Page 5

five

Jordyn

I wake to sunlight streaming through the windows and blessed silence. No rain pounding on the roof, no wind howling through the trees. Just stillness and the chirping of birds.

Rolling onto my side, I check my phone. Still no service, but it's just past seven—earlier than I'd normally be up on vacation, but my body is humming with awareness that I'm not alone in this cabin.

Slate. The memory of last night by the firelight sends a flush of warmth through me. The way his blue eyes had reflected the flames, how his voice had deepened when he talked about the open road, the electricity when our fingers brushed over the whiskey glass.

I brush my teeth and splash water on my face before padding down the hallway.

The living room is empty, blankets neatly folded on the couch where Slate slept. For a panicked moment, I wonder if he's gone —if he somehow managed to leave at first light. But then I hear movement on the porch and relief floods through me.

I slide open the glass door and step outside. The morning air is crisp after the storm, the surrounding forest glistening with raindrops. Slate stands at the railing, hands braced against the wood, staring out at the view.

"Morning," I say, pulling my cardigan tighter around me.

He turns, and something in his expression softens when he sees me. "Power's still out," he says. "But the roads should be clear enough for someone to get up here by afternoon."

"That's... good," I say, though part of me isn't sure I mean it. "Coffee's going to be a challenge without electricity."

"Already handled it," he gestures to a small camp stove with a metal pot. "Found it in a supply closet. Hope you don't mind."

"Mind? You're my hero right now." The words slip out before I can catch them, and I see his jaw tighten slightly.

He pours the steaming coffee into two mugs and hands me one. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and just like last night, the brief contact sends a ripple of awareness through me.

We sip in companionable silence, watching the mist rise from the valley below.

"I called Mitchell's again," Slate says after a while. "They’re bringing the parts now."

"So you'll be able to fix your truck today?" I try to keep the disappointment from my voice.

"That's the plan." He glances at me, then back at the view. "Need to get back on the road. Cargo won't deliver itself."

"Right." I nod, staring into my coffee. "Well, you're welcome to shower and have breakfast before you go. I think there are some protein bars in my bag, since cooking is out."

He looks like he might refuse, but then nods. "Thanks."

As we finish our coffee, I become acutely aware of how badly I want him to stay. It's ridiculous—we've known each other for less than twenty-four hours. But something about his presence feels right in a way nothing has in a long time.

When I return with the protein bars, Slate is examining a leak in the cabin's gutter, his practical nature apparently unable to ignore the problem.

"That's going to cause damage if it's not fixed," he says, pointing to where water has been misdirected against the wood.

"I'll mention it to the rental company." I hand him a protein bar.

"Could fix it now if there's a ladder around." He takes a bite, eyeing the gutter with the focus of someone who's used to solving practical problems.

"You don't have to do that," I say.

"Don't mind." He shrugs. "Better than sitting around waiting for Mitchell."

I watch him, struck by how different he is from any man I've known. Bradley would never have noticed the gutter, let alone offered to fix it. He would have called someone, or more likely, handed the problem to his assistant.

"There's a shed behind the cabin," I recall.

We make our way around the cabin, our shoulders occasionally brushing as we navigate the muddy path. Each accidental touch sends a jolt through me.

The shed is unlocked and surprisingly well-stocked. Slate finds a ladder, tools, and even some sealant.

Back at the front of the cabin, he positions the ladder, testing its stability before climbing up.

I hold it steady, looking up at him against my better judgment.

The position highlights the breadth of his shoulders, the way his faded jeans fit across his thighs, the flex of muscle as he steadies himself.

"Worse than I thought," he calls down, his fingers probing the damaged section. "Water's been getting behind it for a while."

I watch as he carefully removes debris—pine needles, twigs, and wet leaves—that have clogged the channel. His hands move with precise efficiency, each motion purposeful. He tests the brackets holding the gutter to the roof, finding one loose and another completely detached.

"Hand me those screws and the screwdriver?" he calls down.

I gather them and stretch up on tiptoes to pass them to him. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and this time, he pauses, looking down at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

"Thanks," he says, his voice rougher than before.

I watch him work, notice the impressive bulge in his pants and look away.

He works methodically, securing the loose bracket first, driving screws with powerful twists of his wrist. Sweat beads slightly on his forehead despite the cool morning air, and he wipes it away with his forearm, leaving a smudge of dirt that somehow makes him even more attractive.

"Now the sealant," he murmurs.

I hand it up without being asked. He applies it generously to the seams where water had been leaking, his fingers smoothing the thick compound into every crack with careful attention.

For some reason watching him smear sealant with his two meaty fingers makes me squeeze my thighs together.

