Page 6 of Garrett

“Same time tomorrow?” I ask, keeping my tone professional despite the way snowflakes catch in his dark hair.

He nods, but there’s tension in his shoulders. “Rachel...” He pauses. “This job – it’s going to be complicated enough without...”

“Without what?”

“Just... it’s better if we keep things professional.”

“Of course,” I say smoothly, even as disappointment curls in my stomach. “I’m just here to understand the renovation process.”

He studies me for a moment like he’s not sure whether to believe me. “Right. Well, we’ve got a lot more to assess tomorrow.”

As I head back to my cabin, a gust of wind whips my hair to the side and I turn, catching Garrett watching me. He nods, then waits as I start walking again.

I stand just inside my cabin for a moment, listening to the wind and thinking about the way he touched that hundred-year-old stone. How someone who can handle explosives and demolition can also be so gentle with things that need saving.

Professional, I remind myself firmly. I’m here to restore these cabins, not solve the mystery of Garrett Mitchell. Even if the way he said my name makes my skin tingle. Even if I can still feel the ghost of his hand on mine from when he showed me the wall damage. Even if I want to run my fingers along his tattoo, taste his skin, feel his big strong hands on my body.

The wind howls across the ridge as I take my jacket off, carrying the promise of heavy snow. But somehow, I don’t think the storm outside can match the one brewing inside these cabins.

Or inside my heart.

Professional. I can do professional.

Probably.

Chapter 4

Garrett

The air pressure drops ahead of the storm, making my old shoulder injury ache. Montana weather has its own warning system if you know how to read it, and everything about this morning screams incoming trouble.

Kind of like Rachel Winston’s smile.

She’s examining the riverside cabin’s windows, sunlight catching auburn highlights in her dark hair again. I force my attention back to the structural assessment, but my eyes keep drifting to her reflection in the glass. This pull towards her is unfamiliar, unsettling. I’ve never let myself get close enough to anyone to feel something like this.

“These could be restored rather than replaced,” she says, running her fingers along the vintage frame. “The craftsmanship is incredible.”

“Restoration costs more than replacement.” I move closer, showing her where the wood has warped. “See how the water’s gotten in? Once that starts—”

“You can’t always just throw away something because it’s damaged.” There’s a challenge in her voice that hits too close to home.

The river stretches out beyond the window, steel-gray under the gathering clouds. For a second, I’m fifteen again, watching different water, calling Sarah’s name as the current pulls her under...

“Sometimes damaged things stay damaged,” I say, more sharply than intended.

She turns, and we’re suddenly too close in the narrow space. Her eyes search my face, and I realize I’ve let too much slip.

“Who was it?” she asks softly.

“My sister.” The word feels like glass in my throat. “Sarah. She was twelve. There was a rip current... I was supposed to be watching her.” I step back, needing distance. “One minute she was there, the next...”

“Is that why you came to Montana? About as far from the ocean as you can get.”

“You two better not be arguing about those windows again!” Ryder’s voice booms through the space. “Because I brought coffee, and I’m not above drinking both cups myself if you’re being difficult.”

Rachel steps back so quickly she bumps the window frame. I turn toward the thermostat, pretending to examine it, trying to slow my heartbeat. Knowing her cabin is just down the path from here doesn’t help – especially during storms like this.

“Since when do you deliver coffee?” Rachel’s voice is admirably steady.

---