Chapter 3

3

MATTHEW

M y 18-year-old self would be pumping his fists in the air right now.

Wasn't this what I wanted before? Bringing my girl home bridal style?

What a mockery this feels. Not only is there a minimal chance of a happy ever after between us, but there's something broken in Dan. I can tell because I have first-hand experience in that department.

Seeing her in the flesh brings back memories of how I was after she left, how I spent the next few weeks and months an absolute mess. I was in such a dark place that waking up every day seemed like a chore. Everything was black and white and gray. I couldn't taste the food. I didn't want to move from sitting on my couch for hours.

One day bled into the next, and it was like my whole life turned upside down … for the second time. My parents' deaths were a huge blow to me, but Dan was by my side. I could handle anything as long as she was with me.

So when she left, it rearranged my brain.

I hated the ranch because everywhere I looked, I saw her—the barn where we made out, the kitchen where she used to chat with my mom, and the fucking bedroom, of course.

It was out of sheer desperation that I packed a tent and camped in the mountains. When I woke up the next morning, I could see color for the first time in a long time. I breathed calmly, and all my overthinking just … quieted, the dark thoughts clearing.

That didn't mean I stopped thinking about her, though. On those days when my resolve was at its weakest, I found myself jerking off to thoughts of her, and I would spend the next hours being disgusted with myself.

Dan squirms and slips her left arm free from between us, wrapping it around my waist, fisting the back of my windbreaker in her fingers. I know she's just trying to get comfortable, but my rogue body doesn't seem to get that. My caveman brain doesn't, either.

I become hyper-aware of her nearness, and I have to tamp down the desire to inhale her scent or graze the skin on the side of her neck with my lips. The way I used to. The way she wanted me to.

Jesus H. Christ, asshole. Stop acting like a hormonal teenager.

I don't even know why I was furious when I saw her. It's been years—we were both still teenagers when she left, and now we're in our 30s—but seeing her unmoored me. It's like picking at a scab, reopening the wound, and making it bleed all over again.

When she didn't follow me, I was hell-bent on leaving her, but then, I heard her cry and realized I didn't have it in me to be cruel. She was obviously going through something. In that moment, all angry thoughts and feelings about her evaporated because here's the thing about Dan. She seldom cried. I've known her since we were twelve and only ever saw her cry twice—when she lost her mom and when her neighbor's cat snuck into her house and ate her pet goldfish.

And that cry earlier was so full of anguish that it tore at me. I shouldn't have felt something, but I did. And all I wanted was to make things right for her, or at the very least, try not to be even more of an asshole.

We have unresolved issues, yes, but maybe it's not yet time to dig up the past. We can talk when she's dry, comfortable, and fed. I don't know what's up with her, but she needs to eat. She's so pale, sluggish, and looks on the brink of passing out—from hunger or dehydration, I'm not yet sure.

I kick the door open and set her down in the living room. It's not as warm as I would have liked since I was about to ignite the kindling when I ran after her.

Dan's eyes widen as she takes everything in. The stone fireplace, a wooden mantel above it with photos of my parents and Goldie—nothing of me because all my photos have her in it—the rustic dining table with a checkered tablecloth, the walls lined with books about building everything from tables to houses, the old brown leather sofa I reupholstered myself, and the small kitchenette.

I'm proud of this little sanctuary.

"The bedroom to the right is the guest bedroom. It has its own bathroom and fresh towels. I'll grab some of my old clothes and lay them on the bed while you take a bath."

Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, and acid flares in my chest. She looks so damn lost and vulnerable. What happened to you, Dan?

"T-thank you, Matt. I'm s-sorry if I?—"

I hold up a hand. "You're going through some shit, and I can't very well leave a woman alone in the woods in this weather, especially with night fast approaching. I would've helped you no matter who you were."

She nods but doesn't say anything else.

Scrubbing a hand across my jaw, I tell her, "Listen, I'm looking forward to some peace and quiet. Probably you too because you came all the way out here alone. Now, I know we didn't part on the best terms." She has the grace to look away in shame, red painting her cheeks. "Right now, we don't have any choice but to stay here together until the storm clears."

The universe punctuates that sentence with another thunder that sounds way too close to us.

Clenching my jaw, I extend a hand to her. "So, how about a truce?"

One side of her mouth curls upward, and fuck, I forgot how breathtaking she looks when she smiles—even hesitantly. I forgot how much I love it, and it makes my heart slam against my ribcage.

She slides her hand in mine and flutters her eyelids dramatically. "Only if you promise not to kill me in my sleep."

I snort. "Lady, the flooring is new. I wouldn't want your blood to stain them."

Dan chuckles but then sneezes, so I point to the guest bedroom. "Go and shower before you catch a cold. You always have it worse than most people."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

I shrug. "It would save me a great deal of trouble from having to kill you."

She throws me another lopsided smile before spinning on her heel. I watch her retreating back and realize with a pang that she looks so damn frail, the windbreaker basically hangs too loosely around her shoulders.

Dan is a tall woman at 5'10. She was always proud of her height and never tried to make herself smaller. Now, her shoulders are hunched forward, and she's dragging her feet with every step.

