"Connor found me through a contact in the industry. He knew everything before he offered me the job. The record, the drifting…and he gave me a chance anyway." My throat is so tight the words barely make it through. "That night at the bar—the night I met you….in a town this small, if you'd searched my real name and told anybody, I would’ve put Connor in the worst position imaginable. I couldn't risk that and everything he’s built here."
I look at her. She's lowered her hand from her mouth, and her eyes are soft.
"That's why I gave you the fake name. That's why I didn't call." My voice cracks. "You were everything, and I didn't think I deserved to keep you. I thought the best thing I could do for you was disappear, the way I've always disappeared."
She doesn't say anything for a long moment. Her chin is trembling, and she's looking at me like she might not hate me.
“I get it. Though I still think you should’ve told me,” she whispers. But there's no ice in it, just ache.
"I know."
"I thought I wasn't enough. I thought you—" She presses her lips together and looks away, blinking hard. "I thought I was just a good time and nothing more."
"No." I close the distance between us in two steps, and she doesn't retreat. My hands come up to her face, tilting it toward me, thumbs catching the tears. "You are the first person who made me want to stop running. The only reason I didn't call is because I knew if I heard your voice, I'd never be able to walk away. And I thought you'd be better off."
"That wasn't your decision to make."
"I know that now, too."
She's looking up at me, tears on her cheeks, and I'm holding her face in my scarred, shaking hands, and the space between us is measured in breaths.
“We’ve both got issues,” she says, and her voice is rough and wet.
"Yeah.” I smile. “But maybe we can work on them…together?”
She blinks, and suddenly she kisses me.
The sound we make coming together is like a dam when it finally gives. There’s a rush, a collapse, and everything held back floods forward at once. She grabs my shirt and pulls me into her, and I fold around her as if I'm trying to hold every broken thing in place by sheer force of need.
My back hits the cabin wall and she follows, pressing her body against mine, and the kiss deepens—weeks of anger and wanting and grief and hope all tangled together.
Right now, all that matters is her mouth and her hands and the fact that she's here, she's still here. She didn't walk away from me after I told her the truth.
"Not here," she breathes, pulling back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are dilated and dark. "Someone could walk in."
“How about my cabin?” I say, leaning in to nip her lip.
“Perfect,” she says, with a wicked grin.
I grab her hand and we slip through the trees behind the cabin row, avoiding the fire pit where Ewan's fiddle is reaching for something achingly beautiful. Her fingers thread through mine like they've always belonged there.
When we enter my cabin, it’s dark, but I don’t have much to get in our way. One bed, one chair, a nightstand with a lamp. Obviously, I wasn’t sure how long my time would be here at Timber Run.
I turn on the lamp. She's standing by the door, her hair falling loose from her ponytail, and I think—no more running from thewanting. I’m staying to fight for what I want.
I cross the room to her slowly. There’s no anger or desperation here. Only the two of us and the truth and whatever comes next.
My hand comes up to her face, and she turns into it, pressing her cheek against my palm. Her eyes close and I trace the line of her jaw with my thumb, then the swell of her cheek to the corner of her mouth. “You’re okay with…my past? With…me?” I ask.
She smiles and nods. “I know you’re a good man. That’s what drew me to you in the first place.” She takes a breath. “Whatever you did in the past, is in the past. It’s who you are today that matters. That’s the man who swept me off my feet at the Rustic Ridge.”
With that I lean in and kiss her, slowly this time. As if she's someone I'm allowed to have, and I'm learning exactly what that feels like.
Her hands find the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, and she runs her palms across my chest. She traces each muscle and scar as if she's reading a story, and I let her, standing still under her hands, barely breathing.
Then I undress her in the lamplight, piece by piece—her polo, her bra, her jeans. I kneel to slide them and her panties past her ankles, pressing my lips to the inside of her knee, her thigh, the soft curve of her hip. She shivers, fingers threading into my hair.
We move to the bed, skin against skin, and everything slows to the pace of breath and touch and the quiet sounds she makes when I find the places that undo her.