It's been a week since the coffee shop, and while I've mostly managed to forget the lingering unease from that stranger's predatory stare, the tension in my chest hasn't fully gone away. Like a little thread tied behind my sternum, I keep feeling this little, nagging tug.

From dawn to dusk, the insistent little pull is starting to drive me crazy. If I'm not completely distracted, I notice its presence. Every time I finish a letter or file a briefing or hang up a client's phone call or end my evening run... tug tug.

Like there's this physical sensation that I need to leave.

It doesn't help that I've been dreaming about him. Not the dead-eyed stranger in the coffee shop, but the gorgeous, infuriating man from the town hall. Dreaming about his hands, his mouth, his teeth scraping where my neck meets my shoulder. And then I wake up with the my heart pounding and that pull demanding I pack up my things and run.

To where, I have no idea. And then I wonder if this is what pulled my mother from place to place, always restlessly looking for the next home, always looking over her shoulder. Was her heart also tied up and tugged? A dark part of my brain wonders if I should get checked for cancer, but I ignore it. This is just anxiety and poor sleep and misplaced guilt.

And too much caffeine, I add, as I sip my second coffee before 9 am.

But it feels deserved today. I spent the last five days listening to Cassie chirping about Crestline's next moves, Andy Harper ignoring the complaints from the locals in Moran, Hughes fantasizing about his payout from the blood money that's about to windfall into his lap.

It's because it's unfair. Wholesome, honest people like Marcus Forrester who have the guts and the gall to stand up for themselves in a world determined to trample over them. So a bunch of assholes can line their already bloated pockets.

It's not like I can do anything about it.

Except, apparently, I can't seem to let it go, either.

I glance at the file sitting on my passenger seat, tucked carefully underneath my purse. The closer I get to Moran, the easier it is to ignore the insisting pull in my chest. The easier it is to breathe. I know that cracking the windows will ruin the effect of my sleek high ponytail, but I can't resist letting that crisp morning air—bright with the promise of summer's heat—flood the car.

The further I drive, the better I feel. I'm not interfering. I'm not. I'm just delivering a list of firms that would be willing to represent these people. Marcus Forrester made it sound like these folks wouldn't care, but these are the firms that I had once aspired to join. Firms that represented the downtrodden, the underdogs. Firms that fought the good fight.

Firms that wouldn't be able to pay me enough to stay afloat in the ocean of my mom's debt.

The address that Mr. Forrester left with the receptionist is another forty minutes beyond Moran. Moran itself can't even boast to having traffic lights, but the community I'm heading for is even more rural than that. The pavement turns to gravel, then to dirt. The forest grows thicker, the trees crowding in. It's beautiful in a way that feels untouched.

Beauty isn't enough to make me feel at ease, though. Places like this have a way of making you feel insignificant. Like no one would find you if you got lost. I have to get out of my car to open a private access gate, praying that the map I'm following is correct and I'm not about to trespass on some trigger-happy hunter's property. I don't have four-wheel drive and my car pitches as I maneuver the forest road. Without the radio playing, I can hear the stillness of the forest, the hum of insects.

After another quarter of an hour driving, I debate turning back. I've clearly made a wrong turn and ended up on some sort of wilderness access road, because no one lives out here. There's no infrastructure for electricity or sewage or any of the glories modern amenities that Crestline's development hopes to instill.

Just as I start looking for a way to flip around on the narrow road, the forest opens up and reveals a cluster of cabins. It almost looks like an old summer camp. There's not a sign or bus turnaround or anything so obvious, but the cabins are in little clusters around a central lodge that's happily puffing out a bit of smoke from a river-rock chimney.

There are a few people milling about and they stare at my car with incredulous expressions. I swallow down my flicker of anxiety as I park in front of what I'm hoping is Marcus Forrester's cabin and collect my thoughts, the list of firms. I'm not wearing the same corporate-chic uniform as the town hall, but it still feels like my jeans are too tailored for this world. And I couldn't completely ditch the heels. Along with my makeup and blazer, they feel like armor.

I take a steadying breath before heading toward the cabin. The air is different here—fresher, sharper, carrying the scent of pine and woodsmoke.

I knock on the cabin door, ignoring the curious eyes burning into the back of my neck.

There's no answer.

