Page 9

Her gaze feels like a physical touch, and I need to put some distance between us before I do something stupid. Like cross the room and find out if her skin is as soft as it looks.

"I made coffee," she calls after me as I head toward my bedroom. "Well, I tried to. Your coffee maker is... unique."

That pulls a laugh from me, rough and unexpected.

The ancient percolator was my grandfather's, and it takes a certain touch to get it working right. "I'll show you how to use it."

In my room, I take longer than necessary changing, trying to get my head straight.

Through the wall, I can hear her moving around the kitchen, humming something soft and sweet under her breath.

The domesticity of it all hits me hard. How long has it been since anyone else has been in this space? Since anyone has made coffee in my kitchen or hummed in the early morning light?

Too long, whispers a voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like my sister Harper’s. She's been trying to get me to "rejoin civilization" for years.

When I emerge the rich aroma fills the cabin. She's curled up in the armchair by the window, her bare feet tucked under her, watching the rain.

Something about the sight makes my chest ache. She looks... right. Like she belongs here.

"Thank you," she says suddenly, not looking at me. "For last night. For not asking questions. For..." She gestures around the cabin. "All of this."

I move to the kitchen, needing something to do with my hands. "No need to thank me."

"There is, though." Now she does turn to look at me, and those blue eyes are clear and steady. Whatever panic drove her yesterday has settled into something calmer, more determined. "You didn't have to stop. Didn't have to help a stranger in a wedding dress running down the road like a crazy person. But you did."

I pour two cups of coffee, trying to ignore how my pulse jumps when she smiles at me. "Maybe I'm the crazy one, picking up runaway brides."

Her laugh is unexpected and genuine, lighting up her whole face. "Maybe we're both a little crazy."

I hand her a mug, careful not to let our fingers brush.

Even that small contact feels dangerous right now.

She takes it with both hands, inhaling the steam like it's something precious. Another crack of thunder makes her jump slightly, and coffee sloshes over the rim onto her—my—shirt.

"Shit," she mutters, setting the mug down and pulling the wet fabric away from her skin. The movement draws my attention to the curve of her breast beneath the flannel, and I force myself to look away. "Sorry, I'm usually more coordinated than this."

"No harm done." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Shirt's seen worse."

She dabs at the spot with her sleeve, then looks up at me through those long lashes. "I feel like I should tell you... about yesterday. About why I ran."

I lean against the kitchen counter, putting deliberate space between us. "You don't owe me any explanations."

"I know." She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly looking small in the large chair. "But I want to. If you'll listen."

Christ.

The vulnerability in her voice does things to me. Makes me want to cross the room, gather her up, protect her from whatever—whoever—put that look in her eyes.

Instead, I nod. "I'm listening."

She takes a deep breath, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee mug. "Matthew was... perfect. On paper, at least. Successful accountant, country club membership, came from the right family. My mother was thrilled." Her laugh holds no humor. "She'd been grooming me for exactly this kind of marriage since I was old enough to walk in heels."

She pauses, and I watch emotions flicker across her face like shadows. "But living with perfect is exhausting. Every dinner party, every charity gala, every moment was choreographed. Matthew had opinions about everything—what I wore, how I spoke, even..." She glances down at herself, at the curves barely hidden by my flannel shirt. "Even how I looked. Not directly, you know? He was too 'polite' for that. Just little comments about how certain clothes would be more 'flattering,' or how maybe we should make more salads for dinner."

Thunder rolls outside, and she wraps her arms tighter around herself. "The wedding was the same way. Three hundred guests I barely knew, a venue I didn't choose, flowers I didn't want. My mother and his mother planning every detail while I just... stood there. Like a doll they could dress up and pose however they wanted." Her voice cracks slightly.

"I plan weddings for a living," she says with a bitter laugh. "I should have known better. Should have recognized the signs that it wasn't right. But I kept thinking if I just tried harder, if I just lost a few more pounds, if I just learned to be what everyone wanted..."