Page 7 of Huck Frasier (Seals on Fraiser Mountain #5)

Marley

T he power was out. The storm was raging. And I was on Huck Frasier’s couch, wearing my flannel shirt over my tank top like it was armor and perfume all in one.

He was making tea.

Like, actual tea. With a kettle and everything. Like we were civilized toward each other. And not trapped in a cabin, like we didn’t have a history of bad decisions and unresolved tension hanging in the air like fog.

“You always drink tea during a blackout?” I asked, pulling the blanket tighter around me.

“It calms the dog.”

Hank was snoring on the rug, dead to the world.

“Uh-huh. And it totally doesn’t give you an excuse to show off your rugged-lumberjack-during-an-emergency routine.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Is it working?”

I hated that it was.

He handed me a mug and sat down on the other end of the couch, lantern casting flickers of gold across his jawline and collarbone. Way too much collarbone. He was still shirtless under that hoodie.

I sipped. “This isn’t bad.”

“Chamomile. You seem like a chamomile girl.”

“Excuse me?” I narrowed my eyes. “What exactly does that mean?”

He shrugged, smirking. “Mildly chaotic but secretly soft.”

“Oh my God,” I groaned. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Being charming with your stupid metaphors and your warm beverages and your… arms.”

He grinned. “My arms?”

“Don’t act innocent. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Do I?”

The tension snapped like a live wire.

One second we were arguing about tea, and the next—

He was next to me.

Close. Too close.

“Marley,” he said, low and rough.

I looked up.

And his hand slid to the back of my neck.

Slow.

Certain.

Like he’d been waiting for this all the damn time.

“I shouldn’t,” he said, voice hoarse.

“I know.”

“I’m going to anyway.”

And then he kissed me.

It started slow—just lips and breath and the kind of softness that steals the air from your lungs.

Then it deepened. Fast. Wild.

His hands were everywhere—my back, my hips, my thighs. Mine were in his hair, fisted, desperate. I smashed my mouth against his. “I wanted him deep inside me.’ Did I say that out loud”

“Yeah, but that’s okay, I want the same thing.”

We didn’t make it to the bedroom.

Didn’t need to.

The couch was just fine.

So was the floor.

So was he.

He tasted like tea and heat and ten months of something unfinished finally being written in the dark.

I didn’t even care about the thunder anymore.

The only storm that mattered was him.

Frasier

She was wrapped in a blanket, hair a mess, one bare leg dangling off the couch like she belonged there.

And I didn’t want her to leave.

But she would.

That was what Marley Bennett did.

She ran before she could be left behind. Or maybe it wasn’t. I didn’t know her well enough to know if she was like that.

So I made breakfast, quietly, like nothing happened. Like I wasn’t already thinking about the next time. And the next.

When she finally sat up and blinked at me, I handed her coffee.

She took it without a word.

We stared at each other over the rim of our mugs.

“Don’t say it,” she warned.

“Say what?”

“That this meant something.”

I raised a brow. “You mean like the last time?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I mean it.”

“Yeah,” I said, stepping closer. “You always do. Until you don’t.”

She stood, gathering her things in silence. Then—before walking out the door—she looked back.

“I’m not running. I just need time to think.”

And then she was gone.

But this time…

She left the flannel shirt behind. So I had her shirt and she had mine.