But I hear the study thud of what I'm assuming is someone chopping wood outback. Steeling myself, I leave the steady surface of the scrubbed-pine porch and trek to the back. I tell myself I will hand over the list and leave. My conscience will be clear. I will be able to sleep again.

As I pick around a fallen tree and overgrowth, I stumble.

It is someone chopping wood.

But it's not Marcus Forrester.

The man from the town hall pauses to fix me with that thunderstorm gaze that makes my heart skip and my breath still.

He's shirtless, because of course he is, standing in front of a stack of split logs. His skin is tanned, with a faint sheen of sweat and golden body hair that highlights the contours of his muscles. It's impossible not to notice how attractive he is. Fuck, even the morning sunlight catches on his hair, making the dark gold gleam like this is some sort of commercial for body wash or testosterone supplements or some sort of social media thirst trap.

I want to blame the dreams for how hot my face suddenly feels.

A slow smirk spreads across his face, and just like that, all the breath I managed to keep in my chest evaporates.

"Well, look who it is," he drawls, dropping the axe into the tree stump with a practiced ease. He never spoke in my dreams, and I realize it's because my subconscious could never replicate the spine tingling sort of growl.

I force myself to take a breath, to ground myself, and slip into coolness. Untouchable. Safe.

"I'm looking for Mr. Forrester," I say, hoping that the rising heat in my body is not manifesting as a blush.

"You found him," he says. He pulls off a glove to hold out his hand. "Beau Forrester."

I pause. I don't take his hand, mostly out of surprise. But also because I suddenly can't help but think about how those long fingers, the callouses, would feel against my naked skin. I am never like this. Overheated. Turned on. Needy.

"Marcus. Marcus Forrester," I say, clearing my throat. The back of my head, wonders at the relation, but the bulk of my brain is focused on trying to convince myself that I'm not attracted to him.

"Sure you are," he—Beau—says. His hand drops easily, like I wasn't being completely uncivilized. Like I'm not standing in front of him, flushed to my roots, unable to keep my eyes from flickering to his body. "And you just happened to find me first."

"Don't flatter yourself. Is he here or not?"

Beau chuckles, the sound low and infuriatingly self-assured. "He's running around somewhere. How can I help you?"

"He met me in my office last week, and I have some recommendations that I think will help." I gesture behind me. I feel absolutely ridiculous. "I have a file in my car."

Beau doesn't seem interested, but he pulls on a work shirt that was hanging on a tree branch behind him. My heart speeds up as he gets closer and holds out his hand as if to guide me through the brush. It's a simple gesture but it feels far too intimate. And I can't stop thinking about what that hand would feel like against my skin.

"I'm good, thanks," I say. I don't mean it to come out strained, but it does, and a flicker of confusion crosses his face.

He shrugs and gestures towards where I'm parked, following behind me. I try to avoid looking like a baby deer as I maneuver across the uneven ground. Heels, in hindsight, were silly, but I don't regret it. I can feel Beau's eyes on my legs, my ass, and—even though I usually use my height as a deterrent, as intimidation—I like it.

I catch my foot in some sort of hole and my ankle wobbles. Before I can even lose my balance, there's a warm, steady hand bracing my forearm, the small of my back. The smell of salt and woodsmoke and pine trees is overpowering. A bright current shoots through my skin. My head whips toward Beau, suddenly so close, and warm.

"I gotcha," he says, low and even. "Your ankle alright?"

It takes my brain a second to figure out how to make words, how to readjust and remove myself from the strength of his arms. The space in between us lets a breath of mountain air clear my head. I vaguely wonder if someone accidentally spiked my coffee. Or maybe I'm coming down with the flu or just plain insanity, because my body does not feel like my own.

"I-I'm good, thanks," I repeat. Like an idiot. I take another breath and force myself back to my professional veneer. To safety. "Let's just grab the file, and I'll be out of your hair."

I brush my hands across my blazer, straightening it with a quick tug, like I can pull my dignity back together with it. Beau watches me for a beat longer than feels necessary, those thunderstorm eyes brushing up and down. His hand still hovers, like he doesn't quite trust me not to fall on my face.

"Lead the way," he says.

I press my lips together and make towards the car, pretending not notice how close he is behind me. His boots crunch through the tangles of grass and gravel and debris with an ease these heels could never replicate.

