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“It can get . . . consuming at times.”

Lottie leads us out of the cabin, pulling out the carved feather keychain from her purse to lock the door. I follow behind her, exiting and waiting for her on the porch as she locks the cabin securely.

I stare at the keychain in her hand, and she notices.

“I heard you made this,” she says, dangling the wood feather from her fingertips, which took me hours to carve.

I nod, shifting my weight on my feet. I want to get in the car and get this night over with, but at the same time, I hope it’ll never end.

“Yeah. It’s a hobby. Something to do when I have free time. I also made those rocking chairs.” I motion with my head indicating the chairs, not wanting to risk dropping her thoughtful gift by releasing my two-handed hold on it.

“Really?” Her surprise lifts her eyebrows almost to her hairline.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“No. It’s actually quite impressive. I just didn’t know you made larger things.”

Her cheeks turn a ruddy pink that goes well with her maroon sweater, making me want to press my nose into her neck and inhale her skin and that pink tint. Gripping the glass vase a little too tightly, I refrain from doing anything so rash.

She’s only human; she wouldn’t understand my need to smell her and rub my scent all over her,I remind myself.Just be cool until you hear from Fynn.

“It just depends on my mood. Sometimes, focusing all my concentration on something small and detailed helps me shut out everything else. Quiets my mind in a way.”

“I know what you mean. It’s like when I’m playing my guitar. It takes me out of my own head for a while.”

Her pink lips turn up, and her tender smile is so small but sparking so much inside me. I stand there like a complete idiot, staring at her and her mouth until she rolls her lips between her teeth, smothering a mischievous grin at me.

Without a word, she turns and finally steps off the porch, heading for my truck. I follow like a trained pup, without question, opening the passenger door and holding it, waiting for her to slide in. I desperately want to reach out and offer her my hand, but I am unable to risk skin-to-skin contact.

The height doesn’t seem to bother her, and she climbs into my truck with ease, tucking her skirt under her thigh and running her fingers along her pebbling skin. My eyes trail the same path as her fingers, mindlessly handing her the flower vase. It takes a hesitant moment for me to be able to detach my hungry gaze from her flesh before closing the door, trapping her and her scent in my vehicle. Which I know will linger long after tonight.

Chapter 13– Lottie

Hunter’s family home is stunning in a charming, picturesque way, that I’m learning is standard for Snowberry. It sits on a plot of land that keeps a football field of space between it and the nearest neighbor. The two-story home is reminiscent of the cabin I’m currently staying in. Made of large slats of dark wood with a peeked roof line and dormers. The trim is painted a deep green, allowing the house to blend in with the trees around it.

It only took about five minutes to get here from the cabin, mainly because Hunter drove exactly the speed limit. I suppose that, as mayor, he needs to set a good example. I didn’t mind the unhurried drive, enjoying the confined space with Hunter. The smell of fresh-cut pine mixed with a leathery, spicy scent fills the cab of his pick-up truck, which I like.

That burning attraction I’ve had around him only grows with every interaction. Each minute adding to the strange pull in my chest that developed at some point in our short time together. Luring me to close the distance between us.

It scares me how I react to Hunter. So many years spent around people I can’t trust who only want to use me for their advantage has me squashing any growing desire I have for him. Trust doesn’t come easy to me anymore, and I shouldn’t allow myself to get too close to these people. Even though I want to betheir friend, I can be nothing more. My life is too complicated, too messy to drop that nuclear bombshell on their lives.

When we arrive at his parents', Hunter opens the door for me again like a gentleman but doesn’t offer his hand to help other than to take the vase from me. Once again, he carefully avoids touching my hand as he grasps it with his much larger one.

Instead of knocking on the front door, he immediately announces our arrival with a loud call into the house.

“Mom, Dad. We’re here.” His voice booms through the house in a way that feels familiar.

“We’re in the kitchen,” calls a familiar female voice.

Guiding me through the house, I follow behind Hunter’s bulk until we enter a large, spacious kitchen filled with people I know and don’t know.

An older woman, who I assume is Hunter’s mom, strides towards him, arms open wide to match her happy smile. Embracing Hunter with a veracity I personally haven’t felt since my father’s last hug. Hunter holds the vase out of the way to avoid dropping it on the floor. Her golden auburn hair clipped up out of her face in a haphazard bun that almost falls in her face when she pulls away from her son. She rearranges it before noticing the flowers in his hand.

“Are those for me?” she asks, kissing her son’s cheek, fawning over the flower arrangement, and sniffing the bouquet.

“Yes. But they’re not from me. Lottie picked them out for you.”

Attentive eyes turn to me beside him, and her smile widens, if that’s possible. Hunter’s mom is tall like Ginger but not nearly as tall as her son, with a face that looks too young to be a mother of kids as old as hers. Faint wrinkles appear around her eyes as she continues to smile at me and her son.