The thing about running from your feelings is that they always catch up eventually—usually in confined spaces with inadequate ventilation and far too many sharp objects within reach.
The cabin settles into its evening rhythm around me like a well-rehearsed symphony of masculine routine. Water rushes through the pipes as Konnor's shower runs, the sound muffled but constant through the thin walls.
Outside, Jake's tools clank against metal beneath my wrecked car, punctuated by occasional muttering that suggests the transmission is being uncooperative.
And in the kitchen, Oscar's knife hits the cutting board in a steady, hypnotic beat that I'm trying very hard not to find attractive.
I'm failing spectacularly.
He's rolled his sleeves to the elbow, exposing forearms that flex with each precise cut, and the kitchen light catches the warm undertones of his brown skin in ways that make my mouth water more than whatever he's cooking.
Every time I glance in his direction, he's already looking at me. Not staring—that would be too obvious for Oscar Grant.
Instead, his gaze brushes mine like an accident, quick and seemingly innocent, except nothing about Oscar is innocent and we both know it.
The unfinished conversation from the river hangs between us, charging the air with an electricity I can practically taste on my tongue.
I busy myself wiping down counters that don't need wiping, arranging spices that don't need arranging, doing anything to avoid the gravitational pull of the man currently julienning vegetables.
His cream henley stretches across his shoulders when he reaches for the salt, and I catch myself tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the way his collar reveals just enough collarbone to make me imagine the rest.
"You're going to scrub the finish off that granite if you keep at it," Oscar observes without looking up from his work, and his voice is light, conversational, irritatingly casual.
"I'm being thorough," I counter, attacking a nonexistent stain with renewed vigor.
"You're being avoidant, and you're doing it badly." He sets down the knife and reaches for the olive oil, movements fluid and unhurried.
The motion draws my attention to his hands—long fingers, confident grip, the kind of hands that look equally capable of creating art and causing trouble.
"I'd expect better evasion tactics from a Fortune 500 CEO. This is almost embarrassingly transparent," he says.
"Former CEO, and I don't know what you're talking about."
"Kelly." My name in his mouth sounds like a warning dressed up as an endearment. "We both know exactly what I'm talking about."
I don't respond, because responding would require acknowledging the tension that's been building since I fled from the riverbank like a coward with excellent cardio.
The silence stretches, filled only by the distant sound of Jake's wrench and Konnor's shower and my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
I need the cutting board. The one Oscar is currently monopolizing on his side of the counter, because apparently the universe has a twisted sense of humor and wants me to close the distance I've been so carefully maintaining.
Just grab it and go. No eye contact necessary.
I reach past him, aiming for the wooden board near his elbow, and Oscar moves faster than I anticipated.
His hand catches my wrist—firm but not painful, his fingers wrapping around my pulse point.
Before I can process what's happening, he's turned me, his body crowding mine against the refrigerator until the cold steel presses against my spine and there's nowhere left to retreat.
"You ran from me today." His voice drops low, the playful chef disappearing entirely. "Why?"
The contrast devastates my nervous system.
Cold metal at my back, radiating heat from Oscar's chest against my front—I'm trapped between opposites, and my pulse hammers against his fingertips like a confession I never agreed to make.
This close, I can see the gold flecks in his honey-colored eyes, the fullness of his lower lip, the way his jaw tightens when he's trying to read me.
He's unfairly beautiful, the kind of beautiful that makes you forget your own name and every sensible decision you've ever made.
"I didn't run." The lie sounds pathetic even to my own ears. "I just needed to help Jake with the coolers, and you were being intense, and I thought—"
"Don't." His thumb traces a slow circle over my wrist, finding the evidence of my racing heart and pressing into it deliberately. "Don't insult both of us by pretending you weren't scared. I saw your face when you left. Tell me what you're afraid of feeling."
My mouth goes dry, all the moisture in my body apparently redirecting to less appropriate locations.
His body hovers inches from mine, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating through his shirt but not quite touching.
His breath ghosts across my temple, and I catch his scent—warm and masculine and expensive and designed specifically to destroy my remaining brain cells.
My damn body arches toward him without permission, seeking contact I haven't agreed to want.
"Oscar—"
"That's not an answer." His free hand comes up to brace against the refrigerator beside my head, caging me in with casual dominance that makes my thighs clench together.
The position puts his bicep at my eye level, and I hate that I notice.
"You've been avoiding me all evening. Every time I look at you, you look away. Every time I get close, you find somewhere else to be. So tell me, Kelly Bird—what exactly are you running from?"
"You're crowding me against major appliances," I manage, aiming for indignant and landing somewhere closer to breathless. "That seems like a reasonable thing to avoid."
"You like being crowded." His mouth hovers over mine, close enough that speaking feels like kissing. "You like it when I push, when I don't let you hide behind that sharp tongue of yours. Your body tells me everything your mouth refuses to say."
"My body is a known liar and should not be trusted as a reliable witness."
"Your body is the most honest thing about you." His lips brush my ear, and I shiver so hard my teeth nearly chatter. "Tell me what you're afraid of."
The words stick in my throat, tangled up with desire and terror and the overwhelming realization that Oscar Grant sees straight through every defense I've constructed.
I'm afraid of wanting this.
I'm afraid of wanting you, all three of you, when my life is already a disaster and I'm carrying another man's child and I don't know who I am anymore.
I'm afraid that if I let myself feel this, I won't be able to stop.
"Oscar—"
"Tell me." His command is soft, insistent, irresistible.
Footsteps echo down the hallway. Konnor's shower has stopped, the sudden absence of water noise deafening in its implications.
Oscar steps back smoothly, putting three feet of kitchen between us in the space of a heartbeat.
His expression shifts to casual innocence so quickly it gives me whiplash.
I stand frozen against the refrigerator, pulse still racing, skin still tingling where his fingers pressed into my wrist.
Konnor appears in the kitchen doorway, hair damp, towel slung over his shoulder.
His dark eyes sweep across the scene—Oscar stirring something on the stove, me clutching the counter like it's the only thing keeping me upright—and one eyebrow rises in silent assessment.
"Did I miss something?"
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