I turn away, moving toward a shelf where I keep smaller pieces. "These might fit in your vehicle better," I say, desperate to change the subject before I say too much.
She follows, but I can feel her studying me rather than the wood. "You don't talk much, do you?"
"Not unless I have something worth saying."
"And what would be worth saying right now?"
Everything. Nothing. Stay with me. I don't even know you. I've never believed in love at first sight. I think I'd die for you.
"Your clothes should be dry," I say instead. "We should head to town soon."
Disappointment flashes across her face, quickly masked. "Right. Of course."
I help her select pieces for her arrangements, wrapping each carefully in burlap. Every piece she chooses feels like I'm giving her a part of myself. In a way, I am.
Loading them into my truck, I make a decision. She has to return to Vancouver, because her life is there. But Silver Ridge isonly a drive away. And I know these mountains hold something she needs, something that speaks to her artist's soul.
"I could bring you more," I say as I close the truck's tailgate. "Different pieces. When you need them."
She looks up, hope brightening her eyes. "You'd do that?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
It's not enough. Not nearly enough. But it's a beginning. A thread connecting her world to mine. And for now, I'll hold on to that thread with everything I have.
five
Dahlia
IstandbesideThorne'struck, clutching my bag of wooden treasures while he loads the last pieces into the bed. The morning sun has vanished, replaced by dark clouds rolling in from the west. A distinct feeling of déjà vu washes over me.
"Looks like another storm," I say, trying not to sound hopeful.
Thorne glances at the sky, his expression unreadable. "Just a small one. We could make it to town before it hits."
Could. Not should. The distinction isn't lost on me.
"Or..." I venture, heart thumping wildly, "we could wait it out? I mean, safety first, right?"
His eyes meet mine, intense and searching. "Safety first," he agrees, his deep voice sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with the dropping temperature.
We barely make it back inside before the rain starts. It’s lighter than yesterday's deluge but steady. The excuse is flimsy, and we both know it. We could easily have driven through this to reachSilver Ridge. But here we are, standing in his living room, the air between us charged with unspoken possibilities.
"I should check the generator," he says, but doesn't move.
"Okay." I don't move either.
God, what is happening to me? I've known this man for less than twenty-four hours. I don't fall for someone instantly. My dating history is a cautious, measured affair of coffee meetups and carefully paced relationships that fizzle out. But Thorne isn't like anyone I've ever met. There's something primal about him. He’s something authentic and uncompromising. He doesn't pretend to be anything other than what he is.
"I should be halfway to Silver Ridge right now." I take a small step closer to him. "That I've never been happier about a rainstorm in my life."
Emotions roll through his eyes. Heat, hunger, relief. "Dahlia..."
"I know this is crazy," I whisper. "I don't know you. You don't know me. But I feel like…"
"Like you've been waiting," he finishes. "Without knowing what for." He closes the distance between us in two long strides. His hand cups my cheek, rough palm against soft skin. "If you want to stop—"
I rise on tiptoes and press my lips to his, answering his unfinished question. For a heartbeat, he's still, and I fear I've misread everything. Then his arms wrap around me, lifting me off my feet as his mouth claims mine with a hunger that steals my breath.
