This is madness. I don't know this woman. She doesn't belong here. She has a life waiting in Vancouver with a business, friends, probably men lined up around the block. Men who speak in complete sentences and don't have calluses on every inch of their hands. But I can't stop imagining her staying. Here. With me.
"Sleep okay?" I ask, keeping my back to her as I focus on cooking eggs.
"Like a rock. Your bed is absurdly comfortable."
The image of her in my bed flashes through my mind again. I suppress a groan as blood rushes to my cock.
"Roads should be clear of debris by noon," I say, though each word feels like I'm cutting out a piece of myself. "I'll drive you back to town."
"Oh." Is that disappointment in her voice? "Right. Of course."
Breakfast passes in silence. I steal glances at her between bites. The sunlight streaming through the windows catches in her hair. She eats with enthusiasm, making little sounds of appreciation that stir my lust further.
"These eggs are amazing," she says. "You're full of surprises, Thorne Harrington."
I grunt in response, not trusting myself with words. If I start talking, I might say things I can't take back. Things like:Stay. Be mine. Let me build a life around you.
After breakfast, I find myself saying, "There's something I want to show you. Before you leave."
I lead her to the workshop behind the cabin. It's my private space, where no one else goes. Not even my brother Wade has seen everything in here. Yet I'm bringing this woman I've known for less than a day.
Her eyes widen as I open the door. Sunlight spills through large windows, illuminating the space. One half is dedicated to practical woodworking with my tools hanging in precisearrangements, projects in various stages of completion. The other half holds my secret work.
"Oh my god," she breathes, moving toward the collection of wood pieces I've gathered over decades. Burls with intricate patterns. Driftwood polished by years in the river. Cross-sections of trees that reveal their life stories in their rings. Roots that twist like dancers. "These are incredible."
Pride surges through me as she runs her fingers over a piece of maple with a natural hollow perfect for flowers. "You have an amazing eye," she says.
"Been collecting since I was a boy." I watch her closely. "Thought some might work for your arrangements."
She turns to me, eyes bright with excitement. "They're perfect. Absolutely perfect. This is exactly what I came to Silver Ridge hoping to find."
I want to freeze this moment. Her joy. Her presence in my most personal space. The way she understands the beauty I've always seen in the wood.
"You can have whatever you want," I say, the words coming out rougher than intended. I'm not just talking about the wood.
Something shifts in her expression as our eyes lock. She hears what I'm not saying.
"Thorne." She steps closer, close enough that I can smell the scent of my own soap on her skin. It does things to me, primitive things, to have her marked with my scent.
I should back away. I should maintain distance. Instead, I reach out and touch a strand of her hair, rubbing it between my fingers. "Fire," I murmur.
Her breath catches. "What?"
"Your hair. Like fire in the woods."
A flush spreads across her cheeks. I drop my hand before I give in to the urge to pull her against me.
"I need to ask you something," she says. "Why did you help me yesterday? You could have just pointed me toward town."
The question catches me off guard. The truth is too much, too soon. But I've never been good at lying. "Couldn't leave you out there," I say finally. "Not in that storm."
"Is that the only reason?"
"No." The word comes out like it's been dragged from somewhere deep inside me.
She waits, but I don't elaborate. Can't explain what I don't understand myself. How a single glance in a storm-drenched clearing turned my carefully ordered world upside down. How I suddenly want things I've never wanted or, at least, never let myself want.
A family. A partner. A future that includes more than just the next season of logging.
