"Eli?"
I stop. Turn around.
She's standing in the middle of her disaster of a kitchen, hair falling out of the ponytail she tied it back in. And she's smiling.
"Thank you," she says. "Really."
I nod. Don't trust myself to say anything.
Ridge is already at the door, waiting. I let him out and follow, climbing back into the truck and starting the engine. As I'm backing out of the driveway, I see her in the rearview mirror. Still standing there. Still smiling.
And I know, I know that this isn't over.
Chapter 3 - Jade
I watch his truck disappear down the driveway, taillights winking through the trees, and I'm still smiling like an idiot.
He came.
Grumpy, gruff, I-don't-like-people Eli Cross actually got in his truck, drove to my house, and helped me. Sure, he looked like it physically pained him to do it, and sure, he barely said ten words the entire time, but he did it.
And I can't stop thinking about it.
I turn back to the kitchen. My disaster zone of a kitchen and start picking up the wet towels. The whole time he was here, I was trying very hard not to stare. Trying and failing, if I'm being honest.
Because watching him work was…
I drop a towel into the sink and lean against the counter, letting myself replay it.
The way he moved. No wasted motion. Like every action had been calculated and executed a thousand times before. He'd crouched down in front of the sink, those broad shoulders flexing as he reached into the cabinet, and I'd had to physically stop myself from saying something stupid like *wow, you're really good at that* or *have you considered a career in calendars?*
His hands are massive. Scarred and calloused, the kind of hands that look like they could break things without trying. But they'd been so careful with the fittings, so precise, and there was something about that contrast that I haven't been able to shake.
I blow out a breath and start wringing out the towels.
This is ridiculous. I've known the man for approximately forty-eight hours. I've had longer relationships with houseplants. And yet here I am, thinking about his shoulders like I'm a Victorian lady who just saw an ankle.
I need to get myself together.
But here's the thing: I can't.
I've always been curious. It's one of my defining traits, according to literally everyone who's ever known me. I ask too many questions. I push too hard. I want to know the why behind everything, and I don't stop until I figure it out.
And Eli Cross is a locked box.
No. He's a locked box wrapped in barbed wire with a sign that says *KEEP OUT* in ten-foot letters. And I know, I know I should respect that. I know he's out here in the woods for a reason. I know that people who isolate themselves like that are usually running from something, or toward something, or just trying to survive something.
I know all of that.
But I want to understand it. I want to know what's under the gruff exterior and the one-word answers and the way he looks at people like he's calculating the quickest exit route.
I want to know why a man who clearly doesn't want company still got in his truck to help me.
I finish with the towels and move to the living room, dropping onto the couch that came with the house, a floral monstrosity that I'm pretty sure is older than I am. My phone buzzes. A work email. I ignore it.
How do you crack someone like that?
That's the question. Because I'm not an idiot. I saw the way he shut down when I asked if he got lonely. I heard the edge in his voice when he said the cabin was what he needed. He's not a mystery that wants to be solved. He's a man who wants to be left alone.