered in dust and sweat. His shirt was damp, clinging to his chest, and my gaze lingered a second too long.
“You like being out here?” I asked, trying to break the silence.
He shrugged, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “The quiet suits me.”
“Still not a fan of people, huh?”
He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling through me. “People are fine. I just don’t need them around all the time.”
“Except me,” I teased lightly.
His eyes cut to mine, something unreadable in them. “You’re different.”
