Page 15 of Craving Consequences

I wipe the moisture on my hands off on my jean shorts and pad to the patio doors overlooking one of my favorite views.

I don’t know what the property looked like before Lachlan’s dad bought it years ago, back before I was even born and Lachlan was a teenager, but I do know he’s done a lot of work on the place, gutting and remodeling to fit a vision.

The yard alone is a work of art, a yawning landscape of lush, manicured grass sprawling far into the woods past the perimeter.

An extended, stone patio stretches nearly to the lip of the pool dug into the ground with a built-in hot tub sectioned into the far corner.

Beyond that, planted the appropriate distance, a simple, brick fire pit juts out of the ground, surrounded by plush seats that hug a person while the fire leaps in the pit and stars dance overhead.

It may not be a room, but it’s my favorite spot.

“Everly!” From her sprawled state across the lounge chair next to the pool, Lauren whips off her glasses and waves dramatically over her head. “At last. We can finally enjoy the evening now that my love has arrived.”

Blonde with piercing blue eyes and a figure destined for the runway, Lauren is a vision in her strapless bikini in devil-red. Her long limbs are sun kissed a warm gold that only emphasizes the near white of her hair.

I grin at her enthusiasm and move to the lip of the patio steps to squint down at her.

“Looks like you’ve been enjoying yourself just fine without me,” I tease, eyeing the empty martini glass in her free hand.

Saucy, red lips pucker under the radiating blue of cornflowers. “You know I drink out of sadness when I miss you.”

I roll my eyes with a chuckle. “What’s sad is your lack of sweat when the rest of us are melting in this heat. Can’t you perspire just a little like the rest of us common folk? ”

Lauren grins up at me while sweeping the plastic frames of her glasses back over her eyes. “Darling, please. I don’t sweat. I glisten like a delicate flower. Or Beyoncé . Whichever one sounds sexier.”

“Oh my God.” I laugh, rocking my head in disbelief.

Leaving her in her little fantasy, I turn to the very end of the patio, the loop that holds the grill and the man at its helm.

Lachlan is a god forged in sweat and smoke. His shirt clings to him, gray fabric soaked through across the hard slabs of his chest. It’s tight over his shoulders, tugging and stretching with every motion.

As if I’m not already struggling, his big, scarred fists twist into the hem of his top and he drags it up over his head with a single fluid motion.

He swipes it across his brow and the back of his neck before it’s tossed carelessly to the side.

The artwork across all that beautiful skin flexes as he reaches for the tongs again.

He flips a burger with a flick of his wrist, his brows drawn in concentration. His mouth thins into a firm, unsmiling line that should not be as magnetic as it is. That quiet intensity rolls off him in heavy waves, soaking into my skin until I feel dizzy from it.

Then, just like this morning, his chin tips up. Rich brown eyes lift through heavy lashes and find me. They slide over me with the weight of a possessive hand dragging up the exposed length of my legs to stop at my mouth. My skin prickles under the heated scrutiny. My heart gallops.

But I bottle it all down. I stuff it into the jar that holds the rogue feelings I’m not allowed to feel and screw the lid on. Then I chuck them into the river just like Mom used to tell me to.

“Wanting things is natural as long as you keep them to yourself. Not everyone will understand your feelings and you can’t let yourself be the topic of conversation.”

There’s no one to see my moment of weakness. Lauren is lost in her phone and Lachlan is as guilty as I am, but I can’t let either of us get used to this behavior. We each have a role to play and Jefferson doesn’t believe in improvising.

I force a smile.

“Hello, Mr. Shaw. Can I help?” I ask, my voice light, but I can feel the slight tremble of the words hanging between us.

Lachlan gives a barely perceptible shake of his head. The tongs jiggle in his grip. His gaze flicks up again and stops at my empty hands.

“Zucchini?”

My grin takes over before I can stop it. I gesture behind me. “Fridge.”

His groan is adulterous. Raw and delicious, and deep, rumbling up his chest. “Good. Love that stuff.”

I know .

It’s why I make a point of always bringing it to every occasion Lachlan is at.

It’s my way of saying thank you for letting me tag along.

