Page 5 of Rough Marshal Daddy
I slide carefully out of the bed, muscles stiff from the awkward position. Riley stirs but stays asleep, burrowed deeper into the quilts. I move to the small kitchen area, the wooden floor cool under my feet. I crack a few eggs into a cast iron pan, the sizzle loud in the quiet cabin. The rich smell of cooking eggs fills the space. I toast thick slices of bread over the stove, the edges turning golden and crisp.
Riley wakes as I plate the food. She sits up slowly, hair messy and eyes soft with sleep. My borrowed T-shirt slips off one shoulder, exposing smooth skin, and I go still for a beat.
“Morning,” she says, voice husky and cute. “Something smells amazing.”
“Eggs and toast,” I reply, carrying the plates over. “Nothing fancy but it’ll keep you warm.”
She takes the plate with a grateful smile, her fingers brushing mine. That small contact sends heat straight through me. We eat together at the small table, the storm still raging outside. Her presence fills the cabin completely. Sweet. Soft. Tempting.
I watch her over my coffee, knowing the next days and weeks are going to test every bit of control I’ve got left. Riley Thompson’s dangerous in ways the Moretti family could never be.
She’s going to wreck me.
And I’m not sure I mind.
5
Riley
The smell of eggs and toast still lingers in the warm cabin air as I finish the last bite on my plate. Mason’s cooking is simple but perfect, the eggs fluffy with just the right amount of salt and the toast crispy at the edges with a hint of butter. I set my plate down on the small wooden table and stretch my arms above my head, feeling the borrowed t-shirt ride up slightly against my skin. Outside the blizzard continues its furious assault, wind howling and snow battering the boarded windows in relentless waves.
I stand up to help clear the dishes, my bare feet padding softly across the cool wooden floor. As I open a cabinet to find a place for the plates, my eyes land on something that makes my heart lift in the middle of all this chaos. Flour. Sugar. Brown sugar. A bag of chocolate chips.Vanilla extract. The ingredients are neatly lined up on the shelf like they’ve been waiting for me.
“Mason,” I say, turning toward him with a bright smile that feels like the first real one since this nightmare started. “You have everything I need to make cookies. Real cookies. Can we? Please?”
He leans back in his chair, those smoldering eyes watching me with a mix of amusement and something warmer. His massive frame looks almost too big for the small space, shoulders stretching his dark shirt tight. “You want to bake in the middle of a blizzard?”
I nod enthusiastically, already pulling the ingredients down. The flour bag feels soft and familiar under my fingers, the paper crinkling as I set it on the counter. “Baking makes me feel normal. And happy. And I think we could both use some happy right now. Plus, fresh cookies while the storm rages outside sounds exactly like the kind of cozy moment we deserve.”
A low sound rumbles in his chest, almost a chuckle. He stands up and joins me at the counter, his presence immediately filling the space around me. “All right, little one. Tell me what to do.”
We work side by side in the tiny kitchen area. I measure out the flour while Mason cracks eggs into a bowl, his large hands surprisingly careful with the delicate shells.The sound of the eggs cracking is sharp and satisfying. Like an ASMR Tiktok video I usually watch while falling asleep back home. I add brown sugar and watch it clump together with the white sugar as I stir.
“You’re surprisingly good at this for a rough mountain marshal,” I tease, bumping my hip lightly against his side. The contact sends a little spark through me.
He grunts but his mouth twitches. “Had to learn to feed myself in the middle of nowhere. Cookies were never part of the training though.”
I laugh and hand him the wooden spoon. “Mix the wet ingredients. And don’t be gentle. Really cream that butter and sugar together.”
He follows my instructions, his powerful arms flexing as he stirs. The bowl scrapes against the counter with each strong movement. I watch the muscles in his forearms shift and feel that familiar flutter low in my belly.Focus on the cookies, Riley. Not on how incredibly hot your protector looks while creaming butter.
We add the vanilla and eggs. When it’s time to fold in the flour and chocolate chips, Mason stands right behind me, one big hand covering mine on the spoon as he helps stir. The heat of him surrounds me, his broad chest a steady presence against my back. Only the wild thud of his heart gives him away. The chocolate chips are cooland smooth as they tumble into the dough, and the mixture turns thick and sticky.
“This is the best part,” I say, scooping a small bit of dough onto my finger and holding it up to him. “Quality control.”
He raises an eyebrow but leans down and takes the dough from my finger with his mouth. His lips brush my skin, warm and soft, sending heat rushing through me. “Sweet,” he murmurs, voice lower than before. “Like you.”
My cheeks flush hot. We continue scooping dough onto the baking sheet, laughing when the storm makes the cabin creak loudly and we both jump. Mason’s deep chuckle mixes with my lighter giggles, filling the small space with warmth that’s got nothing to do with the stove. The cookie dough smells like pure comfort, sweet and chocolatey and full of hope.
While the cookies bake, the aroma grows even stronger, rich and buttery and irresistible. We sit at the table waiting, the storm picking up outside with renewed fury. Wind screams and snow pelts the windows like tiny bullets. But inside it feels cozy.
After the cookies come out golden and perfect, we move to the couch by the fire. Mason pulls out an old woodenchessboard from a shelf, the pieces worn smooth from years of use. My heart lifts even more.
“I love chess,” I tell him, settling cross-legged on the couch. “My dad taught me when I was little. We used to play for hours on rainy days.”
We set up the board between us. The wooden pieces feel cool and familiar in my fingers. Mason watches me with those intense gray eyes as I make the first move. The fire crackles softly, throwing dancing shadows across his rough face. The smell of fresh cookies surrounds us as we each take one, still warm from the oven. The chocolate melts slightly on my tongue, rich and sweet.
We play slowly, talking between moves. I ask him the question that’s been on my mind since I first saw him.
