Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
I want to sass him, snap back something sarcastic. But I’m too tired. I’m just so damn tired.
That was so damn close.
Too close.
But at least now I’m warm. My limbs thaw as the pain dulls. I sink back into the couch, letting my eyes drift shut.
Because for the first time in a long, long time… I feel safe. I feel held. And even though I don’t have answers yet, Owen is here. And with Owen, I’ve always been safe.
“You were the one who stocked the fridge,” I murmur.
“Aye,” he replies, now fumbling around near the stove.
I hear the scratch of a match, then the soft roar of flames as the kettle starts to heat.
He always said that a good cup of tea could cure anything.
“You shouldn’t have gone out there alone,” he says in a low voice.
“Of course not,” I reply, exasperated. “I didn’t know the damn door would lock behind me. I was out there for two minutes. Just trying to hang some ornaments.”
He mutters under his breath again, frustration and worry all twisted up.
“Have you been watching me?” I ask suddenly. “What the hell are you doing here, Owen?”
I’m huddled under the blankets, not sure if I want the answer. Part of me is relieved he found me. Saved me. The other part? The part that still aches from before? It’s terrified.
“You put the food here? The water? The firewood?”
“Aye. I did,” he says simply.
“I saw it was you coming. Made sure it was ready.”
“Do you… own this place?” I ask cautiously.
He just shrugs.
That answer, or lack of one, says too much and not enough. I don’t know what it means, and I’m too drained to dig deeper.
I should be angry. I should be confused. But more than anything, right now, I’m grateful. I’m alive.
I remember how I felt about him—not just some schoolgirl crush, not some fleeting obsession. I was in love with Owen Callahan. Madly. Deeply.
Now, here he is, in front of me… in the middle of the woods.
And we’re alone.
“What the fuck?” I whisper.
He sits beside me on the couch, handing me a steaming mug.
“Drink this.” I obey.
The tea’s scalding, sweet, creamy, and perfect. It warms me all the way through, and I let out a soft sigh.
“That’s good.”
He visibly relaxes. He’s still wearing his heavy coat and boots, but he shrugs them off as the fire warms the room. I let my eyes travel over him.
Five years. That’s all it’s been. But in that time, Owen has gone from boy to man. The lean, cocky teenager I remember is gone. In his place is someone bigger, broader. Stronger.
He wears a long-sleeved white tee that’s snug across the chest. His worn jeans hang low, worn leather belt snug around his hips. He has a scruffy beard that was once scant, and his hands… they’re rougher, wider, capable.
I swallow hard.
Has he changed so much? Or have I just been surrounded by the wrong kind of men for too long? The ones who wouldn’t last a day out here.
None of them hold a candle to Owen Callahan.
He clears his throat, pulling my attention back to his eyes. “How are you feeling?”
I realize it’s suddenly very warm in here.
I shrug because I don’t know how to answer that question and drain the rest of my tea.
Now that I'm not going to die from frostbite, I say, staring at him, “Tell me why you're here.”
“You first,” he says, his eyes wary.
“Why am I here? What do you mean?”
“Why did you come to this cabin alone, Emma? What brought you here?”
I swallow and look away from him. “Jake and I were having… problems.”
“Feckin’ prick,” he mutters, darker this time.
Owen might be a lot of things, but apologetic isn't one of them.
“Why’d you end up with a man like him? Why did you choose the safe route?”
I blink at him. Safe route? Does he have any idea? That I was in love with him?
Safe route.
Of course not. He doesn’t know. He has no idea my mother found my journal—that she read every single page. Every made-up fantasy about us being in love. Every sketch I drew of him. Every word I wrote, thinking I was safe.
She lost her damn mind. Said I was sick. Twisted. Said I couldn’t fall in love with my brother.
He was never my brother.
“Safe route?” I snort. “I fell in love with a fucking narcissist.”
His jaw tightens, and he asks, “Why’d you finally leave him?”
I swallow hard. I don’t know how he’ll react, but why hide the truth?
“He cheated on me.”
He sets his own cup down slowly, so deliberately, it makes my stomach clench. Something in the movement—too careful, too calm.
“Owen?” I ask. “What? I don’t want any trouble. Please.”
“Of course you don’t,” he growls. “You never did. You always liked keeping the fucking peace, didn’t you?”
I look away, not sure if it's a judgment or just an observation. Either way, I nod.