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Benjamin ‘Ben’ Marshall

THE URGENT CARE room smelled of antiseptic, with a hint of burned coffee.

I sat on the exam table, ready to leave, wincing as the doctor shone a small, blinding light into my eyes.

“Headache?” he asked, his voice flat, as if he’d asked the same question a thousand times today.

“No,” I said quickly, wanting to speed this up.

“Just cold and tired.” I wasn’t stupid—I’d have told him if I had a headache, but he seemed in a hurry, and hell, I was in a hurry to get out of here.

He nodded, already moving on.

“No signs of concussion, no broken bones. Butterfly bandage on the cut, and if it gets red or swollen, come back in. You’re okay to be discharged. Take Tylenol if you need it for pain. Drink water. Rest.”

I was grateful he summarized things at speed and would let me go.

The last thing I wanted was someone hovering over me, checking to see if I was okay every few seconds.

The doctor slapped a butterfly bandage across the cut on my forehead, the adhesive tugging at my skin.

“You’re good to go,” he said, turning to scribble something on a chart.

“I need to get to Caldwell Crossing,” I said to myself as I slid off the table and patted my pockets.

No phone. Fuck. It must be in the car, probably still running the navigation that got me lost in the first place.

“Is there a phone I can use to call a taxi?”

“Your friend’s outside, ready to take you home,” he replied, glancing up and sounding confused.

I blinked at him. “My what now?”

The doctor paused, staring at me as if I’d just asked him to solve a calculus equation.

“The man who brought you in,” he said, as if it were obvious.

“Oh,” I said, the word coming out slowly.

The doctor raised an eyebrow, and I noticed the slightest twitch of impatience.

“If he’s not here for you… then I can’t discharge you without someone to pick you up,” he said, his tone shifting toward authoritative.

“Oh, him,” I cut him off.

“Yep, my friend.”

The word felt strange in my mouth—I didn’t have many friends now—my life had revolved around work, and everyone at Crendon Harbor Capital Partners Inc.

had scattered. Any workplace watercooler or company barbecue-type friendships had gone with them.

Still, I was happy enough to pretend that whoever rescued me was my best friend ever if it meant stopping the doctor from continuing whatever argument he was gearing up for.

He gave me a curt nod, and he was obviously disinterested in whatever story I was working out in my head and left the room.

Friend. Okay then. I flashed back to the man who’d found me slumped over in my car—the solid weight of his arm as he helped me out, his steady voice keeping me conscious, and the way he’d talked to me as we traveled to wherever we were.

I remembered him debating paramedics, wondering if I’d broken my neck, and he’d seemed annoyed or frustrated—I wasn’t sure—but he hadn’t left my side, and he’d brought me to whatever hospital this was.

I stared at the closed door and thought about the man outside.

He wasn’t my friend, not really—I didn’t even know his name, though he’d probably told me.

But he’d stayed. And for now, that was enough.

I glanced down at my shoes, the leather scuffed beyond repair, and saw blood spattered across the front of my pale blue shirt.

My stomach twisted, and I closed my eyes, trying to shut it out.

Look at me. Bloodied.

Wrinkled. Completely undone.

“Fucking snow. Fucking navigation. Fucking car,” I muttered as I pushed open the door.

The cooler air in the corridor slapped me in the face, waking me up from the fog of embarrassment and exhaustion.

I glanced around and saw him—the stranger who’d rescued me, sitting on a plastic chair just in the hallway, right next to a vending machine.

Leaning over with his elbows on his knees, he stared down at his phone as though the rest of the world didn’t exist.

What was I supposed to call him?

His gaze snapped up at me as I approached, and I was caught in a piercing blue-eyed stare that stopped me in my tracks.

For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

Tall, dark-haired, those damn gorgeous eyes.

He wore a plaid shirt that had seen better days—plaid—and worn jeans, and a puffy coat lay over his lap.

Stubble shadowed his jaw, enough to give him that rugged, I’ve-been-out-in-the-snow-all-day look.

He stood as I approached, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“Good to go?” he asked, his voice low and steady.

I blinked, trying to process what he’d said.

“Uhmm… I’m lost… I mean… good to go, where?”

He quirked an eyebrow, and I felt my face flush.

Smooth, Ben. Real smooth.

“Harmony Lake,” he said, his tone more definitive this time.

“To your Aunt Harriet?”

“You know Aunt Harriet?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, but it sounded more surprised than I intended.

“If you’re big-city Ben who’s come to see her, then yes,” he replied.

“I am,” I said. “I mean, I’m not big-city Ben anymore. I’m just… But thank you for taking me back. Harriet is my aunt. Well, my great-aunt.”

I wasn’t making any sense, and I knew it.

