Page 21 of Broken Cedar

“Yeah.” And for the first time in a long time, I mean it. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

He studies me for a moment, like he’s trying to decide if he believes me. Then he leans in and kisses my forehead. It’s so gentle that it almost hurts, because this is the part I didn’t prepare for. Not wanting him. I expected that. Not being able to stop wanting him. I expected that too. But this? The quiet. The comfort. The feeling that I am exactly where I’m supposed to be. That is the dangerous part.

Eventually, reality begins creeping back in. I glance toward the barn doors. “I should probably head inside for a shower.” I murmur.

Colt’s expression changes slightly. Back to reality. Back to rules. Back to everything we agreed this was not. “Yeah,” he says.

Neither of us moves. Because neither of us wants to be the first one to end it.

Finally, I climb off the couch. The loss of his warmth feels immediate. “Tomorrow?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

His eyes meet mine. He swallows, then says, “Tomorrow.”

I nod. And for some reason, that one word feels more dangerous than everything else we just did.

I slip through the back door like a thief, easing it shut behind me. I stand in the dark kitchen for a moment, breathing in the silence. I can still smell him on my skin. I smile into the darkness because there is something absurd about all of this. Never in a million years did I think that coming home would lead to…this.

I quietly pad down the hallway and into the spare room. I strip off my clothes in the dark, letting them fall to the floor in a heap that I’ll deal with tomorrow, and pull on clean pajamas. I slide into bed and turn onto my side, pulling the quilt up to my chin. Outside, the ranch is quiet—just the whisper of wind through the cottonwoods.

I close my eyes, and try to steady my heartbeat. My body is tired in that bone-deep, satisfied way that only comes from good sex, and as sleep begins to pull at the edges of my consciousness, the last thought I have is of Colt. Of the way his eyes looked in the loft moonlight, open and warm and wanting, and the particular, impossible truth that for the next seven days, this will be our little secret.

Chapter Six

Iwalk into the kitchen the next morning and stop. The smell of coffee and bacon hits me first. Colt stands at the stove with his back to me, one hand braced against the countertop, the other flipping something in a pan. He’s wearing the faded blue shirt I’ve seen a thousand times, the worn cotton pulled tight across the muscles in his back.

“Morning,” he says without turning around.

“Morning.” I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Where’s Mom?”

“Gone.” He sets the spatula down and reaches for two mugs on the counter. “Took those donation bags into town. Said she’d be back after lunch. Maybe later.”

I watch the way his jeans sit low on his hips, the way his forearms flex when he picks up the coffee mugs. “You made coffee.”

He turns, finally, and hands me a mug. “Figured you’d want some.”

“Thank you.” I take a sip and pause. Somehow, he’s managed to make coffee exactly the way I like it. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know.” He cuts me off and turns back to the stove. “Eggs are almost done. Toast’s in.”

Colt moves around like he owns the place—which, technically, he kind of does.

“You cook now?” I ask, reaching for a piece of bacon from the plate he’s set between us. “Last time I checked, your culinary skills stopped at cereal and whiskey.”

“Things change.” He slides eggs onto two plates. Perfectly golden, not too runny. “I learned.”

“Who taught you? YouTube?”

His mouth does that thing that’s not quite a smile. “Maybe.”

“You’re lying. You absolutely learned from YouTube.”

“I’m not admitting to anything.” He sets both plates on the table. Eggs, bacon, toast with what looks like homemade jam. The works. “Eat.”

I sit, then take a bite of toast and nearly groan. “Holy shit. This is good.”

“I know.” He says with a grin.

“Don’t get cocky. It’s jam on bread.”