Page 36 of Grumpy Ex-Military Brewmaster’s Secret

"Well," I agree.

"I don't think either of us is winning any awards for subtlety."

"I wasn't trying to be subtle." I press a kiss to her temple, still catching my own breath. "I've been trying to be subtle about this for weeks. Tonight I decided to stop."

"Good decision."

"I have my moments."

Afterward, she settles against my chest, one arm thrown loosely over me, breathing slowing into something even and unguarded, and I lie there in the dark running the habit I can't seem to shut off no matter how many years pass. It's threat assessment, exits, entry points, weak spots, anything that could go wrong before morning.

Tonight there's nothing to assess. The doors are locked. The generator's quiet because the power never went out. Nothing in this room poses a single actual threat to either of us, and I catalogue that fact three separate times before I admit what I'm actually doing, which is looking for danger in the one place I haven't let myself check yet.

The threat isn't out there. It's in here, lying against my chest with her hair spread across my pillow, breathing easy in a way that only happens when she trusts something completely. The threat is how much I want this to be permanent, and I've never been good at keeping anything permanent, not the ranch, not anything I've loved without eventually watching it slip through my hands.

I look down at her, at the soft, unguarded line of her mouth, at the way her hand's found its way to rest flat against the scar on my ribs even in her sleep, like she's still keeping watch over it, and I do the thing I haven't let myself do out loud since long before I ever set foot back in Pinewood Ridge.

I admit it.

I'm falling for her. Not the careful, guarded version I've been rationing out for weeks, but the whole thing, twins and checklists and coffee cups left on desks and all, the kind of falling that doesn't come with an exit plan. I haven't been this scared of anything since the night my career ended, since everything I thought I could control came apart in about four seconds flat.

She stirs against me, murmurs something too soft to make out, and settles deeper into the space between my arm and my chest like she's always belonged there, and I hold as still as I can, listening to the quiet, watching the woman who just walked straight through every wall I ever built without asking permission to do it.

I don't have a plan for this. For once, I don't go looking for one. I just lie here in the dark with her breathing slow and even against my heart, terrified and steady all at once, and let myself want it anyway.

17

JENNA

Iwake up disoriented, not because anything's wrong but because everything's different. The ceiling's too close, the light's coming from the wrong angle, and my arm's gone numb under a weight that isn't a pillow. It takes a few seconds to sort out where I am, and then it all comes back at once, and it's worth every second of the confusion it cost me.

Rafe's already up. I hear him before I place him, quiet movement in the small kitchen, water running, a cabinet closing with more care than the average person gives a cabinet. By the time I've got myself sitting upright, blanket pulled up against the morning chill, he's crossing the room with two mugs, already dressed, hair still damp, moving with the same economical precision he brings to everything he does, except looser somehow, softer at the edges in a way I haven't seen on him before.

"Cream, no sugar." He hands me one of the mugs like it's obvious, like he's never once had to ask how I take it.

"How did you know that?"

"I pay attention." He sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that his knee presses against mine through the blanket. "You've made yourself a hundred cups of coffee at that brewery. I've been watching the whole time and pretending I wasn't."

"That's either very sweet or a little concerning."

"Ask me again in daylight. I'll let you know which one it turns out to be."

I laugh into my mug, and it comes out lower and rougher than my usual laugh, my throat still a little worn from a night that didn't leave much room for sleep. Rafe watches me with an expression I don't have much experience reading on him, something unguarded and faintly stunned, like a man who still isn't convinced this is real and has decided not to examine that too closely.

"What time is it?"

"Eight forty." He says it without checking anything, the same flat certainty he brings to a brew schedule. "I already called Gunny. He's got the taproom covered until noon."

"You called Gunny? This morning? Before I was even awake?"

"I like to plan ahead."

"You like having a checklist for everything. That's what you like."

"Guilty." He doesn't argue the point, just drinks his coffee and watches me over the rim of it, something easy and pleased sitting in his face that I don't think he'd let most people see. "Today's checklist only had one item on it. Let you sleep as long as possible."

"That's not much of a checklist."