His walls are lower now. His eyes softer.
He tells me about his dad. How he raised him alone. How they used to build things together in a garage in town. How his hands were always stained with varnish. How Christmas lost its shinethe year the cancer took him. How the noise of the holidays became unbearable without him there.
I tell him about the charity, about growing up with a single mom who worked three jobs to make sure I never knew how poor we were. About how I can't stand the thought of a single kid waking up to nothing under the tree, feeling like they don't matter.
Something shifts between us as we talk. The air thickens, charged and sweet, heavy with possibility.
When I reach for a carved bear—glossy and perfect with tiny claws etched into its paws—our fingers tangle. Neither of us moves to pull away. His thumb brushes across my knuckles, slow and deliberate, and my breathing stutters.
"Faith," he says, my name rough in his throat. Low.Wanting.
"Yeah?"
His gaze drags to my lips, lingers there. "You should probably move before I do something we'll both regret."
My heart hammers against my ribs. Heat pools low in my belly. I meet his eyes—those impossibly blue eyes—and smile.
"Maybe I don't want to move."
Chapter 6
Beau
Faithhasn'tmovedaway,but she hasn't moved closer either. She's still sitting there on the rug, firelight painting her skin gold, her eyes searching mine for something I'm not sure I know how to give.
"We should probably eat," I say finally, my voice rougher than I intend. "It’s dinner time.”
She blinks, then nods slowly. "Right. Food. That's... practical."
I stand, offering her my hand. When she takes it, her fingers are warm and small in mine, and I hold on maybe a second longer than necessary before letting go.
The kitchen is small enough that we keep bumping into each other—her hip against my side as she reaches for plates, my armbrushing hers when I pull down the cast iron skillet. Each touch sends electricity skating across my skin, makes my breath catch.
"What are we making?" she asks, peering into my refrigerator with obvious curiosity.
"Venison chili. Made it yesterday." I pull out the container, suddenly self-conscious. "It's nothing fancy."
"You hunt?"
"Have to. Winter up here gets long." I set the pot on the stove, adding wood to the firebox beneath. "Deer, mostly. Sometimes elk if I'm lucky."
She's quiet for a moment, watching me work. "My mom would've loved you."
I glance over. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Her smile is soft, a little sad. "She was practical like that. Always said fancy didn't matter if it didn't fill your belly or warm your heart." She pauses, tracing a finger along the worn countertop. "She worked herself to the bone to make sure I never felt poor. Three jobs, sometimes four during the holidays."
"Sounds like a hell of a woman."
"She was." Faith's voice catches slightly. "She died my sophomore year of college. Heart attack. The doctors said it was from years of stress, not enough sleep, not taking care of herself because she was too busy taking care of me."
I stop stirring, turn to face her fully. "Faith."
"That's why I do this," she continues, words tumbling out like she's been holding them in too long. "The charity work, the festivals, all of it. Because I know what it's like to have a mom who sacrifices everything." She swipes at her eyes quickly. "Sorry. That got heavy fast."
"Don't apologize." I move closer, unable to stop myself. "She'd be proud of you. What you're doing."
"You think?"
