Our feet pitter-patter on the stone patio as we continue forward off it onto frozen blades of grass that crunch like tiny twigs beneath our boots. Our breath steams in the air, ethereal clouds under the stars.
We walk through the manicured lawn, past the flower gardens and the pergola until we are at the edge of the woods, where the evergreens take over.
“Watch your step,” he says as we continue forward into darkness.
I squeeze his hand tight. The forest is lit only by the stray slivers of moonlight that make it through the canopy overhead, and the place smells of moss and pine needles. A branch brushes my shoulder as we walk.
Ian doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t stumble or get out his phone to use it as a flashlight. He walks like he has walked this path a thousand times before and knows it by heart.
“Duck,” he says, stopping to help me miss a low hanging branch.
There’s something in front of us off in the distance, dark and looming. My heart flops inside my chest, but then Ian is at my side and grabs my hand again, and it calms.
“What is that?” I ask as we draw closer, but just as the question leaves my lips, I notice a gleam from a window pane and the shine from the brass knocker on the front door.
“Whoa,” I breathe as he leads me down a path clear of underbrush and the prickly things that wrap around your ankles.
“This is it,” he says as we climb the steps of the front porch. “Welcome to my favorite place in the world, sweetness.”
He unlocks the door and with the click of the bolt, the lights inside the cabin turn on, intimate and low.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe, taking in the stained hardwood floor under my feet and the bookcases built into the walls above a fireplace. A small piano sits flush against a wall of the den near a modest kitchen.
Ian shrugs off his jacket and helps me with mine. He hangs them inside a closet near the door. “I found it when I was kid. It was a mess. The roof had caved in. A family of raccoons was living in it. The old man wanted to tear it down. He thought it was dangerous.”
My hand slides across the worn leather of a sofa in the middle of the room. I glance back at Ian to find he’s standing near the door, watching me.
“How did you convince him to let you keep it?” I ask, walking to read the titles of books that line the shelves.
Ian heads for the fireplace.
“At first, I told him I’d do all the work.” He frowns as he strikes a match and tosses it over the kindling. It ignites, crackling in the quiet of the cabin. “When that didn’t work, I told him if he didn’t help, I would tell Mom he was fucking his secretary.”
I freeze and turn toward him. “I’m so sorr—”
Ian stands and raises an index finger to his lips. “You have nothing to apologize for, Harlow. That is,” he gives me a mischievous grin, “unless you are also sleeping with my father’s secretary.”
“Ian,” I say with an eye roll.
His grin widens and he steps closer, erasing the distance between us. I stare at him, captivated. His grin wanes, and he looks down at me, abruptly somber.
“I come here when I need to get away from everything,” he says. “No internet. No television. No distractions. Just me—and now you too.”
“No one else has been here?” I breathe, my heart knocking against my ribs. God, he smells so good.
Ian shakes his head slowly, sending a black lock of hair into his eyes, which he ignores. He cups my face between his hands. His hot breath cocoons me in warmth. “Just you, Harlow.”
I force out the word. “Why?”
“You know why.”
A single tear escapes down my cheek. Then another. He wipes them away with his thumbs.
“You are everything, Harlow,” he says, his voice low and soft like he’s in confession. “You are my gravity and stars and air and life. You are my entire universe.”
My throat squeezes. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to stand here in his arms. It hurts to exist. I can never get close enough, be near enough, because I will always wants to be closer to him.
I stretch up on the tips of my toes and kiss him. His hands tangle in my hair, his thumbs gently pressing at my temples.
I have to feel more of him, and my hands crawl underneath his sweater to run along the rigid indents of his abdomen. Heat explodes inside my belly as something hedonistic takes over. I am a bundle of nerve endings and desire.
He breaks us apart and looks down at me, his gaze like rolling thunder, his cheeks wet with my tears.
“Don’t cry,” he murmurs, devastation shattering his perfect face. “Please.”
“I’m crying because I’m happy,” I manage, the words strangled.
He studies me, his gaze darting between my eyes, before he dips his head to kiss away my tears, one cheek and then my other.
When his mouth meets mine again, it’s like the universe has finally set things right for once. The kiss is sweet and tender and gentle, and I taste the salt of my tears and a hint of toothpaste. I pull up his sweater, and he allows me to tug it over his head, lifting up his arms to help me.
He stands there in nothing but his pants and built, bronzed glory. I think he’s never been more beautiful or vulnerable in this very moment. He doesn’t make a move, staring at me, his lips pursed.
I cross my hands over the hem of my sweater and tug it off me, my pajama shirt coming along with it.
He sucks in a breath and reaches out a hand to run the back of his knuckles against
