Chapter 3 - The Weight of the Woods**
Rowan Hale was tall—towering even by rugged mountain standards—with thick, messy dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard that framed a strong jaw, and striking green-gray eyes that looked as though they were permanently amused by some private cosmic joke. He wore a crisp white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing thick, corded forearms dusted with dark hair.
I quickly shuffled my foot off the heavy wool coat he had tossed casually over the bench.
“Sorry,” I murmured, my cheeks suddenly burning hot.
Rowan didn't step away. Instead, he leaned casually against the doorframe, looking down at me with those piercing eyes. “So you’re Chloe. The urban artist from back east who thinks our logging roads are a personal hazard.”
I narrowed my eyes, instantly defensive. “The local wildlife tried to emotionally intimidate me within ten minutes of my arrival, so excuse me if I wasn't entirely impressed by your hospitality.”
A slow, devastating smirk spread across his lips. “The bears around here have great taste in tourists. You should take it as a compliment.”
“Right. I’ll make sure to introduce myself next time one tries to eat my bumper.”
Before Rowan could fire back another infuriating retort, my mother swept into the room, beaming. “Oh, Rowan! You found her. Go on outside, you two—it’s time for the ceremony to start.”
Throughout the wedding, I couldn't stop my eyes from wandering toward Rowan. He stood across the clearing beside his father, watching the vows with a solemn, intense reverence. But whenever our eyes accidentally locked across the cedar arbor, a strange, electric jolt would race straight down my spine, making my skin tingle in a way that had nothing to do with the crisp mountain air.
By evening, the reception was in full swing inside the grand lodge. Massive stone fireplaces crackled with pine logs, folk music played softly from a vintage stereo system, and the tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats and local wine.
I had slipped away from the crowded dining hall around midnight, needing a moment of absolute silence. I walked out onto the sweeping second-floor timber balcony, resting my hands on the cold iron railing and staring out at the dark, majestic expanse of the valley.
Footsteps creaked softly behind me on the wooden planks.
“You’re hiding,” Rowan’s voice murmured out of the shadows.
I didn't turn around. I could feel his physical heat radiating against my back even though he was standing a few feet away. “I’m not hiding. I’m simply enjoying the lack of small talk about timber prices.”
Rowan stepped up beside me, resting his heavy forearms on the railing. Up close, I could smell the sharp, intoxicating scent of pine, cedar, and rain clinging to his skin.
“My father likes your mother,” Rowan said quietly, his gaze fixed on the distant tree line. “She makes him laugh. The real kind of laugh, not the polite kind he gives business clients.”
“My mom hasn't laughed like that since my dad died,” I admitted softly, looking sideways at his profile. “So I suppose I can forgive the lack of guardrails on your highway.”
Rowan turned his head, his green-gray eyes locking onto mine in the moonlight. The playful arrogance vanished from his face, replaced by an intensity so heavy it felt almost suffocating.
“Be careful here, Chloe,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.
My breath caught. “Careful of what? Falling off your deck?”
“Of this mountain,” he answered, stepping closer until I could feel the heat radiating off his chest. “Some things out here... they aren't what they seem. If you stay too long, the woods get into your blood. They change you.”
“I’m leaving in five days to go back to my apartment and my boring art classes,” I said, trying to inject a dose of reality into the heavy mountain air.
Rowan reached out, his warm fingertips gently brushing against a stray lock of hair blown across my cheek. His touch sent a violent, shocking shiver straight through my entire nervous system.
May you like
“Some changes,” he whispered, his thumb lightly tracing my jawline, “don't care about your art classes.”
Before I could process the wild, hammering rhythm of my own heart, Rowan dropped his hand, turned sharply on his heel, and walked back inside the lodge, leaving me shivering alone in the cold night wind.