He tests his work by pouring water from his bottle along the gutter, watching as it flows properly down the spout instead of seeping behind.

"That should do it," he says with quiet satisfaction.

There's something incredibly attractive about his quiet competence, about knowing exactly what needs to be done and doing it without fanfare or need for praise. I've never seen anyone work like this—with such self-sufficient capability, taking pleasure in the simple act of fixing what's broken.

When he climbs back down, he's closer to me than strictly necessary, the ladder between us but not really a barrier.

"Should hold now," he says, but doesn't step back.

"Thank you." My voice comes out breathier than intended. "You didn't have to do that."

"Wanted to." His eyes search mine, and whatever he sees there makes his expression shift subtly.

Time seems to slow, the morning air electric between us. I'm taking in everything about him—the stubble on his jaw that's a day heavier than when we met, the slight chapping of his lips from the mountain air, the scar near his right eyebrow I hadn't noticed before.

"Slate," I whisper, not sure what I'm asking for but knowing I need something only he can provide.

Slate lifts a hand, hesitating just before touching my face, as if giving me time to pull away. I don't. His palm cups my cheek, rough and warm against my skin. His thumb traces my cheekbone in a gesture so gentle it makes my heart ache.

"This is a bad idea," he murmurs, even as he leans closer.

"Probably," I agree, tilting my face up to his.

The first brush of his lips against mine is tentative, questioning. A test that we both know will change everything. His mouth is warmer than I expected, softer despite the slight roughness of his stubble against my skin.

I respond immediately, pressing closer, one hand coming up to grip his forearm. It's all the encouragement he needs. The hesitation vanishes as he deepens the kiss, his hand sliding from my cheek to cup the back of my neck, fingers weaving through my hair.

What begins as gentle exploration quickly transforms into something hungrier.

His other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against him until I can feel the solid wall of his chest, the beating of his heart that matches my own accelerated rhythm.

I feel his hard cock rest against my tummy, begging to be inside of me.

I've been kissed before—by boys in college, by Bradley countless times—but never like this. Never with this raw honesty, this unfiltered desire. Slate kisses like a man who has no agenda beyond the moment itself, no calculation, no performance. Just pure, undiluted need.

My arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer still. I guide us away from the ladder, until my back meets the cabin wall.

Slate makes a sound low in his throat—half groan, half growl—as he braces one hand against the wall beside my head.

The position surrounds me with his presence, his strength, but there's nothing frightening about it.

Despite his size, despite the intensity of his desire that I can feel in every point where our bodies touch, I know instinctively that I'm safe with him.

The kiss turns exploring, his tongue teasing mine, learning what makes my breath hitch, what draws the small, needy sounds from my throat that seem to drive him wild. My hands can't stay still, moving from his neck to his shoulders, feeling the play of muscles beneath his shirt.

When we finally break apart to breathe, his forehead rests against mine, our panting breaths mingling in the cool morning air. His blue eyes have darkened, pupils dilated with desire, and I'm sure mine look the same.

"Jordyn," he grunts. His thumb traces my lower lip, slightly swollen from his kisses. The tender gesture contrasts with the barely restrained power I can feel in his body, still pressed against mine.

"We barely know each other," I whisper, though it doesn't feel true. In some ways, I feel like I know Slate better after one day than I knew Bradley after two years.

"I know," he says, his voice rough. "This is crazy."

"Completely crazy," I agree, even as I lift my face for another kiss.

A distant mechanical sound breaks through our haze—the unmistakable rumble of a vehicle approaching on the gravel road.

Slate pulls back, tension replacing desire in his posture. "That's probably Mitchell."

The spell breaks, reality intruding with unwelcome timing. I step away from the wall, suddenly aware of my tangled hair, my flushed cheeks, the fact that I'm still in my pajamas.

"You should get your truck fixed," I say, trying to sound normal despite the fact that my entire body is still humming with awareness of him.

He nods, though his eyes linger on my lips. "I should."

The moment stretches between us, loaded with unspoken questions.

The vehicle sounds are getting closer. Slate steps back, running a hand through his hair.

"I'll go meet them," he says, though he doesn't move immediately. Instead, he looks at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch again. "Jordyn—"

Whatever he was about to say is cut off by the sound of a truck horn. He sighs, a flash of frustration crossing his face before his usual controlled expression returns.

"We'll talk later," I say, wanting to reassure him, though I'm not sure of what.

He nods, then turns to head down the path toward the approaching vehicle. I watch him go, my fingers rising unconsciously to touch my lips, still warm from his.

One kiss. That's all it was.

I watch his tall figure disappear around the bend, knowing with absolute certainty that nothing will be the same after this.