For letting me be part of a family again.

Silly, really. I know what Bron thinks and I get how it must look, but Lachlan and Van were there for me almost every day after my parents died.

Lauren practically lived with me for six months.

Refused to leave me alone for a minute, but the other two would just show up with a toolbox or a plastic takeout container from Mama May’s.

They weren’t big, over exaggerated gestures, but little things that made me feel safe.

“Can I help with anything?” I offer again, shoving back memories I try not to dig up in public.

His attention drops to the meat frying on the grates. He clacks the tongs together the mandatory two times before flipping the patty over.

In those passing seconds, I move a step closer. Nothing crazy. Just one. I tell myself it’s to hear him over the hiss of meat.

“Where’s your drink?” he says, scrutiny sharp like he knows.

I force a chuckle. “Not really thirsty.”

His eyes narrow, the tongs clack twice. I feel the pull of his disbelief to my chest. A firm prodding to vomit the truth.

I opt to change the subject. “Where’s Mr. Weaver?”

Van is usually next to his friend, beer in hand, chatting the way I’ve never seen him talk to anyone else, not even my dad. But the space next to Lachlan is empty and I don’t see him in the yard.

“Getting the wood for tonight.” He clacks the tongs once. “Thought we’d have a fire.”

The look he gives me through the heavy sweeps of his lashes catches something in the pit of my stomach. It intertwines with the flicker of excitement that lights my chest.

“Really?”

It must have shown on my face because his lip curls up. “Maybe. Only if you get a drink.”

Making a squeak of excitement that elicits a chuckle from him, I spin and hurry inside. I grab the bottle I had originally and sprint back out.

Lachlan’s still grinning when I lift my drink for his approval.

“If a fire is all it takes to make you this happy, we’ll have one every night.”

My cheeks warm and I wrinkle my nose. “Don’t tease me.”

The BBQ lid is dragged down. The tongs are set aside. He folds his arms over that beautiful chest.

“That isn’t how I would tease you, but I’m serious. If you love it that much, every night.”

My fingers tighten around the bottle. “I couldn’t do that to you. Maybe I’ll get a pit at my parent’s house. ”

“No.”

I blink at the finality in the single word. “Why not? I don’t want to be a bother to you...”

The boards creak as he leaves his place and starts towards me. Eyes level. Face set.

“No. You’ll come here.” He stops when there’s a solid two feet between us. “Who said you were a bother to me?”

I’m not quick enough to look away.

“No one. I just mean—”

“I don’t ever want to hear you say that again.” He starts to turn away. Stops. Glances back over his shoulder. “I want you here, Everly.”

Not sure how to respond, I say nothing. I stand rooted, transfixed by the flex of muscles across his back. The artwork shifts with every motion like an animated tapestry, but it’s his words that lock around my chest.

Flustered, I shuffle to the preparations table. A fold-up containing all the condiments and side dishes wrapped in Saran Wrap. As it is every other time, it’s in a state of disarray with everything everywhere and zero space for anything else.

I start the process of separating the bottles from the jars. Setting them along the outer edges and organizing the dishes along the middle.

I’m setting the plates at the right corner when the faintest sound of a metal door slamming shut catches my attention.

My gaze darts to the shed built at the very far corner of the yard, tucked barely out of sight in the shadows of the spruce trees crowding around it.

But it’s the figure that emerges that has the skin at the back of my neck prickling.

Van Weaver stands in the path of cut sunlight, an armload of logs stacked high against his chest. An axe hangs loosely in his other hand. His strong frame moves with a quiet confidence that is unmatched as he stalks to the pit.

The chunks of wood tumble to his feet. Deposited in a noisy clatter that cuts through the muggy silence.

With the power of some Norse God, he stands over them, the blade fisted in his beefy hand.

The sharp edge is driven into the nearest block with a satisfying thwack.

It sticks, red handle jutting up towards the flawless blue sky while the man twists both hands into the hem of his black t-shirt and peels his sweat-soaked top off his chiseled back.

Lord, help me.

But not a single thought in my head is pure as my wandering gaze slides over the rigid hills and dips of his biceps where the collage of ink dances across toned skin.

