Page 7 of Keep Me, Knox
“But then more people would bother me,” I say, chuckling. “Besides, my truck has four-wheel drive. I manage it just fine.”
She laughs. “Your truck must be a tank. Even the roadtoyour road is horrendous.”
“True enough. So, are you sure you want to drive that in the fading light?”
She hesitates. "Well, itwaskind of treacherous.”
"Stay the night," I offer, the words out before I think twice. "I've got a guest room. You're welcome to crash."
It’s going to take every ounce of willpower I have to stay out of the guest room…
She tilts her head. "Do you always invite government trackers to sleep over?"
"Only the muddy blonde ones who refer to Bear 178-A asRosie.”
That earns me a smile, but I can tell she's weighing it. Not just the logistics—me. Whether I'm safe. Whether staying would be a mistake.
Part of me hopes she says no. That'd be easier.
The other part wants her to say yes so bad it hurts.
She finally says, "Will you make coffee in the morning?"
"Obviously."
"And let me borrow a hoodie or something? As you pointed out, my clothes are a bit muddy.”
I open the front door and gesture inside. "Deal."
She steps in, brushing past me, close enough to make something shift in my chest. Like a door opening that's been locked for years.
I shut the cabin door behind her, and for the first time in a long time, my place doesn’t feel like a hideout.
It feels like a home.
Chapter 6
Sage
Theguestroomissmall but cozy, with a handmade quilt and a window that looks out over the trees. I set my pack down and glance around, taking in the careful craftsmanship. Knox's touch is everywhere. The nightstand, the simple wooden chair, the way the log walls fit together without a single gap.
I change into a warm hoodie he loaned me. It hangs to my knees and is cozy and warm.
When I emerge, he's in the kitchen pulling things from the refrigerator for dinner.
"Hope you like venison," he says without looking up. "It's that or canned soup."
"Venison sounds perfect." I lean against the doorframe, watching him move around the space with quiet efficiency. "You hunt?"
"Some. Mostly I trade bladework for meat with a neighbor down the ridge." He glances at me. "You squeamish about it?"
I shake my head. "I’m not a fan of killing just to kill, but I have no objection to living off the land. My dad used to hunt. I grew up cleaning fish and plucking birds.”
Something shifts in his expression. Approval, maybe. Like I just passed some kind of test.
"Good," he says simply, then nods toward the living area. "Fire's getting low. Mind feeding it while I get this started?"
I spend the next few minutes crouched by the hearth, adding logs and adjusting the damper until the flames catch properly. There's something soothing about the ritual—the smell of burning oak and the way the fire pops and settles. Behind me, I can hear Knox moving around the kitchen, the sizzle of meat hitting a hot pan.
