I wake to the scent of pine needles. It takes me a moment to remember where I am—to register the rough-hewn beams above me, the crisp sheets that smell like trees and something warm and rich. Something like Beau.

There's a warmth in my chest that flickers. The room is dim, touched by the first pale light of morning. I stretch, listening to the quiet sounds of the forest outside. Leaves rustle. Birds call. The shore laps softly against the shore.

For a moment, I just breathe it in.

It feels... wonderful.

And maybe that's dangerous, but I can't resist letting it settle over me like a long lost blanket.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pad out into the main room of the cabin. The scent of coffee washes over me, and there he is, standing by the counter, pouring a cup like he's been awake for hours. He glances over his shoulder as I approach, those sharp gray eyes softening just a little.

"Morning."

"What time is it?" My voice is cracked with sleep.

"Early." He slides the cup across the counter toward me. I catch a whiff of cinnamon, though it looks like he knows I take my coffee black.

I take it with greedy, grateful fingers. Its warmth seeps in to my hands, into my caffeine-deprived little soul.

"Marcus should be checking out your car soon," he says.

I nod, blowing gently over the rim of the cup before taking a sip. It's strong and heady and perfect. It makes me fantasize about waking every morning like this, drinking coffee on a lake.

Beau leans a hip against the counter, watching me. "You got somewhere to be today?"

The question makes me pause. I do have somewhere to be. It's a Friday. I should be working, collecting a paycheck, figuring out what the hell I'm doing with my life. But truly? I'd already decided I'd continue to play hooky until Monday. The thought of listening to Harper and Hughes guffaw all day would make me sick anyways.

I lift a brow. "Why?"

A smirk tugs at his lips. "We're having a cookout today. Some of the locals get together every so often—food, drinks, bonfire by the lake." He tilts his head slightly. "You should stay."

Stay.

The word settles strangely in my chest. I should say no. I should get back to my life, back to—what exactly?

I hesitate. "I wouldn't want to intrude."

"You wouldn't be."

His tone is certain, casual.

I take another sip of coffee. "I'm wearing your sweatpants."

"You'd be gorgeous in a garbage bag, Rhea."

It's such a cheesy line, but coming from him? Beau's stormy eyes are fixed to me, so direct and unwavering it's like he truly means what he's saying. The unapologetic sincerity makes me flush before I can try to stop it. I roll my eyes, but the corners of my mouth betray me.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Forrester," I say dryly.

Beau just smiles. "Good thing I'm not trying to get anywhere."

Liar.

I hide my smile in the cup. "I'm assuming there's a dress code. And that 'stolen clothes and barefoot,' isn't it."

I swear something flashes in his eyes, like he wants to say something in reply, but Beau shrugs and turns toward the fridge. He pulls out a carton of eggs. "I'm sure I can wrestle up something for you to wear. And your boots will probably be dry by then."

Beau moves starts cracking eggs and buttering toast with such an easy confidence that if feels like there's no question.

"Alright," I say finally. "I'll stay."

"Good."

The warmth in my chest spreads a little further, something unfamiliar uncurling next to my heart.

Danger, I think. I am definitely in danger.

Even out in the middle of the forest, the wifi is strong enough for me to send a few work emails and make a handful of calls. Beau lets me commandeer his bed into my pseudo-office as I "bravely" work from "home" during my "illness." Hughes isn't thrilled to hear I'm not coming in, but his angry messages stop once I revise his deposition notes from my phone without issue.

Despite Beau going in and out, the cabin is perfectly tranquil the entire morning. Beau checks in a couple of times to make sure I have enough coffee. He throws my clothes in the wash and offers me a flannel shirt. Beyond that, he leaves me to my own devices.

When the sun starts burning off the morning mist and then tips from its zenith, Beau suggests we start walking to the cookout on one of the beaches along the lakeshore. Reluctantly, I abandon the sweats I've been cozied in all day and I change into my clean clothes. The soft, worn flannel he's letting me borrow. It's oversized, but it smells faintly like him. I can't say I've ever been into wearing a boyfriend's clothes, but I really like wearing Beau's. He seems to like it too, though he doesn't comment. His eyes grow dark as I join him from the bedroom, rolling up the sleeves to my elbows.

He leads me to the back deck and we make our way down the wooden steps to the shore. Despite the sleepover and the morning I spent in his bed, I suddenly feel shy, of all things. It's not like me, but dressed in his clothes, hair messy, I don't feel like myself. Or at least, the version of myself I tend to share with the world. I feel vulnerable.

Beau asks about my work, I ask about whatever he was doing. We both give vague answers about the specifics; I don't want to dwell on projects like Crestline, and Beau probably thinks I won't understand the intricacies of all the maintenance work. Our stilted small talk carries as we follow the shoreside trail.

The trees open up to a beach, and the golden light of afternoon spills over the water, setting the ripples aglow. A bonfire is already crackling in the center of a circle of driftwood logs, and the scent of grilling meat mingles with the crisp bite of pine. A handful of people are already gathered, their easy laughter carrying in the air.

I hesitate at the tree line, suddenly hyperaware of how much of an outsider I am. I stood in front of some of these people and represented the voice of the people trying to bulldoze their homes.

I am not supposed to be here.

Beau must sense it. Without a word, his arm slides around my shoulders. The touch isn't possessive, but grounding. His woodsy, sunshine smell is soothing, steadying. As if he's telling me, You're fine. You're with me.

I should hate myself for how much I like it.

There's a group of men standing at a grill, teasing and giving tips on how to cook the meat. A handful of younger women laugh, clinking beer bottles. Children go racing by, screaming as they throw wet sand at each other.

