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“Sure. For as long as you’re in Starlight Ridge, I want you in my cabin.”
“So I can draw you,” she says.
“So you can draw me.”
“And?” Marigold raises her chin in challenge. “What else?”
I shrug, taking my hands off her body, forcing myself to act more casual than I feel. “And nothing else, if you don’t want it. I won’t touch you uninvited, Marigold.”
She takes a deep breath and steps all the way close, her bare feet nearly touching my boots. The crows flap past outside the window, squawking together as traffic rumbles down the street.
“And if I do want that?” Marigold wets her lips. “What then?”
My body flashes hot. Suddenly, I’m not tired at all, as electricity crackles through my veins.
“Then you should take what you want, sweetheart.”
Marigold flings her arms round my neck, and kisses me hard. Screwing my eyes shut, I sink into heaven.
Seven
Marigold
The next week is the most surreal week of my life. I settle into Flint’s cabin—a surprisingly cozy home with a wraparound deck that’s a short ways behind the bar, tucked away in the trees. It’s nothing like the sparse bachelor pad I would have pictured for him; there are squashy sofas and bookcases crammed with paperbacks, and the cranky bar boss has strung bird feeders in the nearest branches and wrapped string lights around his deck rail.
It’s cute as hell. Like something I might have cut out of a magazine when I went through that vision board phase.
So, yeah: it’s been seven days of learning where Flint’s mugs and plates and spoons are in the kitchen; of secretly sniffing his shampoo in the shower and then stretching out in his bed and picturing his bare skin against the sheets. Seven days of kissing him every chance I get, shivering in his strong arms, then trying to play it cool when we finally peel apart.
Flint sleeps on the sofa each night, his presence overwhelming even through the bedroom wall. I fought him on that when I first arrived, argued that I’m the gatecrasher so I should be on the sofa, but he wouldn’t even consider it, so now I’m sleeping in the bar boss’s bed. And I keep telling myself I won’t inconvenience him for long—but the thought of leaving gives me a stomach ache.
Not just because it’s warm and safe and cozy here; the first place that’s felt like home in a really long time. But because Flint wraps a blanket around my shoulders when I get shivery sketching on the deck in the mornings, and he pets my hair absentmindedly whenever we sit close.
And when he brings me coffee in bed, Flint knocks first, then winks as he sets the mug down on the nightstand. Like he’s actually pleased to lose his room to me.
So surreal.
I haven’t lived with someone like this since Grandma was alive—squeezed into a cozy space, moving around each other instinctively, breathing in each other’s scents and hearing the creak of floorboards when we’re in different rooms.
The hostel I stayed in all summer doesn’t count. New people lived there practically every week, always someone packing up or moving in, and the main interaction we all shared was scrawling our names on our food in the refrigerator then getting mad when someone else ate our yogurt.
“Is that one of me?” Flint nods now at the sketchbook spread over his breakfast bar, the first lines of a drawing only just taking shape on the page. This morning, my older crush is in a red flannel shirt, his jaw freshly shaven and his dark hair still damp from the shower. Yeesh. It’s hard to drag my eyes away as he fixes breakfast, flipping a dish towel over one broad shoulder—especially with the way those jeans hug his ass.
The radio hums a tune from the shelf above the sink, and sunshine cascades through the kitchen window. It’s so pretty here, I almost can’t stand it.
“Nope,” I say. “This one’s a commission.” I waggle my phone at him, the photo of a client’s wolfhound lit up on the screen. Pet portraits are good business. “Though I can see why you asked. There’s definitely a resemblance.”
Flint cracks a smile, setting a plate of blueberry pancakes by my elbow. My stomach growls, and I snatch up the fork with thanks.
This is a plot twist: the fact that the stern bar boss is secretly a feeder. Ever since I moved into his cabin—temporarily, of course—Flint has been cooking me treat after treat, then watching me eat every bite like I’m his favorite TV show. I’m no better than those greedy songbirds pecking at his feeders, and you know what? I don’t care.
“What?” I mumble now, my mouth full of blueberry pancake—and I know I’m running low on dignity, but man, this tastes good. I shovel another forkful in.
Flint doesn’t reply—just smiles, shakes his head, and strides around the counter. He waits for me to swallow then kisses me, deep and slow.
The heat builds quickly, swirling low in my belly before spreading through the rest of my body, tingly and gooey and warm, like it was there all along, waiting for Flint to stoke it back to life. Which he knows exactly how to do by now, since he’s barely come up for air since moving me into his home.
In the space of one week, I’ve gone from never kissing a man to swiping lip balm over my lips each morning and night so they don’t chap. From fumbling my way through every kiss, learning as I go, to growling and tugging on Flint’s bottom lip with my teeth. It’s heaven.
