Page 7 of Daddy's Girl

"Patience isn't the point." His voice rumbles through my back, vibrating straight to my core. "It's about patterns. Systems. Breaking things down until they make sense."

I let his comment go as a cabin comes into view. Not the rustic shack I expected, but something substantial. Weathered logs stained dark with age. A wide porch wrapped around two sides. Smoke curling from a stone chimney like a beckoning finger.

Jack kills the engine, swinging his leg over the four-wheeler with fluid grace that belies his massive size. He studies me for a moment, those storm-cloud eyes devouring every inch of me.

"Ready?” The question is gruff, almost reluctant, and I get the feeling he doesn’t have company very often.

I nod, attempt to stand, and immediately regret it. My legs, numb from cold and the lingering shock of nearly drowning, buckle beneath me.

He catches me before I hit the ground, one thick arm sweeping behind my knees, the other around my back. In a single motion, I'm crushed against his chest again, engulfed by his size.

"Sorry," I whisper, mortified.

His jaw tightens, muscles flexing dangerously. "Don’t apologize. You should only apologize for things you did to deliberately hurt someone, then you make amends and move on."

The odd warmth and relief in his statement leaves me uncomfortable but silently swooning a little.

"My river didn’t apologize, and it tried to kill you," he says, voice dropping to a possessive growl. "But that’s just the river being the river, it wasn’t nothing personal. It dares try that again though, then itwillbe personal.”

"Yourriver?" I raise an eyebrow. "The water didn't mention it had an owner."

The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile. Almost.

"Everything on this mountain answers to me." His eyes lock with mine as he carries me up the steps, my body weightless in his arms. "Including you, now. Especially you."

"My father talked about you," I say as he shoulders open the door. "Never mentioned you lived like a some feral lumber baron in a log castle at the top of the world."

Something flickers in his expression—surprise, maybe approval at my attempt at humor. He shoulders open the door without setting me down, the oddness of his lingering grip making me want to wiggle free.

The cabin's interior swallows us in warmth that makes my frozen skin tingle painfully. Cathedral ceilings with exposed beams. A stone fireplace that dominates one wall. Bookshelves overflowing with leather-bound books showing worn gold leaf on the spines. Furniture that looks handcrafted—solid, masculine, built to last lifetimes.

Any color there is reminds me of flannel shirts. Deep blue, red, green, tan…it’s like Woodrich of LL Bean was in charge of the décor.

What catches me off guard is the display shelf along one wall—dozens of Rubik's cubes in various stages of completion. Not just the standard ones, but pyramids, dodecahedrons, and shapes I can't even name.

"You weren't kidding about the puzzles," I say, suddenly aware I'm dripping river water onto his floor.

He follows my gaze, a hint of color touching his cheeks. "Helps me think. Keeps my hands busy." His fingers flex against my thigh, digging in slightly. "When they'd rather be busy elsewhere."

"How fast can you solve one?"

"Standard 3x3? Forty-three seconds." He states it like a fact, not a boast, his eyes never leaving my face.

"Impressive."

"Not really. World record's a little over three seconds." He clears his throat, the little nerd out he was displaying swallowed again by the gruff mountain man. His shoulders straighten, voice dropping back to its gravel register. "Not that it fucking matters out here."

Near the hearth sits a half-finished wooden cradle, its curves sanded to impossible smoothness. The sight of it strikes me harder than the cold has.

"You have children?" The question escapes before I can stop it.

His eyes follow my gaze, then he growls. "Commission," he says shortly, finally setting me down. His hands linger at my waist, fingers pressing into my flesh like he's afraid I'll disappear. "Banker in Denver. Second baby."

I nod, swaying slightly on feet I can't quite feel. His hands instantly tighten, stabilizing me against his solid form.

"Shower's through there." He points down a hallway, his massive hand still spanning my waist completely. "Water takes a minute to heat. Towels in the cabinet." His gaze travels my body, no longer just assessing damage—now there's unmistakable hunger flaring in his eyes. "Clothes in the dresser in my room. Take what you need. It’s all flannel and denim and boxers, but pretty sure you’ll make them look way better than I could.”

"I have clothes in my backpack," I say, gesturing to the still open door where the four-wheeler is parked outside.

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