Page 7
The expensive bra and panties look ridiculous now, like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life.
But underneath them, I'm still me. Still curved in ways that made my mother fret and Matthew politely overlook. Still soft where society says I should be hard.
My makeup is smeared, creating dark shadows under my eyes. My hair is a mess of fallen curls and missing pins. But my eyes are bright.
Alive.
The woman staring back at me isn't the perfectly polished bride from this afternoon. She's something wilder, more real. She looks like someone who might jump into a stranger's truck and run away to the mountains.
The flannel shirt is soft against my skin when I pull it on, worn to perfection by time and use. The sweatpants are a little long but comfortable, the material wrapping around my hips in a way that makes me feel oddly confident.
When I emerge from the room, wedding dress left in a heap on the floor like the remnants of a past life, Vincent is plating food.
He looks up when I enter, and something flashes across his face—something that makes my pulse jump and my skin flush warm.
His eyes track down my body, taking in his shirt on my curves, before snapping back to my face. The intensity in his gaze makes me feel both exposed and protected at the same time.
"Better?" he asks, his voice rougher than before.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
The domesticity of the moment feels dangerous somehow, like we're playing at something we shouldn't. Like we're both aware that this is more than just a stranger helping someone in need.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the small table near the kitchen. "Food's ready."
The steak is perfectly cooked, the potatoes seasoned with garlic and herbs I don't recognize. We eat in comfortable silence, broken only by the crackling fire and the storm still raging outside.
I watch him when he's not looking—the way his hands dwarf the fork, the strength in his forearms visible where he's rolled up his sleeves, the way his throat moves when he swallows.
Everything about him is so different from the polished men I'm used to, and I find myself fascinated by every detail.
"You're staring," he says without looking up from his plate.
Heat floods my cheeks. "Sorry. I just... I'm trying to figure you out."
Now he does look up, those dark eyes meeting mine across the table. "Nothing to figure out. I'm simple."
"No," I say before I can stop myself. "I don't think you are."
Something shifts in the air between us, heavy with possibility. Vincent sets down his fork, and I hold my breath, waiting for... something. Anything.
"Couch might be more comfortable," he says, his voice gentle. I nod, grateful for the suggestion—my body suddenly feels heavy, like all the adrenaline from the day is finally wearing off.
I settle onto the worn leather couch, tucking my legs beneath me, and find myself mesmerized by the dance of flames in the fireplace. The wind picks up, making the cabin creak and groan around us. Rather than frightening me, the sound is oddly comforting.
My eyelids grow heavy as I sink deeper into the couch, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up with me.
"Rest," Vincent says softly, draping a thick wool blanket over me. His hand brushes my shoulder, and even that brief touch sends warmth spreading through my body. "Everything else can wait until morning."
I mean to thank him, to say something, but my body has other ideas.
The last thing I register is the gentle crackle of the fire and Vincent's solid presence nearby, a quiet guardian in the storm.
I don't remember falling asleep, but when I stir sometime later, I'm curled up on the couch, wrapped snugly in the blanket that smells of pine and wood smoke.
Through half-opened eyes, I see Vincent watching me from his armchair across the room, his face unreadable in the dying firelight. Our gazes meet for a moment, and something unspoken passes between us.
Then sleep claims me again, deeper this time, and I drift off to the sound of rain and the knowledge that, for the first time in a long time, I feel truly safe.