This is a far cry from the Dan I expected to see after living in the city for too long. I thought she'd be haughty and smug, which was stupid of me. Dan's never been that type.

I don't want to admit it, but curiosity is killing me. I may have joked about killing her, but that's nothing to what I'll do if I find out a man hurt her and did this to her.

My mood darkens when I realize that I have gone to great lengths to move on from her, but apparently, I never did. Whatever possessive feelings I felt before sharpens into something different but just as intense.

It's jarring that while most things aren't the same, some still are. Like me and my stupid feelings.

Dan has been and will always be the death of me.

The smell of sizzling steak fills the air when Dan steps out of the bedroom, drying her hair with a white towel and wearing my old gray t-shirt and sweatpants. They're way too big for her, swallowing her, and she has to constantly pull the sleeves to her elbow.

Desire flares deep within me because she liked wearing my clothes, even in school. She wore my band shirts and paired them with cutoff denim shorts. She wore my jackets and basically any top from my closet.

Dan steps behind me and peers at the cast iron skillet. "Damn. You can cook now? Is it any good? Edible? Laced with poison?"

She's standing too close for me to think properly, but conversations like this are always easy with her. It's like we're falling back into the natural rhythm we used to have. "Be careful insulting the chef. And to answer your question, yes, I learned how to cook when I started living here. I had to. Goldie can't make me steak and potatoes, for one."

Dan laughs softly and says, "What can I do to help?"

"Set the table, please. Do you want wine, water, or apple juice?"

"You know the answer, Matt."

"Yup. The box of apple juice is at the back of the fridge." I lift the steak from the skillet and let it rest on a wooden cutting board. "I thought for sure you were gonna say wine."

She finishes with the plates and takes out the juice box. "Why?"

"Being a city girl and all. Besides, no one in their right mind pairs steak with juice."

"I do."

Slicing the steak into thick, juicy strips, I lift a brow at her. "You've always liked weird food combinations, though."

Dan slumps on the chair and jabs a finger at me. "How dare you? Name one."

"Steak and juice, potato chips and ketchup, French fries and gravy."

"I still like all of those." Her face splits into a grin. "Some things never change, I guess."

"Maybe."

An ache of longing so strong hits me as I stare at Dan sitting across from me on the dining table, her face illuminated by the golden light above her. I'm torn between wanting to just stare at her like a hungry man gazing at a buffet or kissing her and finding out if she still tastes as sweet as before.

She slants me a glance from beneath her thick, long lashes, her mouth slightly open.

My traitorous body is back at it, and my muscles tense as I realize with dazzling clarity that I have never truly moved on from her. I only managed to keep myself too busy with the cabin to have extra time to think about her.

The air between us is charged, and she has no idea how feverish it turns my skin when she holds my gaze and chews on her bottom lip. Her eyes flare the way they do when she's turned on.

My hands tighten on the knife and fork, and I have to physically lock in my arms to keep myself from rounding the table and claiming her mouth. We eat in silence, and I try to ignore that spark of happiness and pride when I see her devour everything on her plate.

Goldie chooses that moment to break the tension because she nudges Dan's thigh. Dan turns to her with a smile. "Hey, girl. You want some?"

Thankful for how Goldie saved me from a series of possibly bad decisions, I decide to give her extra treats before bed. "She just ate."

"She looks hungry."

"She's manipulative."

"Don't say that in front of her, Matt. She's not." Dan slides off her seat and crouches, running her fingers through Goldie's fur. Goldie responds by rolling onto her back, her tail thumping against the floor.

I fucking hate how this makes me feel. I've never had an issue with anger, but watching Dan bond with Goldie causes a throbbing in my chest, and I don't like it. I'm thirty-one years old and not the eighteen-year-old boy who kissed the ground she walked on and spent my days worshiping her.

No, she can't subject me to this again. To these conflicting emotions that keep me up at night. I won't let her. I can't let her.

A mix of anger, frustration, and unfulfilled longing pushes me over the edge, and I snap. "Go to sleep, Dan. I'll take care of this." My voice has lost the friendly tone, and she notices.

"No, Matt. I'll wash the?—"

"Go to bed. You've done enough for today."

Her mouth falls open at how rough I sound, and she turns away wordlessly, folding one arm against her stomach. The door closes behind her with a soft click, and I keep staring at it.

Fuck. She doesn't deserve that. Why am I acting like this? It's like I don't know myself when she's around, like I don't know how to behave or react to every little thing she does.

Haven't I already made peace with the fact that I also had something to do with what happened? That I also had a hand in our break up and her leaving?

It took me a while before I understood why Dan did what she did. The anger consumed me for so long, and when I finally calmed down, I realized with a pang that I never really did ask if she was ready to get married. I hoped. I assumed. She loved me, of that I was sure, but it was a dick move that I essentially forced her into marrying me by proposing in front of everyone we knew.

Goddammit. The guilt chips away at my sanity, and I've just treated her horribly. I am not like this. I am not this man.

Goldie taps my foot with a paw. When I gaze at her, she looks at me disapprovingly.

Raking a hand over my face, I groan. "I know, Goldie. I know I messed up."