Chapter 25

Jack

I wake up slowly.

It’s been a long time since I’ve done that.

You don’t realize it until it’s your reality. Stirring from sleep all groggy and relaxed? That’s a luxury.

It’s a luxury that men like me were supposed to sacrifice to keep the good people back home safe.

But now, it’s been returned to me. A little gift left on my doorstep and, for once, it’s not just another flaming sack of shit.

No pillowcase soaked with sweat. No screaming.

I didn’t have any nightmares last night.

I know who I have to thank.

Avery. Sweet little Avery, too good for an old, rusted-out piece of shit like me…and somehow, against all odds, she hasn’t realized it yet. In that sense, I can’t help but feel like I’ve taken advantage.

But she wanted me. Me, of all fucking people. I gave her all the warnings. Put up all the signs. Danger: Do Not Fuck With.

And she blasted through every goddamn one of them the same way she blasted through the safety rail and over the side of this mountain.

If I wasn’t so certain that girl has a death wish, I would be admiring her pluck.

But there are plenty of other things about Avery worth admiring. Her skin, for one—like moonlight on freshly fallen snow, that fucking skin of hers. The smile that lights up her whole goddamn face, and the room she’s standing in to boot. That smile of hers is gonna blow out every light bulb in this damn cabin, it creates such a power surge. And then, there’s her laugh—that pretty little laugh, like sleigh bells on Christmas morning.

Her mouth, so soft and sweet and eager. Her neck, long and slender and too fucking delicate to be in the hands of someone so rough and dangerous as me. Her collarbones…her breasts…

I grunt as I shift my body on the mattress, rolling over to enjoy those breasts again. Like big, heavy mountains of whipped cream, those breasts of hers, with stiff little peach nipple peaks. My mouth goes wet at the thought of taking one of those nipples into my mouth again—

Then, in an instant, it goes bone dry.

She’s gone.

She’s fucking gone.

Instantly, I blame myself. It’s my own damn fault. Too rough—too desperate for her—too fucking undeserving of a woman like Avery’s presence.

I slept with an angel last night. I know it’s fucking true.

Should have known better—what the good Lord giveth, he taketh the fuck away. God punishes the man who dares try to claim something so holy.

What we had last night has changed something in me. It wasn’t just getting my dick wet, though Lord knows I’ve needed it.

It was fire. It was ice. It was fucking magic washing over me with her every kiss—an angel’s blessing, healing me over and making me whole again.

And now, it’s gone, and Avery with it.

That’s another fucking luxury. Waking up in the morning and finding the woman you spent the night with still there, curled up, sleeping soundly, and warming your bed.

Fuck’s sake. I’ve become a fanciful fucking man in the last day, haven’t I?

I didn’t come up on this mountain for luxuries. I came up here to chop firewood, stew in my fucking angst and be alone.

If it was anyone else—any other woman on any other week—I would have let her go. Chalked it up as yet another mistake in the great, ever-fucking-growing ledger of Things Jack Has Fucked Up.

But this is Avery. Headstrong, stubborn, death-wishing Avery. Smart as a whip when she wants to be, and when she doesn’t, dumb as fucking rocks.

And there’s a blizzard on. Storm of the fucking century, which I’ve already saved her pretty little ass from twice now.

I told myself I wouldn’t do it a third time.

Guess it shouldn’t surprise anyone, least of all myself, to discover that I’m a fucking liar too.

My clothes from last night are still there beside the bed where I left them, damp and humid and useless to me now. I’ve got a fresh set of coveralls down by the door, where I’m sure I can drum up an old jacket and a dry pair of gloves as well. I hook my fingers into the ankles of my boots and thunder down the stairs, naked as the day I was born (albeit with a significantly greater amount of chest hair now).

It’s only about halfway downstairs that I smell it: bacon fat, sizzling in the pan. A little burnt, maybe, but still edible. I smell farm fresh eggs scrambled into oblivion and the roasted goodness of slightly over-brewed coffee. Thick, sludgy black coffee that I know damn well will put some pep in my step and grow more hair on my balls.

