five
Sheryl
I wake with a groan, burying my face in the pillow that smells faintly of cedar and pine.
Last night replays in my mind for the hundredth time—standing so close to Alex I could feel the heat radiating from his body, my hand on his chest, his heart hammering beneath my palm.
The warning in his voice when he said my name.
And then... nothing.
He'd stepped back and disappeared, leaving me standing there with my hand still tingling from the contact.
"Coward," I mutter into the pillow, though I'm not sure if I mean him or myself. Twenty-two years old, and I've written dozens of first kisses, hundreds of passionate encounters, but never actually experienced one worth remembering.
The irony isn't lost on me. Here I am, a virgin romance novelist, finally face-to-face with exactly the kind of man I write about and I freeze up like a middle schooler at her first dance.
I stretch, then grab my laptop. Might as well use this burst of frustrated energy to write.
My characters are currently in a situation not unlike my own.
The tension crackling between them and yet neither willing to make the first move.
Unlike me, however, my heroine knows exactly what she wants and how to get it.
Maybe I should take notes.
A movement outside the window catches my eye. I peek through the curtains and my breath catches.
Alex is in the cleared space beside the house, chopping wood. He's wearing a fitted gray t-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders, work jeans, and boots. Each swing of the axe causes the muscles in his arms and back to flex visibly, even from this distance.
I should look away. I definitely shouldn't be watching him like some voyeur, mentally cataloging every movement for future reference in my writing.
But I can't tear my eyes away.
He works with efficient precision, no wasted motion. Each log splitting cleanly under the force of his swing. There's something mesmerizing about the rhythm—the lift, the controlled arc, the powerful connection, the satisfying crack of wood yielding. Over and over again.
My fingers itch to capture this on the page. This is exactly what my hero would do: channel his frustrations into physical labor, unaware he's being watched by the woman who's disrupting his carefully ordered life.
I grab my laptop and start typing furiously, my earlier embarrassment forgotten in the rush of creative energy.
The words flow faster than they have in months.
The scene unfolding beneath my fingers isn't what I'd planned for this chapter, but it's perfect, raw and honest in a way my writing hasn't been before.
Two hours pass before I surface from the writing trance, fingers cramping but mind buzzing with satisfaction. I've written more this morning than I did in the entire week before the fire.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since the soup last night. I set the laptop aside and venture out to the kitchen, hoping to find something simple for breakfast.
The cabin is quiet. Through the main room's large windows, I can see Alex is no longer outside. His truck is still in the driveway, so he must be in his workshop or somewhere nearby.
The kitchen intimidates me with its gleaming surfaces and high-end appliances. Everything is spotless and well organized.
Making breakfast seems like the least I can do to thank him for his hospitality. I'm not much of a cook, but even I can handle eggs and toast, right?
I find a pan, butter, eggs in the refrigerator. Simple enough. I turn on the stove, drop in a generous pat of butter, and crack three eggs into a bowl. So far, so good.
I pop some bread into the toaster and turn my attention back to the eggs, whisking them perhaps more vigorously than required.
I'm so focused on not ruining breakfast that I don't hear Alex enter until he speaks.
"What are you doing?" His deep voice startles me, and the whisk clatters against the bowl.
"Making breakfast," I explain, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "As a thank you."
He approaches cautiously, as if I'm handling explosives rather than eggs. "The butter's smoking."
I turn to the stove where, indeed, the butter has gone from melted to smoking while I was distracted. "Oh! I'll just—"
The smoke alarm interrupts me with a piercing wail. The pan isn't even on fire, just smoking slightly, but the alarm screams as if the whole house is ablaze.
Alex moves with startling speed. He grabs the pan from the stove, turns off the burner, and places the pan in the sink. His movements are precise but there's something in his expression I haven't seen before—raw panic barely contained beneath his controlled exterior.
I stand frozen, the bowl of eggs still in my hands. The alarm continues its assault on our eardrums until he reaches up and silences it.
The sudden quiet feels almost as jarring as the noise.
"I'm so sorry," I stammer. "It was just smoking a little. I didn't think—"
"No, you didn't," he snaps, his voice tight. "Any open flame or smoke triggers the alarm. It's designed that way."
His reaction seems extreme for a small kitchen mishap. Then I remember his comment yesterday about fire not giving second chances, the way his expression had darkened.
"Alex," I say softly, setting down the bowl. "Will you tell me what happened to you? With fire?"
He stands by the sink, hands braced against the counter, tension radiating from his rigid posture. For a moment, I think he won't answer.
"Five years ago," he finally says, voice low, "I lived with two roommates. Mike and Jason. College friends."
I remain perfectly still, afraid any movement might stop his words.