When we reach my car, I pull the neat file from the passenger seat. On slightly more even ground, I try to keep my movements quick and efficient. So that I look more graceful and competent than the display I just made across the yard.

"Hybrid, huh?" Beau says, as I lean through the passenger window to grab the folder. The comment seems so typically masculine. And they there's something determinedly casual about his tone. I wonder if Beau is looking for some sort of common ground between us, and if he's grasping at straws.

"What's your point?"

He shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs. His dark gray eyes are fixed to mine. "Just trying to get a read on you. You drive a fuel-efficient car, have a mom-and-pop coffee in the cup holder, came all the way out here to drop off a file when you could have mailed it... seems kind of like you care. Sustainability, conversation. Doesn't really fit the whole Crestline thing you've got going on."

I put the file between us like a weak effort to shield myself. My skin is prickling with the weight of his stare. I don't usually like this picking at my walls. I want to snap that I don't want him to get a read on me, but there's something vulnerable in the lines of his posture that soften my natural impulse to shut down familiarity.

"Does the postal service even know how to get all the way out here," I finally say, "or would I have had to enlist the pony express?"

Beau smiles, a little crookedly, and there's a flash of a dimple on his right cheek.

"Do you always wear heels to deliver files in the middle of the woods?"

"Not always," I say, heat rushing through me. Not a flood of embarrassment, but a heady, languid warmth that makes me want to curl up against him. "But I like to be prepared. You never know when you need to make an impression."

The gap between is growing smaller and smaller. I smell forest and sunshine. I can't even explain it. I know that sunshine doesn't have a smell, but I swear it does as Beau's eyes darken, as he leans forward. And it feels so right, in this moment, like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. Like everything else in the world, the debt and the stress and the guilt, doesn't matter any more. It's all going to be okay. I get that same buzz of intuition that he wants to kiss me.

And that I want to kiss him back.

"Miss Dawson," a gruff voice cuts through our moment, sharp and clear.

Marcus jogs towards us from the tree line, straightening the cuffs of his denim shirt.

The comfortable gravity between Beau and me fizzles away.

"Beau," Marcus says with a tip of his head. "Did you offer the lady something to drink?"

"I was just getting to that, Uncle Marcus."

Marcus grunts something that sounds like disbelief, and maybe laughter, before he tips his head to me. "Can I offer you anything, Miss Dawson? Lemonade?"

"No. I'm fine, thanks," I say. I'd rehearsed what I was going to say on the drive out. Keep it cool, professional, unaffected. But in the afterglow of Beau's nearness, I almost feel lightheaded. Tipsy. The truth comes out instead. "I thought about what you said, after our meeting. And I wanted you to have this."

I hand out the folder. Marcus takes it with a twitch of his mustache.

"It's a list of firms that practice care about sustainability, conversation," I continue. I don't add that they were the places I'd once pictured myself working at. "They aren't," I sigh, "corporate vultures."

Marcus smiles fully at that. "Let me get you something to drink, Miss Dawson, and we can chat."

He heads toward the cabin, opens the unlocked door, and gestures me inside.

"Don't you have more wood to chop, Beau?"

I don't realize that Beau was following behind me until he makes a sheepish, affirmative sound in the back of his throat. When I glance over my shoulder, he's already retreating back to the yard, shoulders tense. Marcus gestures for me to follow him inside, and I do, though I'm not sure why I haven't made some excuse to leave.

The cabin is small and simple, but not without charm. The smell of woodsmoke clings to the air, twisted with tobacco. A few well-worn armchairs are gathered around a stone fireplace that boasts various knickknacks and framed photos on the mantle. The walls are lined with hanging ropes and tools and hand-carved shelves that boast a scarce collection of tattered books.

"Take a seat," Marcus says, motioning to a plaid armchair bathed in a stream of sunlight from the window.

The cushion gives under me, almost swallowing me whole. It smells faintly earthy, musky—something sharp enough to make my nose twitch. I try to shift forward, perching on the edge of the seat, but it's like the chair won't let me go.

"I knew I had a good feeling about you, Miss Dawson," Marcus says as he disappears into the kitchen.

