Page 37 of The Alpha's Runaway Mate
By the time I’m done, the stew is thick and bubbling, the biscuits golden, the counters wiped clean. The sun dips behind the ridge, streaking the sky with fire. That’s when I hear it, the low, familiar rumble of his truck on the drive.
My heart kicks, fast and unsteady. The front door opens and there he is, tall, broad, a little rough around the edges. Damp hair, sweat-dark shirt, eyes shadowed with exhaustion and something heavier. “Hey,” I say softly, turning from the stove. “Perfect timing.”
He closes the door and looks at me like he’s grounding himself in the sight. Then he steps forward, wraps an arm around my waist, and presses a kiss to the side of my head. Such a small thing, but it melts something inside me. “Smells incredible,” he murmurs against my hair, voice low and rough. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
He pulls back, gives me a tired half-smile. “You spoil me.”
“You look like you need it.”
He huffs a laugh. “I’m gonna take a quick shower. Be right back.”
I nod, and he brushes a hand along my arm before heading down the hall.
By the time he returns, the cabin glows with dusk. I’ve set the table, bowls, cloth napkins from a drawer, two candles flickering low. The stew steams; the biscuits cool on a plate between us.
Nolan walks in wearing a clean black T-shirt and dark jeans, hair damp, smelling faintly of soap and cedar. He looks… good. Too good.
His mouth curves when he sees the table. “I could smell it from the bedroom.”
I grin over my shoulder. “Good smell or bad smell?”
He steps closer, voice dropping a little. “Good. Dangerous, actually.”
“Dinner’s dangerous now?”
He smirks, eyes warm. “You. My house. Real food. Feels a little like I’m dreaming.”
“Maybe you’re just tired.”
“Maybe.” He reaches for the pot and a serving spoon. “Or maybe you’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”
My heart stumbles. I try to play it off, but my voice comes out softer than I mean. “Careful saying things like that, I might start believing you.”
He chuckles, grabs two beers from the fridge, sets them on the table. When we sit, it feels… easy. Comfortable. Like we’ve done this before.
He takes a bite, then groans quietly. “Okay. You’re officially not allowed to leave.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Guess you’ll have to keep giving me reasons to stay.”
He lifts his gaze, something warm and sure, and a little dangerous, in it. “Oh, I plan to.”
The air shifts. It always does. We eat for a while in the kind of silence that feels safe. When I glance up, his expression’s different, thoughtful, focused.
“You were gone a long time,” I say gently.
He nods, takes a drink. “Yeah. Things got complicated.”
“Everything okay?”
His jaw works before he answers. “For now. We’ll talk after we eat.”
The words send a ripple of nerves down my spine. “Talk about what?”
“About everything,” he says, steady and serious.
My pulse trips. I nod and pretend to focus on my food, but my mind is already racing. I know exactly what he means.
