I lie in Jake's bed, staring at a ceiling I've memorized over the past hour, replaying the floorboard creak from last night on an endless loop.
Someone heard me. And whichever man it was now carries a secret I'd pay good money to erase from existence.
Get up. Face the consequences. You've survived worse.
The pep talk rings hollow, but I force myself upright anyway.
My plan is simple: tiptoe to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and construct a functioning facade before encountering any of them.
Ten minutes of solitude to become Kelly Bird again—whoever she is.
I slip out of bed and ease the door open, wincing at every creak the hinges produce.
The hallway stretches before me, empty and quiet, and I allow myself one steadying breath before padding toward the bathroom.
But the smell of coffee cuts through the cabin, and my stomach drops.
The living room sits empty in the gray morning light—leather couch facing a stone fireplace filled with last night's ashes, a stack of fishing magazines on the rough-hewn coffee table, empty beer bottles lined up like soldiers waiting for disposal.
The kitchen beyond is all butcher block counters and cast iron skillets, a coffee maker gurgling its final breaths beside a sink full of mugs that suggest these men have been awake for hours.
Jake's couch is empty, blankets folded.
I round the corner toward the bathroom, head down, shoulders hunched, and collide directly into a wall of warm muscle.
Jake's hands catch my waist before I can stumble, fingers spanning my hips with an ease that makes my breath hitch.
He's shirtless—because of course he is, because the universe has a sick sense of humor—and my palms land flat against his chest.
"Morning." His voice is rough with sleep, graveled and low.
I should step back. I should definitely step back. But his thumbs press into the curve of my waist, and his steel-gray eyes catalog every micro-expression on my face.
There's a flicker in them—quick, almost imperceptible—where his gaze drops to my mouth before snapping back up.
He felt that too. Whatever electrical current just arced between us, I'm not the only one it burned.
Move. Say something. Stop staring at his mouth.
My body stages a full mutiny against my rational mind. I lean in, just a fraction, drawn by gravity or insanity or both.
His grip tightens for half a heartbeat, fingers digging into the soft curve of my waist like he's fighting the same losing battle.
Then he releases me. Just lets go and steps aside like nothing happened.
My body protests the absence so loudly I'm surprised he can't hear it—every nerve ending screaming why did you stop, go back, put your hands where they were.
"Bathroom's free," he says, completely unaffected. "I'm heading out to check on your car. See if we can tow it ourselves or if we need service."
"I'm coming with you." I say, and it's not a question. Sitting in this cabin, waiting for Oscar's teasing or Konnor's knowing stare, sounds like psychological torture.
Jake raises an eyebrow. "You sure? Rain let up about an hour ago, but it'll start again soon. It's muddy as hell out there."
"I've seen worse than mud." Like boardroom coups. Like public humiliation. Like finding your fiancé balls-deep in his assistant. "Give me five minutes."
I'm ready in four.
The truck smells the same as last night—coffee and pine—but the silence between us feels different. Less tense, more contemplative.
The forest drips with last night's rain, everything green and glistening in the pale morning light.
I watch the trees blur past, steam rising from the wet earth, and try not to think about how aware I am of his hands on the steering wheel.
The same hands that caught me this morning. The same hands I imagined last night—
My gaze betrays me, trailing up his forearms where the sleeves of his flannel are rolled to the elbow, following the curve of muscle to his shoulders, the column of his neck.
A tendon flexes when he turns to check the side mirror, and my mouth goes dry.
Stop cataloging the man like he's a buffet and you skipped dinner.
"How'd you sleep?" Jake asks, eyes on the road.
The blush hits me so fast I nearly choke.
Was it him? Was he the one standing outside my door, listening to me come apart while thinking about—
"Fine." The word comes out strangled. "Your bed is comfortable."
"Mm." A pause stretches too long. "You were pretty restless. Heard you moving around."
He glances at me then. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, more like he's actively choosing not to smile.
Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.
"The heat," I say quickly. "I'm not used to Florida humidity."
His expression gives nothing away. Either he's an excellent poker player or he genuinely didn't hear anything incriminating. I cling to the second option like a life raft.
"So, Kelly Bird." He glances at me sideways. "Tourist, wrong place, wrong time. That's your story?"
"That's the truth."
"Parts of it, maybe." He turns down a narrow dirt road, the truck bouncing over ruts. "The parts you want me to know."
"Everyone has parts they don't share with strangers."
"We're not strangers anymore." His voice drops lower. "You've slept in my bed."
The words land differently than he probably intended. Or maybe exactly as he intended—I can't tell with him.
"I'm just taking a break," I say finally.
"Running from something or toward something?"
I consider the question longer than I should. "I haven't figured that out yet."
Jake nods slowly, like my non-answer told him everything he needed to know. "Fair enough."
When we arrive, my rental car looks exactly as pathetic as I remember—half in a ditch, front end crumpled against a tree, looking sorry for itself.
Jake circles it with professional assessment, checking the undercarriage, testing the wheels.
While he works, I drift toward the truck bed, pretending to inspect the tow equipment like I have any idea what I'm looking at.
The rain has left everything slick and gleaming, and I brace myself against the tailgate to keep from sliding in the mud.
That's when I notice a photograph wedged beneath a toolbox, edges curled from humidity.
The woman in the picture has the kind of effortless beauty that makes other women want to take up a competitive hobby. Dark hair, easy smile, one arm wrapped around a teenage girl with Jake's exact steel-gray eyes.
The girl—Lily, I remember—grins at the camera with the unguarded joy of someone who hasn't yet learned that people leave.
Jake stands behind them both, younger by years, and there's a softness in his expression I haven't seen since I crashed into his life.
His hand rests on his daughter's shoulder, his smile genuine.
He was happy. He had a family, a life, a woman who fit perfectly under his arm.
I slide the photo back beneath the toolbox, feeling like I've read someone's diary without permission.
Whatever happened between him and the woman in that picture—divorce, he'd mentioned—it left marks.
The kind you carry in the spaces between words, in the careful distance you keep from anything that might make you feel too much.
I know those marks. I'm collecting my own.
"Good news," Jake says finally. "We can tow it ourselves. My truck has the gear."
Relief floods through me. "And the bad news?"
"Axle's damaged. You're not driving this anywhere for at least a week." He straightens, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Maybe more, depending on parts."
The words take a moment to register.
A week in that cabin. Seven days of shared meals and thin walls and Jake's hands and Konnor's unsettling stare and Oscar's wolf-grin smile.
"Great," I mutter. "Just great."
But a small, reckless part of me whispers: Would that really be so bad?
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