Page 11 of The Miner's Miracle
She freezes, her breath catching, and I swear the world goes quiet.
“Tessa,” I murmur, my voice barely audible.
Her eyes search mine, and for a moment, I think she might close the distance between us.
“You keep lookin’ up at me like you want me to kiss you again,” a grin lifts one side of my lips.
She rolls her eyes, gaze dropping to my lips a moment, but then she steps back, her smile fading. “Goodnight, Finn,” she says, her voice steady but her eyes betraying her hesitation.
I watch as she walks away, disappearing into the night, and for the first time in years, I feel something I can’t quite name.
Something I’m not sure I’m ready for.
Chapter Seven
Tessa
The rooster crows like it’s getting paid by the hour, piercing through the quiet morning air with a vengeance. I roll over in bed, groaning into my pillow. Why did I think getting a rooster was a good idea? Oh, right. Fresh eggs and the idyllic charm of country living.
But Finn isn’t going to see it that way.
I’m already bracing for the knock at the door when it comes, sharp and impatient. I toss on a sweatshirt, muttering under my breath about grumpy miners with zero tolerance for mountain life quirks.
When I swing the door open, Finn stands there, larger than life in his flannel shirt and work boots, his scowl firmly in place. Shep sits obediently at his feet, his tail wagging like he knows he’s about to witness some entertaining drama.
“Good morning, sunshine,” I say sweetly, leaning against the doorframe.
“Morning? Your damn rooster’s been crowing since before sunrise,” he grumbles, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His muscles strain against the fabric, distracting me for a second too long.
“And Shep dug up my marigolds again yesterday,” I counter, matching his glare.
Finn arches an eyebrow. “You want me to muzzle him or something? He’s a dog, Tessa. Dogs dig.”
“And roosters crow,” I shoot back, stepping onto the porch to square off with him. “You’ve got your noise, I’ve got mine. Welcome to mountain life.”
His lips twitch like he’s holding back a smirk, but he doesn’t let up. “This rooster’s got a vendetta against me. I’m half convinced it waits until I’m finally asleep just to start up again.”
I can’t help the laugh that slips out, and Finn’s gaze softens for a split second. But then he catches himself, straightening like he’s trying to regain the upper hand.
“Laugh all you want,” he mutters, “but that thing’s going to drive me to drink before noon.”
“Good thing The Devil’s Brew opens at ten,” I quip, turning to head inside. “Coffee?”
Finn follows me in and Shep trots after him, pausing to sniff at the boxes stacked in the corner of my small kitchen.
I grab two mugs, trying to ignore the way Finn fills the space like he owns it. His presence is infuriatingly magnetic, and I’m annoyed at how aware I am of him. The way he leans casually against the counter, his sharp blue eyes tracking my every move, like he’s trying to figure me out.
“What’s all this?” he asks, nodding toward the boxes.
“Just stuff from the move,” I say, setting the mugs on the counter. “I haven’t gotten around to unpacking everything yet.”
He picks up a photo album sitting on top of one of the boxes, flipping it open without asking. Typical Finn—gruff, unfiltered, and utterly unapologetic.
I cross my arms, watching him carefully as he flips through the pages. Most of the photos are from my childhood—me as a gap-toothed kid, my parents smiling in the background.
Finn freezes when he turns to a page near the middle. His brow furrows, and he looks up at me, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“Who’s this?” he asks, holding up the album.