I don't reply, ignoring his comment as my gaze sweeps over the room. It's a clearly masculine space, layered with the quiet traces of a life lived here. There's an old photo of a younger Marcus Forrester with a tall woman, who I assume was his wife, standing in front of what looks like a courthouse. The threadbare rug by the heart must have once been bright and new. It makes me wonder if there were once flowers on the window sill, or crocheted blankets across the chairs.

As Marcus clatters around the kitchen, I turn toward the window. It's ridiculous, but I've never felt at ease in someone else's home. Where my mom had the magic to make any space feel comfortable, I've never been able to replicate the experience. I try to let the sunlight warm me the way I felt outside, to ease the restlessness crawling under my skin.

The sharp, rhythmic crack of an axe cutting into wood starts up again. My face flushes.

A low voice breaks through the steady rhythm.

"She's here?"

I don't need to guess who this stranger is asking about.

"Inside," Beau answers. The cadence of the axe doesn't stop.

Marcus pops his head out of the kitchen. He gives me a look, as if he's noticed the shift in my posture. "How do you take your coffee, Miss Dawson?"

"Black is fine," I reply, forcing a polite smile, like I'm not straining to hear the conversation outside.

The low voice continues, just barely audible through the open window. "I don't like it."

There's a pause where the axe breaks through another log, and then Beau's voice comes even lower. "You don't have to."

"You're really going to do this? We don't even—"

"It's not your concern, Caleb." There's something guarded in Beau's tone, a current of frustration beneath the surface. My fingers tighten in my lap, and I force myself to keep staring at the sunlit trees, to focus on anything but the sudden knot twisting in my chest.

"She's trouble, Beau." There's rough concern in the stranger's—Caleb's—voice. "Not worth—"

"That's enough." Beau's voice comes quietly, but no less firm. It's like a blade. There's a heavy authority threaded through it that I can feel in my bones. It makes me want to look at the ground, fold myself inward. In the kitchen, Marcus is busy pouring coffee. Either he hasn't noticed the tension bleeding through the walls, or he's too polite to acknowledge it.

Caleb, however, doesn't back down. "You're not thinking straight. Respectfully. This won't end well, for anyone."

The hairs on my neck rise. My heart pounds against my ribs, and I swallow the urge to march outside and demand they say whatever they're saying to my face. Instead, I keep my back straight, refusing to give away that the words are clawing at me.

I can't hear what Beau says in response, but Caleb mutters something before the sound of the axe starts up again with renewed vigor. Each impact makes me feel more and more unwelcome. I'm being ridiculous. Beau is a stranger. A stranger who confronted me at a town hall where I threatened to bulldoze his home. I have no claim over him, no matter how nice it was to have him near me earlier.

And yet, here I am, itching to run, restless and raw under the weight of this censure that should mean nothing to me.

Marcus reappears with a mug of coffee for me, but before he can hand it to me, I shoot to my feet.

"Look Mr. Forrester—"

"Marcus."

"—Marcus. I appreciate the hospitality, but I really can't stay. I included my contact information if you have any questions, but all the information you need is there. I'm sorry I can't do more."

He studies me with a long, assessing stare, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nods.

"It means a lot that you drove out all this way," he says slowly, voice steady and knowing.

I nod back, my throat tight. "I'll see myself out."

The air outside is cooler, crisper, but it doesn't settle the prickling heat under my skin. I've never felt more out of place in my life—heels sinking into the dirt, blazer clinging like a second skin. I should have just mailed the damn folder. Why did I come out here? I feel like my body isn't my own any more.

Marcus walks me out despite my protests, his boots steady across the earth and gravel. He pats the roof of my car as I slide into the driver's seat. "Careful on the way out. Road's a little rough."

"I'll manage." My voice is tight. As tight as my grip on the wheel. "Thanks for the concern."

I don't bother with more goodbyes, turning the car toward the dirt road that leads back to the highway. But as I glance in the rearview mirror, my gaze catches on the tree stump behind the cabin, axe embedded into it, and the empty yard.

No sign of Marcus. Or Beau.

The air in my lungs is thick. I press a little harder on the gas as I bump over the road, leaving whatever this is behind me. When the highway comes into view, I try to ignore an uncomfortable realization. That strange little tug that's taken residence behind my breastbone was gone the entire time I was there. And it grows tighter with each mile further I get.