"I was away." His knuckles whiten against the counter edge. "There was an electrical fire while I was gone. By the time I got home, the house was already gone. So were they."
My heart constricts. "Alex, I'm so sorry."
"Mike was getting married that summer. Jason had just started medical school." He recites these facts like he's said them many times, each word weighted with grief. "I was the one who always checked the wiring, tested the smoke alarms. The one time I wasn't there..."
I move toward him slowly, unsure if my presence will be welcome. "It wasn't your fault."
"That's what everyone says." His voice is rough. "Doesn't make it true."
"Is that why you live like this? All the safety measures, the protocols?"
He nods once, still not looking at me. "Never again. Not on my watch."
Without thinking, I place my hand on his arm. "What happened doesn't define you, Alex. What you did afterward does. And you've dedicated your life to saving others."
He finally turns to face me, and the raw emotion in his eyes steals my breath.
"Sheryl."
"You saved my life," I whisper, moving closer. "Let me help save yours." I don't know where these words come from. They sound like something one of my heroines would say, too dramatic for real life. But they feel right, necessary.
His hand comes up to cup my face, calloused palm warm against my cheek. "You don't know what you're asking for."
"Maybe not," I admit, heart hammering so loudly I'm sure he can hear it. "But I want to find out."
Time stretches between us, taut with possibility. I've written this moment a dozen different ways, but nothing compares to the reality of standing here, caught in the gravity of his gaze, waiting for him to close the distance between us.
When he finally does, it's not the tentative brush of lips I expected. His mouth claims mine with certainty, with hunger, with eighteen years of experience I don't possess. His beard scratches my skin, a delicious friction I've never felt before.
I make a small, embarrassing sound of surprise and pleasure, my hands instinctively grasping his shirt for stability as the kitchen seems to tilt around me.
His arms encircle me, one hand at the small of my back, the other threading through my hair, cradling my head with unexpected gentleness despite the urgency of his kiss.
This, I realize with sudden clarity, is why I've never been able to write a truly convincing first kiss.
I've been inventing approximations of something I couldn't possibly understand until this moment—the way it consumes you entirely, how thought becomes impossible, how your body responds with a mind of its own.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathless, clinging to him like he's the only solid thing in a spinning world. He looks as stunned as I feel.
"I'm too old for you." His voice is rough, conflicted. "You're twenty-two. I'm forty."
"I'm old enough to know what I want." I sound braver than I feel.
"And what is that, exactly? Research for your novel?" There's an edge to his question.
The accusation stings, but I recognize the fear behind it. "Is that what you think this is?"
"I think you're young and curious, and I'm convenient inspiration."
"You're infuriating is what you are," I say, surprising myself with the heat in my voice. "I've written two novels without needing to seduce anyone for ' research .' Give me some credit."
"Then what is this?"
"I don't know," I admit. "But it's not research, or curiosity, or gratitude, or whatever other excuse you're looking for to push me away."
His thumb traces my lower lip, sending shivers down my spine. "This is a bad idea."
"Probably," I agree. "Most of the best things are."
He makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told." I rise on tiptoes, bringing my face closer to his again. "Are you going to kiss me again, or just list all the reasons you shouldn't?"
The challenge hangs between us for a heartbeat before he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "to hell with it" and captures my mouth again.
This kiss is different. Slower, deeper, more deliberate. His hands span my waist, lifting me effortlessly to sit on the counter, bringing us to eye level. I wrap my arms around his neck, fingers threading through his hair, marveling at how different reality is from imagination.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.
"What now?" I whisper, terrified and exhilarated by the possibilities.
"Now," he says, his voice dropping to a low rumble that vibrates through me, "we figure out what to do about breakfast."
The unexpected statement startles a laugh from me. "Mood killer."
His gaze travels slowly down my body, lingering in a way that makes heat pool low in my stomach. "I didn't say we needed food for breakfast." His thumb traces my lower lip, his meaning unmistakable. "There are other appetites to consider."
My breath catches as understanding washes over me. The romantic novels I write suddenly seem woefully inadequate preparation for the reality of this moment. I’m reeling from the intensity in his eyes as he looks at me like I'm something he wants to devour.
"Oh," is all I manage to say.
He steps between my knees where I'm still perched on the counter, his large hands spanning my waist. "Unless you want me to stop."
Do I? This is happening faster than I ever imagined my first real experience would unfold. Yet there's nothing about this moment that feels wrong. Terrifying, yes. Overwhelming, definitely. But wrong? No.
I shake my head slowly, holding his gaze. "Don't stop."
"Good."
As he leans in to claim my mouth again, one thought flashes through my mind: no fictional hero will ever compare to the very real man about to show me everything I've only imagined.