Page 14 of Open Arms

“Tell me about your mom’s chicken and dumplings,” I found myself asking. “She taught you to make them?”

“Yep, every Sunday afternoon, like clockwork.” His voice softened, tinged with nostalgia. “She said the secret’s in the simmer. Let the flavors tell their story, she’d say.”

“Flavors telling their story . . .” I repeated, smiling at the thought. “I like that.”

“Me too.” For a moment, our gazes locked, and it felt way too nice. I forced myself to pull back, and it appeared, so did Mason.

“Abby, time for bed soon,” Mason said after a pause, turning to his daughter with a tender smile.

“Can Chloe tuck me in?” Abby’s hopeful eyes swung to mine, and I felt my defenses crumble.

“Sure, if that’s okay with your dad.”

“Of course it is.” Mason’s approval was warm, wrapping around me like a comforting embrace. He had a way of making you feel welcome, but the underlying attraction I felt was setting off alarm bells in my head and heart.

Danger. Stay back.

As Abby scurried ahead, I lingered, turning to Mason. “Thanks for tonight—for sharing with me.”

“Anytime, Chlo.” His hand brushed against minebriefly, a touch as light as a feather yet laden with meaning. “You’re always welcome here.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, my heart thudding with newfound hope. And as I followed Abby’s laughter up the stairs, I realized that for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t just surviving—I was beginning to live.

7

Mason

Well,shit.

I’d spent all night and most of the day thinking about Chloe and how easily she’d fit into our home. As much as I tried to deny it, the whole evening was like a damn dream. And now I was here at work, wide awake, and unable to focus on a single goddamn thing without Chloe’s sweet smile appearing in my consciousness.

I pushed open the door to Gray’s office, a gust of that familiar hay-scented air swirling around me. He was hunched over his desk like some sort of paperwork hermit, mountains of documents spread out before him.

“Gray?” I started, leaning against the door frame, “Thought you’d sworn off this desk-jockey business for at least a week.”

He looked up, a half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, eyes crinkling in that way they did when he was being nice—which wasn’t that often. “Yeah, well,” he said, straightening up and stretching his back with an audible pop. “Figured you could use a break, Mase. You’ve been running around like a chicken with its head cutoff.”

“Appreciated.” I chuckled, though the weight on my shoulders refused to budge. “But you know me, never could sit still for long.”

“Speaking of restless,” Gray shifted the topic, running a hand through his short brown hair, “Eryn mentioned you got a new tenant in your guest house. Chloe, right? How’s she settling in?”

A nod was all I managed at first. “She’s . . . quiet, keeps to herself mostly.” The mention of Chloe sent a ripple of curiosity through me but I tamped it down. “Eryn’s taken a shine to her, seems like.”

“Good, good.” He nodded, scribbling something on a piece of paper before looking up again. “Eryn’s been worried ‘bout her. She’s become a big fan of rescuin’ strays, I s’pose.”

I laughed thinking about how well Eryn had settled in here. She’d gone from LA to Montana in a lick of a hound’s tail but fit right in the moment she decided to stay.

“Certainly seems like a stray,” I replied noncommittally thinking about Chloe’s hesitance to reveal too much. There was something about the way she seemed to carry a whole world of stories behind those blue eyes of hers. Not that I was diving into that mystery any time soon.

Gray nodded as he picked through his paperwork. “So long as she’s good people, I didn’t care much ‘bout backgrounds.”

Leaning against the doorframe, I scratched the back of my neck, weighing my words. “She’s nice,” I found myself saying. “But she’s got walls up. Tall ones.”

“Ah.” Gray leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he considered that. “Not the open book type, huh?”

“Far from it.” I chuckled, but it was short-lived. “And I’m fine with that. Keeping things professional suits me just right.”

“Professional, huh?” He quirked an eyebrow at me. “You dorealize this is Whittier Falls. We’re about as professional as a barn dance in flip-flops.”

---