The sharp cut of his abs, the sculpted lines of his chest, the ink bleeding over his skin.

Broad shoulders gleam with sweat. His arms flex as he tosses the shirt aside, veins thick and raised down his forearms, a road map straight to hell .

Van must have been a Viking in a past life. A tall mountain of a man built for battle. For carnage and violence and for tossing a woman around without asking. He would not be gentle. He’d take and conquer and destroy. He’d make them beg and crawl, and...

The spiraling horror of my thoughts slaps me across the face with the full force of reality. It’s a jarring assault that leaves me momentarily reeling as I remind myself, no, Everly, you have a boyfriend, remember?

I do remember. I swear I do.

And the guilt hits me all over again, a punishing blow I feel in my gut.

Bron and I aren’t pinnacles of a perfect relationship. I could write a textbook outlining all the reasons we make no sense, but I have committed to him and that counts for something.

Yet eyes the silver of liquid mercury take that moment to lift beneath eyelashes I would kill for, and my muddled brain isn’t fast enough to save me when they find me from across the manicured yard like he’d known exactly where to find me without trying.

Ridiculous, obviously. Aside from Lachlan at the end of the wide patio and Lauren sprawled in her lounging chair, I’m the only one standing at the railing, clinging to a fistful of napkins I have no memory of grabbing off the table .

I quickly flash him a smile and give a little wave.

Both elicit zero reaction as he reaches down and jerks the axe free. His fingers flex around the grip, testing its balance. I notice the way his shoulders roll with motion, the muscles in his forearms straining with every lift.

The world shrinks down to the rhythmic thud of the axe splitting wood.

Another chunk splits clean down the center, two halves tumbling to the grass like broken pieces of my composure.

Van barely spares them a glance. He lifts the next log, thick hands gripping the grainy sides, and balances it atop the stump.

His movements are effortless, a predator disguised as a man, pouring pure power into the simple act of survival.

Somewhere in the corner of my brain, I hear Lauren laugh. The sound faint, like it belongs to another life entirely. A life I am not living in this moment.

Because here, in the heavy, shimmering heat of the afternoon, her stepfather is all there is.

Sweat slicks across his bare chest, sliding along the cut of his pecs, tracing the sharp ridges of muscle as if even his body cannot help but worship itself.

Each swing of the axe is a study in power and precision.

His hips pivot, his thighs balance, the thick muscles beneath his jeans straining with the effort .

I grip the railing tighter, the napkins crinkling under the force of my hold. My mouth is dry. My heart slams itself against my ribs, a frantic and betraying rhythm I’m too weak to tame.

He moves with a kind of primal grace that something inside me answers to.

Something ancient and unspoken that makes my thighs press together and my breath come short.

I should not be feeling this. Not for him.

Not for Lachlan. Not when I have Bron. Not when Bron, for all his faults, for all his distance, is supposed to be mine.

And yet, when Van straightens, dragging the back of his hand across his jaw, smearing a line of sweat along the dark stubble peppering his chin, I am utterly wrecked.

As if sensing the shift inside me, his gaze flicks back up again.

The blade of his attention slices clean through the humid air, cutting straight to where I stand like an idiot in the sun, trembling inside my own skin. His eyes are molten silver. They pin me against the railing, daring me to look away. Daring me to acknowledge the pull tightening between us.

I offer another brittle smile, one I am sure looks more like a grimace, and tear my gaze away. I pretend to fuss with the stack of plates at my elbow. My hands shake as I rearrange them, over and over again uselessly.

In the distance, I hear the axe crack with a force that echoes in my bones .

I force a laugh under my breath, trying to shake the heaviness sinking into my body. Maybe I am just overheated. Maybe I have had too much sun. Maybe I am starved for attention like Bron says.

But that’s no excuse.

I don’t condone this type of behavior. Infidelity in any format is wrong. My choices have been clear the moment I agreed to let Bron take me out. I kept that promise steady for two years. Betrayal to him is a betrayal to myself and I won’t be that person.

I refuse.

Still, I flinch with the crack of another log splitting.