Page 81 of She Was Made for Me

“I do want to,” she assures me, taking my hand. “I really do.”

I exhale slowly, lifting her hand to press a kiss to the back of it.Thank God.

“But what will I tell them? I already said I don’t have plans…” She gnaws on her bottom lip in that sweet way of hers, and I tug it free with my thumb.

“Tell them Sadie invited you away for the weekend. She’ll cover for you, won’t she?”

“Yeah. Okay.” She nods, a wide smile spreading across her face. I dip my head to capture it with my mouth, loving the way she melts against me with a happy sigh. Then I force myself away from her before I lose all control and fuck her in a bathroom for the second time today.

32

Violet

Iturn Kyle’s pickup truck onto the gravel driveway, an excited smile twitching on my lips as I pull up in front of a stunning lakeside cabin. Apart from a quick stop for groceries, we’ve been on the road for six straight hours, but I don’t mind. If there’s one thing I’ve missed since being back in the city, it’s driving, and Kyle was all too happy to sit back and relax for the drive.

Well, he didn’t relax, so much, as slide his hand up my thigh while kissing my neck and telling me how sexy I looked driving his truck, until I told him to stop so we could arrive in one piece. After that we put Rogue Valley on and enjoyed the drive, chatting about music and work and Maine.

Now we’re here, and I’m glad. We’ve spent the past two and a half days since dinner working hard on the house, mainly to assuage my guilt about leaving town for a few days and lying to my parents, and while part of me still feels bad, another part of me is giddy at the thought of three whole days alone with Kyle in this beautiful setting. I’m doing my best to let that part of me win.

“Home sweet home,” Kyle says as I shut off the engine. We step from the truck, stretching after the long drive, the evening air a warm embrace after the cool air conditioning of the pickup. We left work in the early afternoon to get a head start on any weekend traffic, arriving in time to catch the last rays of sun as it inches toward the horizon, casting a golden trail across the lake and bathing the cabin in a warm glow.

My breath catches as I take in the view before me. The cabin is clad in natural cedar shakes, with a red metal roof and a screened-in porch to one side. It sits at the edge of the lake, perfectly placed to capture the vista of the water, shrouded in pine trees. I know there are other cabins nearby, but as I follow Kyle to the porch, I can’t see anyone else. It feels like we’re alone in the wilderness, in the best possible way.

Kyle sets our bags down to open the door, then leads me inside. He flicks on the light as the sun sinks further behind the forest across the lake, and I step into a large, high-ceilinged room. I twirl on the spot, marveling at the space as I take it in. The living room and kitchen are open-concept, with wooden beams spanning the cathedral ceiling above, and a front wall that’s almost entirely glass, designed to maximize the view over the water. There’s a wood stove in the corner, and I sigh dreamily as I imagine sitting by that stove in the winter, looking across the frozen lake. Behind the kitchen is a hallway, and off to one side is a set of stairs leading to a lofted bedroom, overlooking the space below.

“Wow,” I breathe, running a hand across the white-washed pine walls. “This place is beautiful.” The whole cabin feels cozy and welcoming, and this is only emphasized by the craftsmanship of the place: the detail in the wooden banister on the stairs, the cabinetry in the kitchen, the rough oak dining table. I can see Kyle’s touch everywhere I look, and my heart feels like it could burst at what this man can do. With blinding clarity, I understand why keeping the historical details in the house at Fruit Street matters so much to him. It’s the history, yes, but it’s more than that—it’s staying true to the building as it should be. It’s respecting the soul of the house. I can feel that in this cabin in a way I never have, and it makes me glad I got to work with him on the house in Brooklyn.

Kyle steps behind me, sliding his arms around my waist and nuzzling his face into my hair. “I’m so glad you’re here, sweetheart.”

I sigh, sinking back against his solid warmth. Honestly, I can’t imagine being anywhere else in the world at this moment. I can’t explain it, but I feel like… I don’t know. Like I’m finallyhome.

“Me too,” I whisper, turning in his arms to press my mouth to his. He returns the kiss then draws away from me with a chuckle.

“If I start kissing you, I won’t stop.” He tucks my hair behind my ear, smiling down at me tenderly. “Why don’t you settle in while I cook us dinner?”

I lift my brows. “You’re going to cook?”

“Why do you think I stopped at the market?”

I laugh. “Fair point. Okay, well, I could help?” I’m not great in the kitchen, given almost everything I eat comes out of a packet, but thankfully Kyle doesn’t put this to the test.

“No.” He drops a kiss on my forehead. “You’ve been driving for hours. Go relax, I want to cook for you.” He grabs the grocery bags and saunters into the kitchen. “I bought some fresh fish, but if you’re not into that I could make—”

“I love fish,” I say, and he grins. I watch him unload the groceries and pull out pots and bowls, setting out ingredients. He grabs a large knife and begins dicing red onion with the confidence of a man who’s done this hundreds of times before.

Oh, God. If he’s a good cook too, I’m in huge trouble.

I tear my gaze away and grab our bags, heading toward the stairs. The banister is smooth under my palm as I climb into the loft, inhaling the faint smell of pine. The loft is a mezzanine floor under sloping rafters, with a front railing open to the main living space below. A queen-sized bed sits on a large rug under a window, beside a nightstand with a small lamp and a stack of books. I set my bag down and lower myself onto the bed, lying back to stare up at the ceiling.

This is where Kyle sleeps, I think, rolling over to smell his pillow and examine the books on the nightstand. There’s one I recognize, a paperback calledOld Brooklyn Heights, which contains a very detailed history of the houses in the neighborhood. It’s the same book I purchased from Barnes & Noble on my trip with Sadie. There’s also a book about the philosophy of stoicism, some kind of historical novel, and a book about anxiety, which surprises me. I pick that one up and flick through it, noticing several dog-eared pages with highlighting and notes inside. I think about how Kyle knew I’d had a panic attack, and feel a pinch in my heart. It seems there’s more to him than he’s let on, and I want to know it all. I want to knowhim.

I hold the book to my chest, looking around the bedroom, listening to Kyle humming to himself as he works away in the kitchen. Just being here, getting a glimpse into his world, fills me with warmth from head to toe. I stretch out on the bed with a sigh, feeling more at peace than I have in ages. I’m not thinking about work, about Dad, about anything other than the man who brought me here.

The man who brought me home.

* * *

I waketo a hand stroking my cheek. “Dinner’s ready.”

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