I recognize some of the faces from the town hall, and, unfortunately, they seem to recognize me too. As we walk up, the voices grow hushed, the laughter quiets down. Some of their eyes flick my way with interest, curiosity. Some subtle, some not. I'm not exactly unwelcome, but I am clearly unexpected.

Marcus Forrester stands near a battered cooler. He looks up as we approach, and his eyes dart between me and Beau with a sort of satisfied curiosity. A knowing smirk tugs beneath his mustache.

"Look who decided to show up," he says. His tone is friendly, but there's an edge that makes me want to tuck tail and run. "Though maybe you'd be holed up all day."

Beau shoots him a look that I can't quite decipher, but his arm flexes slightly around me before he drops it. Marcus chuckles and hands us both bottles. I'm grateful to have something I can fiddle with. For lack of anything to say, I bring the bottle to my lips, but before I can swallow, I feel a sharp once-over from my right. A tall man with light brown hair and an impressive burn scar on his arm stands with a striking dark-eyed woman who's got her arms crossed across her chest. Discontent radiates from them.

They don't return my forced smile. I suddenly wish I was wearing heels and make up instead of my mom's old boots and an oversized flannel.

"You're the one from the town hall," says the woman.

Her voice isn't outright hostile, but it's not exactly welcoming either.

I straighten a little. "Yeah. That was me."

Beau's jaw tenses slightly, but Marcus jumps in before he can say anything.

"Rhea, this is Caleb. And Nora," he says. "Ignore the scowl. That's just her face."

Nora shoots him a look, but doesn't deny it. She jerks her head toward the picnic table and a small cluster of women follow her to it. She throws one withering glare at Beau as she goes. I get the distinct feeling like I'm trespassing on Nora's territory, and I wonder if there's something between them.

But there's no time to focus on the glance that Nora shoots over her shoulder, because Caleb has eclipsed her retreat. He nods his head, like he wants to speak to Beau on his own. Beau, however, doesn't budge from my side.

Caleb sighs and lowers his voice, but I still pick up the words.

"Didn't think she was sticking around."

"Things change, Caleb."

There's a moment of friction between them, neither willing to stand down. Then Caleb holds up his hands. "Nice to meet you, Rhea," he says flatly. "Hope you're tougher than you look."

It's a weird thing to say, but Beau makes a low sound in his throat—his chest almost—that keeps me from overthinking. His thunderstorm eyes are narrowed on Caleb's back as he stalks off, as if Beau wants to chase him down. The air crackles, like lightning about to strike. I don't know why, but I take his hand into mine. The tension eases out of Beau. The air eases back to the pleasant breeze off the water's edge.

"Some of us are a little wary of strangers," he says, his voice a little rough. He clears his throat and it settles back to his usual timbre. "But they're usually not so rude. I apologize."

Before I can tell him not to worry about it, Beau turns me back toward the bonfire. He adds, "Most of us aren't like that."

As if on cue, a younger woman with chestnut hair steps forward and offers a small, shy smile. "I'm Lila," she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She also crosses her arms against her chest, but the gesture couldn't be more different. Where Nora was decked out in denim and dislike, Lila's in a flow-y dress that can't hide the nervousness—or the hesitant enthusiasm—of her posture.

"Rhea," I say. I feel like a handshake would be too formal for this type of gathering, so I smile, matching her friendliness. It seems to bolster her confidence. Beau, just a step behind me, places his hand on the small of my back.

"You hungry?"

Before I can answer, another voice cuts through the air.

"Didn't know we were inviting outsiders."

I turn to find a young man smiling crookedly. He's got the unearned, boundless confidence of a kid who woke up one morning and found himself in a man's body. The type who skates through life on charm and sheer audacity, always expecting the ground to catch him when he falls.

"Owen," Beau warns. But where Beau had grown taught with anger with Caleb, his voice is only exasperated with the man-child.

Owen lifts his hands in mock surrender. "Just thought we were keeping this in the family." There's something about the word that makes me bristle, but before I can react, Owen smiles wider. "Though I suppose having friends in low places has its benefits."

I arch a brow. "That supposed to mean something? Or are you just practicing how many words who can string together before saying something clever?"

There's a tiny part of me that wishes my defense mechanism wasn't quite so hostile. Like Lila, next to me, who's blushing and shying away. Well, I don't really want to be quite that demure, but at least enough to keep from escalating to my sharp tongue. I hear Beau loose a surprised breath, and I wonder if I should have just kept my mouth shut. Maybe Owen is the type that can't take what he dishes out. But then a few people snicker, and I know I've pegged Owen right. Cocky, looking for a fight, and thrilled to find himself in one.

He blinks before smiling. "Feisty."

"Observant." I tilt my head, as if studying him. "Though I'm guessing that's not usually your strong suit."

Owen laughs and glances as Beau. "You bring her here just to roast me, boss?"

"You could stand being taken down a peg or two," Beau says easily. There's no tension in voice, no concern that I might have overstepped. He's so comfortable, so at ease in this dynamic that it's obvious how naturally he fits into it. Nora, Owen, Lila—even Caleb—they all look to him in a strange sort of orbit. Beau's steadiness seems to ground them all.

Owen rocks back on his heels, looking me over like he's recalibrating. "Alright," he says. "You win this one, Rhea, but don't push your luck."

The teasing bravado makes everyone roll their eyes and return to their food and conversations. Beau drapes his arm back over my shoulders. A tautness that I didn't realize was working its way up my spine retreats immediately at his touch.

I guess he grounds me too.