Page 24 of Breaking Through

My mind kept throwing up numbers like warning signs. Eighteen years between us. I wasn't someone who should be noticing how his jeans hugged his thighs or imagining the sounds he might make if I...

"I should..." He gestured vaguely at the scattered papers, our excuse for being here shattered by whatever had just happened between us. A faint blush colored his cheeks, and my hands itched to cup his face, to feel that warmth against my palms.

"Yeah." I managed to find my ranger voice, professional and distant, but my fingers still tingled where they'd touched his skin and wanted to touch again.

He gathered his notebook, his movements slow like those of an underwater diver. Even that was graceful. Everything about Holden was fluid and perfect. At the door, he paused. "Tomorrow? For the shelter assessment?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Wanting too much to say "stay."

After he left, I touched my lips where his had been. Three years of therapy had never reached the places that kiss had found. The thought terrified me almost as much as the way my heart lifted when I heard his footsteps fade down the hall.

I dropped into my chair, trying to focus on anything except the lingering scent of Holden in my office. It was impossible. Every sketch on my desk reminded me of how he'd looked at them—at me.

The pine branches kept scratching at my window, and somewhere in the park, Maya and Tom were probably wondering why I hadn't checked in yet. All I could think about was the taste of vanilla on my tongue and the way his body had fit against mine, like some cruel cosmic joke about everything I couldn't have.

I reached for my radio and then let my hand fall. What would I even say? "Delayed by inappropriate fraternization with a photographer half my age?" Besides, my voice would give me away. Tom would hear it in a heartbeat. He noticed everything, especially things I tried to hide.

A group of tourists passed beneath my window, their chatter floating up. Young voices, probably college students, reminded me exactly how far I was from Holden's world. He should be with them, not in the office with a scarred ranger.

But God, the way he'd responded to that kiss... The small sound he'd made in the back of his throat and how his fingers had tightened on my shoulders. I'd felt young again for a moment, alive in ways I'd forgotten were possible.

I forced myself to look at the storm shelter documentation, but the words blurred. All I could see was how understanding had dawned in Holden's eyes when he looked at my therapy sketches. No one had ever looked at those drawings and seen past the darkness to their deeper meaning.

I was in trouble. Deep, dangerous trouble that no ranger training had prepared me for. This wasn't just attraction—though my body's reaction to him was impossible to ignore. This was something worse. Something that could crack open all the places I'd carefully sealed off.

And the scariest part? For the first time in three years, I didn't want to run. I wanted to chase that light he carried, even knowing it would probably burn me in the end.

The radio crackled. Maya's voice cut through my thoughts: "Wade? You there? Got some downed branches on the north trail that need clearing."

Work. Yes. Simple problems with clear solutions. I grabbed my jacket, desperate for physical labor to quiet my mind.

As I headed out, I caught my reflection in the window. It was a man's face with lips still slightly swollen and his uniform rumpled where Holden's hands had gripped. Even my eyes looked different, alive with a glow I hadn't seen there in years.

Chapter nine

Holden

Gran's art studio, a small room on the second floor of the house, still smelled like her—oil paints and lavender sachets, with undertones of the lemon verbena soap she'd always kept by her workstation. I hadn't set foot in the studio since moving to Blue Harbor, but I needed some space to be alone, and it fit the part well.

Her easel stood in the corner, draped with a paint-splattered cloth that had probably been white once. Now, it was a testament to decades of creativity—blues bleeding into greens, with streaks of gold capturing the sunlight streaming through the window.

I remembered watching her work here during childhood summers. She'd tap her bottom lip with one finger while studying a painting, leaving tiny dots of color on her skin. When she caught me copying the gesture, she laughed, saying artists had to wear their work proudly.

My fingers drifted to my own lips for an entirely different reason. The memory of Wade's kiss made my pulse quicken—how his mouth had found mine, warm and sure, and how hishands settled at my waist. I could still taste coffee and vanilla on my tongue and feel the scratch of his uniform shirt against my palms.

Get it together, Holden. I did my best to put those thoughts in the back of my mind, but my hands shook as I opened the first drawer of her supply cabinet. It had a brass handle worn smooth from years of her touch. Inside, paintbrushes nestled in their holders like sleeping children, their bristles still perfectly shaped. She'd always been meticulous about cleaning them thoroughly before putting them away.

Focus. I was in the studio to explore and organize, not daydream about grumpy rangers who kissed like they were drowning, and I was their fresh breath of air.

The second drawer revealed a treasure trove of pencils—graphite, charcoal, and dozens of colors arranged by shade. A sheet of her handwriting caught my eye:When sketching waves, remember they're never just blue. Look for the light breaking through.

"Oh, Gran." My voice cracked. She'd left pieces of herself everywhere like little lessons wrapped in love.

A battered metal box at the back of the third drawer rattled when I lifted it. The lid stuck, probably from years of paint buildup around the edges. Inside lay several leather-bound journals, their spines cracked and pages wavy from watercolor experiments.

The first journal fell open to a detailed sketch of the storm shelter's entrance. Gran's precise handwriting filled the margins:Marcus captured the lake's fury, but these walls need to remember its gentleness, too. Every storm has moments of grace.

My breath caught in my throat. These weren't just restoration notes—these were her private thoughts about the shelter and its stories. Pages and pages of technique notes flowedinto philosophical musings about art and preservation. She'd documented everything from which pigments she'd used to why certain scenes needed a lighter touch.

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