Page 9

I stretch, then grab my laptop. Might as well use this burst of frustrated energy to write. My characters are currently in a situation not unlike my own. The tension crackling between them and yet neither willing to make the first move. Unlike me, however, my heroine knows exactly what she wants and how to get it.

Maybe I should take notes.

A movement outside the window catches my eye. I peek through the curtains and my breath catches.

Alex is in the cleared space beside the house, chopping wood. He's wearing a fitted gray t-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders, work jeans, and boots. Each swing of the axe causes the muscles in his arms and back to flex visibly, even from this distance.

I should look away. I definitely shouldn't be watching him like some voyeur, mentally cataloging every movement for future reference in my writing.

But I can't tear my eyes away.

He works with efficient precision, no wasted motion. Each log splitting cleanly under the force of his swing. There's something mesmerizing about the rhythm—the lift, the controlled arc, the powerful connection, the satisfying crack of wood yielding. Over and over again.

My fingers itch to capture this on the page. This is exactly what my hero would do: channel his frustrations into physical labor, unaware he's being watched by the woman who's disrupting his carefully ordered life.

I grab my laptop and start typing furiously, my earlier embarrassment forgotten in the rush of creative energy. The words flow faster than they have in months. The scene unfolding beneath my fingers isn't what I'd planned for this chapter, but it's perfect, raw and honest in a way my writing hasn't been before.

Two hours pass before I surface from the writing trance, fingers cramping but mind buzzing with satisfaction. I've written more this morning than I did in the entire week before the fire.

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since the soup last night. I set the laptop aside and venture out to the kitchen, hoping to find something simple for breakfast.

The cabin is quiet. Through the main room's large windows, I can see Alex is no longer outside. His truck is still in the driveway, so he must be in his workshop or somewhere nearby.

The kitchen intimidates me with its gleaming surfaces and high-end appliances. Everything is spotless and well organized.

Making breakfast seems like the least I can do to thank him for his hospitality. I'm not much of a cook, but even I can handle eggs and toast, right?

I find a pan, butter, eggs in the refrigerator. Simple enough. I turn on the stove, drop in a generous pat of butter, and crack three eggs into a bowl. So far, so good.

I pop some bread into the toaster and turn my attention back to the eggs, whisking them perhaps more vigorously than required.

I'm so focused on not ruining breakfast that I don't hear Alex enter until he speaks.

"What are you doing?" His deep voice startles me, and the whisk clatters against the bowl.

"Making breakfast," I explain, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "As a thank you."

He approaches cautiously, as if I'm handling explosives rather than eggs. "The butter's smoking."

I turn to the stove where, indeed, the butter has gone from melted to smoking while I was distracted. "Oh! I'll just—"

The smoke alarm interrupts me with a piercing wail. The pan isn't even on fire, just smoking slightly, but the alarm screams as if the whole house is ablaze.

Alex moves with startling speed. He grabs the pan from the stove, turns off the burner, and places the pan in the sink. His movements are precise but there's something in his expression I haven't seen before—raw panic barely contained beneath his controlled exterior.

I stand frozen, the bowl of eggs still in my hands. The alarm continues its assault on our eardrums until he reaches up and silences it.

The sudden quiet feels almost as jarring as the noise.

"I'm so sorry," I stammer. "It was just smoking a little. I didn't think—"

"No, you didn't," he snaps, his voice tight. "Any open flame or smoke triggers the alarm. It's designed that way."

His reaction seems extreme for a small kitchen mishap. Then I remember his comment yesterday about fire not giving second chances, the way his expression had darkened.

"Alex," I say softly, setting down the bowl. "Will you tell me what happened to you? With fire?"

He stands by the sink, hands braced against the counter, tension radiating from his rigid posture. For a moment, I think he won't answer.