Page 5

My stomach flutters as he parks and comes around to open my door. His hand extends to help me down from the high truck cabin, and I take it, trying not to notice the warmth of his palm against mine or how small my hand looks enveloped in his.

"This is it," he says, releasing my hand quickly. "Guest room is on the first floor. I'll show you."

Inside is just as impressive. An open concept with gleaming hardwood floors, vaulted ceilings, and large windows framing mountain views. But what strikes me most is how orderly everything is. Books aligned perfectly on shelves. No clutter on surfaces. A place for everything, and everything in its place.

I immediately feel like an intruder, especially when I notice him watching me with a furrowed brow, as if he's already categorizing all the ways I'll disrupt his perfect system.

"This way." He leads me down a hallway to a simply furnished guest room. "Bathroom is across the hall. Clean towels in the cabinet."

"It's lovely," I say, and mean it. The room is sparse but comfortable, with a queen bed, simple dresser, and reading chair by the window.

"Rest," he says. "Doctor's orders. I'll be in my workshop if you need anything. There's a button by the bed that connects to my phone if there's an emergency."

An actual panic button. I'm not sure whether to laugh or be impressed by his preparedness.

"I won't be a bother," I promise. "I just need to work on my book."

His expression shifts slightly. "The manuscript you were worried about."

"My third novel," I explain. "I have a deadline. It's why I came to Darkmore in the first place. Peace and quiet to finish writing."

"What kind of novels?" He looks genuinely curious, the first real interest he's shown in me rather than my medical status.

Heat crawls up my neck. "Romance," I admit, watching his face carefully for the dismissal I usually see when I tell people what I write.

Something almost like amusement flickers in his eyes. "Romance," he repeats. "Interesting."

Is he laughing at me? I can't tell, but my defensive instincts flare. "It's a legitimate genre with a massive readership and significant cultural impact."

He raises his hands slightly. "I didn't say otherwise."

"You were thinking it," I mutter.

"You don't know what I'm thinking." There's an edge to his voice that makes me shiver.

We stand there, the air between us charged with something I can't name. He's the epitome of every hero I've ever written. A man who’s capable, mysterious, with hidden depths behind guarded eyes. The kind of man who populates the fantasies of a twenty-two-year-old virgin who knows the theory of desire but none of the practice.

And for the next twenty-four hours, I'm staying in his house.

My heart gives a terrified little leap that feels suspiciously like exhilaration.

"I should let you rest," he says finally, breaking the moment. He turns to leave, pausing at the door. "If you're hungry later, kitchen's stocked. I'll be back to check your oxygen levels in an hour."

When he's gone, I sink onto the bed, suddenly exhausted from the stress of everything—the fire, the hospital, and now this unexpected arrangement. The pillowcase smells faintly of cedar and pine, clean and masculine.

I pull out my singed laptop, relieved when it powers on without issue. Opening my manuscript, I stare at where I left off—my heroine about to be kissed by a man who knows exactly what he wants.

With trembling fingers, I begin to type.

His kiss tasted of wilderness and certainty. Of danger and safety somehow existing in the same moment.

The words come easily now, fueled by the memory of steel-blue eyes and capable hands.

four

Alex

Iclosetheguestroom door behind me, trying to ignore the lingering smokey scent of her hair. My cabin has never felt so small, the walls closing in with her presence. What was I thinking, bringing her here?