Page 14

"Among other things. I'm kind of the house elf. Cooking, cleaning. I keep the books, too, and manage the website. I mean, I do some stuff out in the mill, but only in a pinch."

That makes sense. He looks strong and plenty capable, but he doesn't quite have the same ruggedness to him that the other guys do. His hands last night were soft.

I get lost looking at them for a moment as they peel the paper back from his breakfast treat. His fingers are long andunscarred. They look like piano player hands. Like the kinds of hands that could playme, if they wanted to. Hands design to pinch and pluck at tight nipples or thrust deep into a hungry pussy. Fingers that would know their way right to a woman's clit, that would know all the right places to hit.

I shiver, a trembling warmth spreading from that achy, damp place between my legs.

He misinterprets it, though. "Cold?"

"No, I'm fine—" But before I can really protest, he's wrapping the blanket around us tighter, and that makes it so much better and so much worse. "Oh."

"You'll warm up in a second."

Believe me, I'm feeling plenty warm, now.

We sit there in companionable silence for a few minutes, snacking on muffins and sipping perfectly brewed coffee. Through the pane glass, the sun is rising over the valley below. The clouds part, and a ray of light shines through, casting the landscape in brilliant shades of gold.

"Wow."

Adam chuckles fondly. "Makes the chill worth it, huh? This is my favorite place to have breakfast every morning. I'm usually up before the rest of the guys, so I get stuff cooking, then come out here with my coffee and maybe something to eat and just watch the sun come up alone."

"It's beautiful."

"Yeah. It is."

There's something in his voice. I shift, turning to find him looking less out the window and more at me.

Oh. Electricity crackles in the space between us. I'm pretty sure he just called me beautiful. I feel like a nightmare, dressed in workout clothes, my hair swept up in a messy ponytail, no make-up or anything. I wasn't expecting to run into anyone.

After my charged evening with Cayden, I sure as hell wasn't expectingthis.

But it feels right. Comfortable. Kind of like when Deandre told me what to do last night, there's no burden of expectation here. Adam doesn't really know me, and our lack of history makes it easy to just sit here together, sharing coffee and a gorgeous view and a moment of connection.

And if there's heat in his gaze and a sticky-slow buzz of arousal in my body, well…

He drops his gaze. His pale, long lashes sweep across his cheeks, casting shadows there, and he's so beautiful I could paint him. Maybe, someday, I will.

Then he stares into my eyes again, and it's incredibly intimate. Soft, hushed, he says, "I really am sorry, Haley. About your grandmother."

Oh. That's…not where I expected this to be going. But somehow, the way he brings it up doesn't rip open the hole of grief in my heart. Real sympathy shines in his eyes.

"Thank you," I manage. Normally, I would spit out some platitude about how she's at peace now. She's not in pain anymore. I'm okay. But none of those come to my lips now. He's still gazing at me so intently. I have to look away.

I stare off into that brilliant sunrise, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder with a terribly kind stranger. I bite my lip.

"It's been really hard," I admit, and out of nowhere, my vision blurs. The crisp landscape laid out before us becomes a soft watercolor.

Because my grandmother would have loved this view. She was an artist in her own right. She loved sketching and painting the nature on this mountain, and I suddenly regret not getting back here more often. She talked about adding on to the old house, maybe building a porch. If I'd been a bettergranddaughter to her, I could have come back some summer and built that for her—or found someone to do it, in any case.

If we'd caught the cancer earlier, she could have been here, enjoying the view right alongside me.

As if he knows the gulf of pain opening up inside me, Adam reaches out and takes my mug from my trembling hands. He sets it aside, then intertwines our fingers, and it doesn't matter that he's the least burly guy in this house. He has a gentle, quiet strength to him. With the power of his steady touch, he pulls me back to shore.

"Of course it's hard," he murmurs. "It's only been a week."

"I feel like I've been losing her for a year."

That's how much time we had after her diagnosis before she finally succumbed. I could have used it better. Could have, should have, would have. None of it makes a difference now.