Balls that are currently tightening against my thighs as I trip down the last few steps and set eyes on my angel, gorgeously clad in my flannel and frying me up a proper breakfast.

“Hey,” she says with that sweet little voice, looking up from the stove top and over her shoulder at me.

“Hey,” I say back.

I’m wearing nothing but a sense of relief and a smile. Her own smile widens to match as she takes me in.

Buck thunders past me, completely fucking ignoring me in favor of trying to get some bacon from the pan before I can eat it all up.

And when Avery orders him down off the counter, he listens.

Goddamn. My woman even has my dog whipped into shape.

I’d pinch myself if there were any way to do it a little fucking discreetly. It’s been a long time since another human being has looked at me and smiled. Particularly not one so beautiful and pure as this goddamn celestial seraph frying up bacon and eggs in my fucking kitchen.

“I thought, uh…” she says hesitantly. “Thought you might be hungry after…last night.”

Last night. Those two words hold a hell of a lot more implication for us than they ought to now. I consider going up behind her, wrapping my arms around that tiny waist of hers and holding her body against mine just to remind her how good I can make her feel.

But I’m still naked, and she’s still too damn good for me. Even after last night, the little scare she gave me this morning only drove that idea deeper into my mind.

She seems happy to see me, but anxious at the same time.

So. Are we bashful lovers, gone all fucking blushing and shy in the wake of our fresh union?

Or is she putting on an act because she’s too fucking scared to tell me, “Stop!” or “Put some fucking pants on, Jack,” or, worst of all, just a big, resounding “No!”?

I won’t have any woman of mine afraid of me, dammit.

But I don’t even know if I can call her my woman. One night between the sheets together and I already feel possessive of her. I bet whatever poor bastard she had on that wedding dress for felt the same.

I slump into a chair at the table. I built it myself, so I know it will hold me, but still—it creaks beneath my weight. She bites her lip as she slides my plate in front of me, and I can’t help myself but reach out and grab her wrist.

“Didn’t think you knew how to cook,” I find myself saying.

Christ. Can I avoid being all gruff and accusational for one goddamn minute?

Her cheeks turn pink at my words. Cutest thing in the entire fucking universe.

“I, uh…I don’t, really,” she says with an embarrassed smile, turning away.

I eye the plate she’s put in front of me. Bacon, black at the edges but nice and crunchy within. Eggs, scrambled all to hell and boasting little bits of shell…but still edible. A little eggshell wouldn’t hurt a bear in the wild. Certainly won’t hurt me.

“Looks like you know what you’re doing just fine,” I grunt.

She smiles a little like I’ve just paid her the best damn compliment she’s ever been given. For a moment, I think she’s about to raise my fingers to her lips. Kiss my knuckles in thanks.

But she doesn’t. Instead, her wrist slips out of my grasp. She leaves my fingertips wanting—as she turns back to the counter to gather her own plate, I realize I’m still reaching for her.

I have to lower my hand quickly when she turns back my way before she sees what an ass I’m making of myself.

I pick up my fork instead and dig in.

“Is it good?” she asks as I crunch away at the gritty scrambled eggs.

“The best,” I say, which is only a little bit of a lie—I just want to see this girl fucking smile again.

Avery puts her plate down on the table across from me, then turns to pour us two cups of coffee. I watch as she plunks two sugar cubes into hers and quickly locates the cream. Mine, she leaves sludgy and black.

She’s been paying attention to what I like. That fucking slays me, warms my heart and brings me back to life all at once.

But I don’t say that, and when she smiles at me, I realize she doesn’t need me to.

Instead, she holds up her pale, slender wrist, which now bears a bright pink welt on it. Like a slow day at show and tell.

“Bacon fat,” she explains. “I already ran it under some cold water, but—”

“Here.” I reach across the table, snatching her wrist up in my big, clumsy fingers, and pull it to my mouth.

I don’t know what I’m fucking doing. Working on instinct, mostly.

But the way she looks at me, the way she closes her eyes as I pull her wrist to my mouth, blowing cold air over the welt and then pressing it beneath my lips—

Whatever I’m doing, it fucking works.