Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 127(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 127(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)
I follow her gaze, the vast expanse of the night sky stretching out above us. “Not often.”
“Why not?”
“Too much else to focus on,” I admit, my tone quieter than usual.
She looks at me, her expression softening. “Maybe you should try it more often.”
Her words settle in my chest, a quiet echo that lingers long after we climb into the truck.
“Whaddya say to staying at my cabin tonight?”
“Oh–” she hums into the silence of my cab.
I place a hand on her thigh, squeezing once. She licks her lips, eyes trained on my profile. “That sounds…nice.”
“Good,” I send her a sideways smile. I steal glances at her the entire drive to my cabin, wondering how the hell she managed to sneak past all my defenses.
By the time we pull into the driveway, the silence between us feels heavy with something unspoken. I kill the engine, but neither of us moves to get out.
“Thanks for tonight,” she says, her voice breaking the stillness.
I glance at her, my brows furrowing. “For what?”
She shrugs, her smile small but genuine. “For letting me see a different side of you.”
My chest tightens, and I grip the steering wheel a little harder than necessary. “Don’t get used to it.”
Her laughter is soft, but there’s something else in her eyes—something that looks an awful lot like understanding. And damn if that doesn’t scare the hell out of me.
Chapter Eleven
Juniper
Flint’s cabin is warm. It smells like cedar and something distinctly him—wood smoke, fire, and the clean, crisp scent of the mountain air that clings to his skin. I should feel out of place here, surrounded by dark wood, old firehouse memorabilia, and the kind of rugged, no-nonsense furniture that screams bachelor with no time for decor.
But I don’t.
I feel… safe. And that scares me more than anything.
I stand at the threshold of his bedroom, clutching my overnight bag like it’s a shield against the sheer physical presence of the man watching me from the doorway. His broad shoulders fill the space like he’s part of the architecture, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set in that unreadable expression of his. He’s impossibly big, his biceps stretching the sleeves of his worn gray t-shirt, his dark gaze pinned on me like he’s waiting for me to bolt.
"You okay, or do I need to carry you over the threshold?" His voice is low, gravel against steel, and God help me, my knees almost buckle.
I swallow hard and force a smirk, thinking of the way he carried me across the river to the fire tower. "Wouldn’t be the first time you threw me over your shoulder like a caveman."
His lips twitch. "Don’t tempt me, city girl."
I exhale, finally stepping into his room and dropping my bag by the bed. The only bed. The realization hits me like a slap to the face. My pulse stutters, and suddenly, I feel too aware—of the bed, of the heavy silence, of the fact that I’ve never shared a bed with a man before.
Not like this.
Not when I know exactly how good he feels pressed against me.
Not when I still feel the imprint of our night at the fire tower branded into my skin.
I should be fine. It’s just sleeping. People do it all the time. But my mind, like always, betrays me. The doubts creep in like wildfire. What if this was just a one-night thing for him? What if I’m reading too much into it? What if I wake up tomorrow and he’s sick of me?
My breathing gets shallow, my fingers curling into my palms as panic builds in my chest. He’s too good-looking, too strong, too much, and I have no idea how to handle it.
Flint must sense it because, in a blink, he’s in front of me, his warm, calloused hands sliding up to grip my shoulders. "Breathe, Juniper," he murmurs, rubbing slow, reassuring circles into my skin. "You’re safe here."
I nod quickly, too quickly, trying to convince both him and myself.
"You’re thinking too much," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "I can sleep on the couch if it’ll make you more comfortable."
"No way," I blurt, shaking my head. "I wouldn’t kick you out of your own bed."
His gaze locks onto mine, something dangerous and unreadable flickering behind those dark eyes. "Whatever makes you comfortable is what makes me happy."
Oh.
My stomach somersaults. The words hit deeper than they should, burrowing under my skin like a secret I’m not ready to admit. He’s not just tolerating me. He wants me here.
I barely have time to process it before his hands slide up to cup my jaw. He leans down, his rough stubble scraping my skin as he presses a slow, lingering kiss to my forehead. It’s tender, more so than anything I expected from a man like him, and it unravels me faster than any heated kiss could.