Heat crept up my neck as I stuck out my hand, desperate to salvage some semblance of composure.

“Ben,” I said, my voice firmer this time.

The man shook my hand, his grip firm and warm.

“Sam,” he said.

Sam.

At least I had a name now for tall, dark, and broody.

His blue eyes caught the light, sharp and striking, as if they saw right through me.

There was an intensity in his sapphire gaze, a focus that made me feel both exposed and safe all at the same time.

His brow furrowed as if trying to puzzle me out, and it was disarming—that mix of stern and soft.

I found myself holding my breath.

“Are you sure you can take me back?” I asked.

“It’s where I’m going,” he said, draping his coat over my shoulders before I could protest. It was heavy and worn and smelled of woodsmoke, pine, and something warm I couldn’t place—maybe sugar.

How did it smell of sugar?

“I don’t need this—I’ll be fine, I—”

“Take the damn coat,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind.

“I’m not letting you freeze to death.”

I hesitated for a second, then sighed.

“Okay, thanks.”

Dusk was settling outside as I followed him to his truck.

His pace was brisk and deliberate, and I found myself struggling to match his long-legged stride.

He was a foot taller than me, at least, and between the aches in my body and the throbbing in my head, I felt like I’d just gone ten rounds in a boxing ring.

“I need to get to my car,” I said, wincing as I stumbled on a patch of ice.

“Is it okay?”

He quirked an eyebrow at me, which spoke volumes—the car, the only thing I had left that was too big to fit in a box—was toast.

“Joe will get it out and deliver it to Harriet’s,” Sam said without looking back.

“Joe? Okay. A mechanic?”

“Runs the Caldwell Garage.”

“Okay, and um… do I need to contact this Joe? Pay him up front?”

“No,” Sam replied, his voice clipped but not rude.

“He’s already working on it.”

I blinked, surprised.

“Oh. Uhm… thanks.”

When he realized I was lagging, he slowed his pace, glancing over his shoulder.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” I muttered, though I wasn’t sure that was true.

My bruises had bruises, and every step made me feel like my body was protesting its very existence.

But I wasn’t about to admit that out loud.

Sam stood there, and I forgot how to breathe.

His blue eyes caught the light, bright and sharp, as though they could see right through me.

His slim frame still somehow made his plaid shirt strain across his shoulders when he stretched, hinting at the strength beneath.

And then there were his jeans.

Worn, snug in all the right places, framing his ass so perfectly it was almost unfair.

He was gorgeous and I was caught somewhere between admiration and desire.

My pulse quickened, my chest tightening with an ache I couldn’t quite name, but damn, I wanted to be able to stare at that ass all freaking day.

I swear they must have given me meds that screwed with my head.

I’m having thoughts about a man I don’t know while feeling like shit.

We reached his truck, a sturdy thing with worn edges that had seen its share of snowy roads.

Sam unlocked it and pulled open the passenger door, holding it for me.

I climbed in slowly, every movement a reminder of how much my body hated me right now.

Before I could reach for the seat belt, he leaned in and buckled it for me, his fingers brushing my jacket.

“I’ve got it,” I started.

He shook his head. “Doc says you’re not concussed, so close your eyes and get some rest.” Then he tucked a blanket around me, and tears pricked my eyes.

It had been forever since someone had fussed over me, and I wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

His gruff tone and careful actions caught me off guard, leaving me dumbfounded.

“Thank you,” I managed after a moment.

“I appreciate it, I—”

He shut the door before I could finish, rounding the truck to the driver’s side and climbing in with the same quiet efficiency.

The engine rumbled to life, and before I knew it, we were on the road, heading out of the city and into the dark expanse of the countryside.

There wasn’t much to see—just trees, shadows, and the occasional distant light from a farmhouse.

The sound of the tires on the road and the hum of the heater filled the silence, and I felt myself relaxing against the seat, the coat still draped around me.

Sam’s scent lingered in the fabric, grounding and calm, and it wrapped around me like the warmth of the truck.

I hadn’t planned on falling asleep, but between the gathering darkness and the rhythm of the tires on the road, my eyelids grew heavy, and my head tilted back against the seat.

The room was cold. Bare walls, a metal table, and a single bulb hanging overhead cast a harsh white light.

My hands were clenched into fists on my lap, my breath coming too fast, too shallow.

Across from me, a man paced, a federal agent, his polished shoes scuffing over the floor.

He was shouting, words sharp as broken glass.

“How could you not know?”

I flinched as a folder flew across the table, papers scattering onto the concrete floor.

“What did you do with the investors’ money?”

“I didn’t know anything—”

“Where is it?”

Another folder, another accusation.

The weight of his words pressed down on me.

“You were part of this!”

“I wasn’t!”

“Your best friend was part of the problem. How could you not see it?”

