Page 4 of Garrett

I should step back. Should make some joke about structural integrity and get back to work. Instead, I find myself tracing my thumb along her jaw, watching her pupils dilate. Her lips partslightly, and it takes everything I have not to claim them with mine.

“Rachel.” It comes out like a warning, though I’m not sure who I’m warning.

“Yes?” She tilts her head up, defiant and tempting and absolutely off-limits. But the way she looks at me, like she’s daring me to cross that line, makes me want to throw every professional boundary out the window.

The crack of another beam shifting breaks the moment. I force myself to step back, to breathe through the want coursing through my veins.

“That’s why we check the structure before demo.” My voice is almost steady. “Whole place could come down if we’re not careful.”

She straightens her shirt, but I catch the slight tremor in her hands. “And we wouldn’t want that.”

“No.” I turn to examine the fallen beam, needing distance from the tension crackling between us. But I can still feel the phantom press of her body against mine, still smell that citrus scent clinging to my clothes. “We need to shore this up before we do anything else. I’ve got temporary supports in the truck.”

“I’ll help carry them.”

I want to tell her to let me handle it. Want to protect her from the grunt work. But the determined set of her chin tells me that would be a mistake.

“Alright.” I meet her eyes, letting her see that I mean it. “Let’s get to work.”

She grins, bright and fierce, and heads for the door. I definitely don’t watch the way her jeans hug her curves as shewalks. Just like I definitely don’t imagine picking her up and pressing her against every solid surface in this cabin once it’s renovated.

Chapter 3

Rachel

Montana mornings have a particular kind of magic. The sun crests the eastern ridge, setting fresh snow glittering like scattered diamonds across the valley. Pine and wood smoke scent the crisp air, and somewhere in the distance, a hawk cries out across the pristine silence.

Of course, the silence doesn’t last long when you’re renovating century-old cabins.

“No, absolutely not. You are not taking down that wall.”

Garrett pauses, pencil hovering over his notebook, and gives me a look that probably intimidates most of his clients. Too bad for him I grew up with Ryder’s death glare.

“The wall is load-bearing,” he says with forced patience.

“It’s historic.”

“It’s rotting.”

“It has character.”

“It has termites.”

The morning sun streams through dusty windows, catching the gold flecks in his gray eyes as he stares me down. We’ve been at this for hours, the crunch of our boots through freshsnow marking our path between cabins. Each building holds its own particular scent - aged wood, stone foundations, decades of mountain winters sealed in their bones.

I’m trying to focus on these details, on the way each cabin tells its own story. Not on how Garrett’s t-shirt stretches across his shoulders every time he reaches up to examine something. Or how his voice gets all low and rough when he’s explaining technical details.

Not that I’m noticing these things. I’m a professional. Completely professional.

“Fine.” I push away thoughts about his shoulders. “Show me why it has to go.”

He moves to the wall in question, every motion precise and controlled. “See these marks? Water damage, probably from before they fixed the roof. And here—” He takes my hand, guiding it to a spot near the baseboard. “Feel that?”

The wood crumbles slightly under my fingers, but all I can focus on is how warm his hand is on mine. Get it together, Winston.

“Oh,” I manage.

“Yeah, oh.” He drops my hand and steps back, pulling out his phone to take detailed photos of the damage. “Tell me something - what made you choose these particular cabins? There are newer properties available closer to town.”

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