Chapter 2 - The Green-Eyed Stranger
The wedding morning dawned crisp, clear, and smelling intensely of damp pine and wood sap. The ceremony was held beneath a massive cedar arbor that looked like it had been hand-carved by men who measured lumber with their bare hands. Twenty people sat on rustic log benches, a mix of local mountain folk who wore flannel shirts like formalwear and looked like they could wrestle a bull moose into submission.
I stood beside my mother in the small, sunlit loft of the main lodge, nervously tugging at the lace of her vintage ivory dress.
“Stop fussing, Chloe,” Mom said, dabbing a tiny bit of mascara from the corner of her eye. “You look lovely. Though you’re pale. Did you sleep at all?”
“I spent half the night listening to things scratching at the wraparound porch,” I muttered, smoothing my emerald-green dress. “And don’t pretend you didn't hear them. This mountain has entirely too many large, noisy mammals.”
“It’s a forest, darling. Forests have animals.”
“Forests don’t usually have animals that sound like they’re trying to pick a deadbolt with a claw.”
Before she could reply, a heavy thud echoed from the bottom of the wooden staircase.
“You’re standing on my jacket,” a low, resonant voice rumbled from the shadows of the lower landing.
I spun around, my heel catching on the hem of a heavy wool throw rug tossed over the floorboards. I stumbled forward, arms pinwheeling, ready for an embarrassing, floor-slamming impact.
Instead, a hand caught me by the elbow.
It was an anchor of a hand—broad, warm, and impossibly strong. The grip was so firm it barely registered as a grab; it was like being caught by a hydraulic press disguised in skin.
I blinked, looking up, and promptly forgot every clever retort I had ever practiced in front of a mirror.
Rowan Hale was terrifyingly close. He was easily six-foot-four, with shoulders that made the narrow stairwell look like a dollhouse hallway. Dark, unruly hair brushed the collar of a crisp white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing thick forearms dusted with dark hair and mapped with faint, pale scars. His eyes were an arresting, luminous green-gray, ringed with dark lashes, and they were fixed on me with a look of intense, almost predatory concentration.
“You got here,” he said softly. His voice felt like smooth stones rolling in a deep creek bed.
I realized my hand was still trapped in his grip. I yanked it back, my face heating up instantly. “Yes. I drove. The car survived, though I can’t say the same for my blood pressure.”
Rowan’s lips twitched into a slow, crooked smile that changed his entire face from forbidding to devastating. “The road builds character.”
“The road builds chronic anxiety,” I retorted, stepping back until my spine hit the log wall. “You must be Rowan.”
“And you’re Chloe.” His gaze swept over me, lingering for a fraction of a second on my face before dropping down—not in a leering way, but with an odd, assessing intensity, as if he were scanning a blueprint for structural flaws. “Welcome to the ridge.”
“Thanks. Try to keep your pet bears off the driveway next time.”
May you like
Rowan’s green eyes flashed with something dark and unreadable. He didn’t laugh. He just stepped back, releasing my jacket from beneath his heavy leather boot, and gave a slow nod. “I’ll tell them to stay on their side of the property line.”
He turned and walked down the stairs before I could think of a single sarcastic thing to say in return.