I opened my mouth, but I didn’t have an answer.

I had trusted. I had believed.

And now—

A pen rolled toward me, stopping against my fingers.

A form slammed down in front of me.

NDA.

“Sign it. Get out of town. Don’t talk to the media.”

I turned my head.

My lawyer stood near the door, his arms crossed, his expression grim.

He shook his head, slow and deliberate.

“No one can look after you now,” he growled at me.

I was fucking scared at that.

“You promised if I came forward, you’d protect me from this!”

He laughed, and it echoed in my skull, growing louder, looping over and over.

No one can protect you from the feds if we can’t prove you’re innocent.

No one—

The truck lurched to a stop, and I flailed awake, Sam’s hand pressed gently on my arm.

“You okay?” he asked when I gripped his hand.

I stared at him breathless, and then shook off the panic.

“Sorry, yeah,” I mumbled.

“We’re here,” he said.

I blinked, trying to steady myself as my surroundings came into focus.

Ahead of us stood a familiar house, its pale siding gleaming in the porch light.

The dark shutters bordered the windows, and the warm light spilling from the open front door seemed to whisper, “Welcome home. You’re safe now.”

“Huh?” Sam asked from next to me, and I heated in embarrassment—had I really said that out loud?

“Nothing.”

Harriet stood there, framed by the light, and this first glimpse of her tugged at something in my chest, stirring a memory I hadn’t revisited in years, but I had spent three or four happy summers in Caldwell Crossing before my parents divorced.

And now I was back.

Desperate to feel that same summer peace.

Even if it was February.

“You okay to get inside?” Sam’s voice was low and even, but there was a softness in it that made me glance at him.

I hesitated, unsure if my legs would cooperate.

He must have read something in my hesitation because he was already out of the truck, rounding it to my side.

The door opened, and his hands were there, helping me down with a firmness that didn’t leave room for argument.

I didn’t protest as he slipped an arm around me, steadying me as we made our way to the door.

Harriet stepped forward, her arms wide as if she could take all of me in at once.

She was spry for eighty-two, and her short gray bob and glasses gave her the librarian frown I remembered as a kid.

She carried the comforting scent of buttery cakes and lavender, a familiar blend that struck me with an ache so deep I nearly cried.

I clung to her like a toddler.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, her voice full of worry as she reached for me and guided me inside.

“Thank you, Sam.”

“Ma’am,” Sam said in a charming, laid-back tone.

They talked a little, but it was brief.

The door shut behind me, and when I turned around, he was already gone.

Harriet pulled me into the front room, her fussing in full force.

The warmth of the open fire hit me first, the crackling logs casting a glow across the cozy space.

She tugged at my coat, her hands deft but gentle.

“Let me get that off you,” she said, helping me out of Sam’s coat.

I hadn’t realized I was still wearing it until the sugary scent of pine and woodsmoke faded.

“Come, for goodness sake, sit down,” she scolded, smoothing the coat over her arm before draping it on the back of a chair.

“Joe delivered your car, and when I saw the fender, the way it was cracked…”

“I’m okay,” I reassured.

“I bet you’re glad it wasn’t your Porsche.”

“Yeah.” She didn’t have to know that I’d sold that heap of nothing, swapping it for my Prius and feeling better for it.

“Well, you’re here now.”

I let her guide me to the worn couch near the fire, sinking into the cushions as the heat began to thaw me out.

Harriet disappeared into the kitchen, muttering something about cocoa and blankets.

Before I knew it, she returned, handing me a mug filled to the brim with steaming hot chocolate.

“Drink,” she ordered, sitting beside me, her sharp eyes scanning me.

“And don’t think you’re getting out of explaining yourself. What on earth happened?”

“I was lost, checked my navigation, and took my eye off the road and… yeah. My fault.”

“You were lucky Sam found you. How did you even end up on the road to Stonebridge Farm?”

“I wish I knew.”

She pursed her lips.

“I wrote you directions from the interstate.”

“I know, and stupidly, I left them in Boston and had to use the navigation on my phone, which… yeah…”

At the reminder, panic surged through me.

I needed my phone for the lawyer and the feds…

but everything had been in the car.

“I need to get my phone—”

“Sit down, Joe fetched in your luggage, and your phone is on charge in the kitchen. I had to borrow a charger from Gladys next door, but she told me her son said it was the right one, so, anyway, drink up—let’s get you settled.”

I sipped the cocoa, the warmth spreading through me with each swallow.

Harriet kept fussing—adjusting the throw she’d draped over my knees, brushing away invisible crumbs from the table, hovering like only a great aunt could.

It could have been overwhelming, but it was just what I needed.

I missed Sam’s sweet-smelling coat, though. And Sam.