Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 29299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Her breath catches. “Then don’t walk away.”
I search her face. “You understand what that means?”
“It means you stop holding yourself back.”
“It means you stop being my nanny and start being mine.” The possessiveness in my voice surprises even me.
Her eyes darken.
“And if I want that?” she asks.
“Then I stop pretending I don’t crave you every time you walk into a room.”
Her breath shudders. “You’re dangerous when you talk like that.”
“You should see me when I stop talking.”
Her breath comes out in small pants. I want to close the distance and kiss her but I don’t. “I can feel how closed off you are–even now.”
I nod, slow-simmering anger coiling in my stomach. “I think I always will be, Tessa. This can’t happen between us–not for you–not for that little girl. In fact, the best thing for both of us is probably if you left Devil’s Peak and never looked back.”
“Is that what you want?” Hurt darkens her pretty eyes.
I don’t reply as I hold her gaze for long moments.
And then I move. Not toward her. But away. My chest aches, but I know it’s for the best.
Tessa can do better than a man like me, broken and mangled beyond repair. I need to let her go so she can find her real future.
She deserves better than a grumpy mountain man with a chip on his shoulder and a heart that’s grown cold.
Chapter 10
Tessa
Steam curls thick in the small bathroom, fogging the mirror, dampening the edges of everything until the world feels soft and suspended. Lacee’s laughter ricochets off tile as she splashes the last of the bubbles from her arms, her long dark hair slicked back and shining down her shoulders.
“Okay, okay,” I laugh, shielding my face as she sends one final wave of water toward me. “You’re going to flood the entire house.”
“Dad can fix it,” she says confidently, tipping her chin up in that fearless, ten-year-old way. “He fixes everything.”
My mouth curves. “That’s because he likes being needed.”
She squints at me like I’ve just given her a riddle. “He pretends he doesn’t.”
“Most grown men do.”
She snorts and dunks her head under while I rinse the shampoo from her hair, my fingers working carefully through the silky strands. She relaxes under my touch, small shoulders easing, trusting me without question. Something tight in my chest loosens every time she does that.
“Evan teased me again today,” she mutters, water dripping down her lashes as she resurfaces.
“Teased you how?”
“He said my art project looked like a melted unicorn.” She scowls. “It did not.”
“It absolutely did not,” I say solemnly. “It was abstract. Very high-end gallery vibes.”
She giggles, then sighs. “He always says stuff like that. Or he steals my pencils.”
I grab a towel and wrap it around her shoulders. “Hmm.”
“What?”
I tilt my head, lowering my voice like I’m sharing classified information. “It sounds suspiciously like Evan might have a crush on you.”
Her jaw drops. “Ew.”
“Why ew?”
“Because he’s annoying.”
“Exactly.”
She studies me. “Then why does he pick on me?”
I squeeze excess water from her hair, fingers gentle. “Because boys don’t always know how to show their feelings. Sometimes they say the opposite of what they mean.”
She squints. “That sounds immature.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “It is immature.”
“And they don’t grow out of it?”
I hesitate just long enough to make it funny. “It… doesn’t always change as much as we’d like.”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “That’s tragic.”
“It truly is,” I agree gravely.
I help her step out of the tub, wrap her in her pink robe, and settle her onto the closed toilet lid while I brush through her damp hair. The rhythm is easy, domestic, warm. She chatters about school, about a science fair, about a dance she’s pretending she doesn’t care about.
When I finally braid her hair loosely over one shoulder, she hugs me tight around the middle. “You’re way better at this stuff than Dad.”
My heart stutters. “He tries.”
“I know.” She softens. “He just gets quiet.”
I smooth my palm over her back. “Your dad’s good at a lot of things.”
She grins mischievously. “Like lifting heavy stuff and scaring boys?”
“Those too.”
She laughs, then darts off toward her bedroom, yelling, “Night, Tess!”
“Night, Lacee!”
The bathroom falls quiet except for the steady drip of the faucet and the hum of the vent fan. I kneel to mop up puddles, my tank clinging damply to my skin, shorts soaked at the hem. My hair is a mess from the steam, curls sticking to my neck.
I reach for the towel hook, take one step backward—and collide with something solid.
Or someone.
Heat.
Hard muscle.
A sharp inhale at my ear.
My spine goes rigid.
Sawyer.
His chest is broad and warm against my back, skin damp, the faint scent of soap and sweat wrapping around me. I freeze, every nerve firing at once.
He steadies me automatically, hands landing at my hips.
Low-slung workout shorts.
Bare chest with a soft smatter of dark hair.