Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
“Thank you.” I smile and I see how it melts him.
“Come. I’m going to feed you my famous Flap Jacks.”
“I can feed myself.”
He answers with a swat on my ass. “Sit. I’m feeding you. It makes me hard.”
I snort. “Shocking.”
We finish breakfast and I clear the table, my belly full of five pancakes he fed me, when he comes up behind me.
"Got something to finish," he murmurs, his body caging mine as he presses his lips to my neck. "Won't be long."
I lean back against his chest, my hands still soapy. "I'll be here."
He squeezes my hips once, hard. "Damn right you will."
Then he disappears down the hall toward his shop. I dry my hands, pour another cup of coffee, reminding myself we need to get some juice or something from town, and pad around the cabin, letting the silence thrum with comfort.
I ease down the hall, remembering when I first walked in his shop, watching him work himself up and down, because of me.
I listen at the door to the rasp of sandpaper. The thump of solid wood on workbench. A low hum under his breath. Bob Seger on his classic rock playlist belting out, “Against the Wind”.
The door is partially open, a shaft of sunlight cutting across the wooden floor from the windows that line three walls.
He's there, shirtless, as usual, back taut and glistening as he leans over something curved and smooth and dark.
A rocking chair.
No, not just any rocking chair. Something special. The arms curve gently, the seat wider than normal, the back angled in a way that looks intentional. It takes me a second to realize what I'm seeing—it's made for a woman holding a baby. A nursing chair. I've only seen them in old movies, but this one is beautiful. Real.
I stop in the doorway, breath caught. He hasn't seen me yet.
His hands are steady. Gentle. Sanding a carved swirl into the armrest like it matters. Like it means something. Next to the chair, half-hidden by a tarp, I glimpse the beginning of something else—curved slats, small enough for a cradle.
"You made that?"
He turns slowly. Doesn't flinch. Just nods. "Been working on it since before you showed up."
He runs his palm over the seat, checking for snags. "Didn't know who it was for until last week."
My throat goes tight. "It's beautiful."
He shrugs one shoulder, like it's nothing. But I see the truth in his eyes.
"I like working with my hands. Keeps me still. Gives me something to leave behind." He pauses, thumb dragging along the edge of the wood. "Didn't always. I used to build things just to feel useful. Like maybe if I made enough, I'd earn the quiet."
I know what he means without him having to explain. I've felt his body jerk beside me in bed, heard the rough gasps when the nightmares come. The way he thrashes until I curl against him, until my weight anchors him back to reality.
"The dreams," I say softly. "The ones that wake you up."
He nods, something vulnerable crossing his face. "PTSD, if you want to give it a name. I saw some shit I will never talk about, baby, so don’t ask. But since you came, I don't get them as much anymore."
“I hope someday there are no more.”
His eyes meet mine, raw with honesty. "I earned my quiet, baby. Just not the way I thought I would."
I step through the dust on the floor just like that first day. The air smells like sawdust and lemon oil.
"And now?"
He doesn't look at me right away.
"Now I want to make things that last. Things someone keeps. Because they matter. Not because they're owed." His eyes lift to mine, unexpectedly vulnerable. "Things for you. For our kids."
The casual way he says it—our kids—like it's inevitable, like it's already written in stone, makes my belly tighten with want.
"Jack," I whisper, my hand on his arm. "I want that too, but what if I want other things?"
His eyes darken, molten blue. "What do you want, baby? Anything, remember, you tell me everything."
He sets down his sandpaper. Walks to me, slow and solid, until I have to tilt my head back to keep eye contact. His massive frame blocks the light from the door, casting me in his shadow.
"What do you want, baby girl? Beyond this. Beyond me."
I open my mouth. Close it. No one's ever really asked me that before.
"I told you I was studying geology before my dad got sick," I finally say, the words coming easier than expected. "Only a couple classes at the community college. Had to drop out to take care of him." I run my fingers along the grain of the wooden chair. "I love learning about the formations, mineral compositions. The way mountains are born and die."
I look up to find Jack looking at me like I’m telling him all the secrets of the world.