Fragile Sanctuary (Sparrow Falls Book 1)

Anson’s voice was pure grit and warning, but the feel of it sent delicious shivers skating over my skin. I didn’t look away from his icy stare. “Seems like a fun game to me.”

His gaze dropped to my mouth. He was so close I could taste him in the air between us.

A bark sounded, and Biscuit launched himself against us, wanting in on the fun.

With an oof, Anson stumbled back a step. I instantly felt the loss of his heat, the air turning cold around me.

“He’s got some surprising strength,” Anson muttered.

Biscuit was probably forty-five pounds, but it was a muscly forty-five.

“Sorry about that,” I said, my cheeks heating. God, had I been about to kiss him? Somehow, I didn’t think that would have gone over especially well.

I motioned toward the cottage. “Come on. Shep left some workout gear here in case he wanted to go for a run. You can borrow something of his.”

“I don’t need⁠—”

I pinned Anson with a stare. “You really want to climb into your truck soaking wet and ruin the leather?”

He glanced over his shoulder at his vehicle as the few remaining others headed down the drive. “No,” he muttered.

I nearly laughed. Boys and their toys. “You’d think I asked you to walk the plank. I don’t think you’ll die if you step inside my house.”

Anson didn’t say a word, just scowled as he headed for the door. He walked inside without asking but slipped his boots off on the porch. I followed behind him, doing the same with my flip-flops and holding the door for Biscuit, who’d shaken off most of the water.

Anson made his way down the hallway, coming up short in my living room that opened into the small kitchen. He gaped at the fireplace. “Is that a dick?”

He sounded so appalled that I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. “It’s my dick flower, if you must know.”

His head whipped around in my direction. “Why?”

A genuine smile spread across my lips. “Lolli made it for me.”

The appalled look morphed into one of understanding. “I like her.”

“Well, the feeling is mutual, but watch yourself. She wants your mouth busy doing things other than talking.”

An expression of true fear swept over Anson’s face, and I couldn’t help laughing again. He shuddered. “She’s also terrifying.”

“A healthy fear of Lolli is smart.”

Anson merely grunted in agreement.

“Give me a sec. I’ll get you those clothes.” I headed for the hallway linen closet where Shep had stored a few pairs of shorts and tees. Grabbing one of each, I headed back to the living room and kitchen.

Anson studied everything around him, taking in every detail, and spoke without looking up. “It’s not you.”

My brows pulled together. “What do you mean?”

He slowly turned to face me. “The space. No explosions of color. No plants. No…you.”

I swallowed hard. If I’d thought Trace was good at seeing the details, he had nothing on Anson. “I’m still getting settled.”

He stared hard at me as I handed him the clothes. His gaze called bullshit, and I fought the blush wanting to rise to my cheeks.

I cleared my throat. “There’s a bathroom in the hall. I’m going to get changed in my room.”

I spun around, hurrying ahead of him so I didn’t have to look at those blue-gray eyes that asked so many questions. Biscuit followed closely behind me. Shutting the door, I hurried to pull off my soaked clothes and went in search of fresh ones.

But as I did, I couldn’t help but study my bedroom. It was the same setup I’d had for the past five years. Pale green duvet cover, a throw over the end of the bed. Nightstands I’d gotten on sale at a local furniture store that matched the dresser I pulled sweats and a tank out of.

Anson was right. None of this was especially me. Not even the print on the wall. It was pretty, a black-and-white photo of a lily. But it had no soul. Why would it when it was something I’d grabbed off a wall at Target, where it hung with countless others?

When I thought about changing it up, about making it mine, my heart started beating faster, and my breaths came quicker. My palms dampened as my stomach twisted. I closed my eyes.

In. Two. Three.

Out. Two. Three.

I repeated the process over and over until it felt like I had my body more under control.

What the hell was that?

The beginnings of a panic attack. Overthinking decorating a space in a way that fit me? That was ridiculous.

I hurried to pull on the soft sweats and simple tank, then tugged on my favorite fuzzy socks. I gave Biscuit a little scratch before heading down the hall. Part of me expected Anson to be long gone; instead, he was hovering in my kitchen.

“You’re nosy, you know that, right?” I said.

He glanced in my direction, arching a brow.

“First, you analyze my living room, and now you’re poking around my kitchen.”

Anson shrugged, the action pulling the T-shirt taut across his broad chest. His feet were bare, and something about that was sexier than it should’ve been. Did I have a foot fetish now?

He lifted a copy of The Little Princess. “Reader?”

“One of my favorites.”

Anson nodded slowly, fingering the bookmark made of pressed flowers. “You’re almost done.”

I moved deeper into the kitchen and toward the Crock-Pot I’d set to cooking before I went outside. “Finished this morning before work.”

He frowned. “There are still three chapters left.”

Heat hit my cheeks. “I don’t like to read the endings.”

Anson gaped at me, his jaw going slack. “You don’t finish books? Ever?”

That twitchiness skated over me again. “I don’t like the finality. Even if it is happy. I like thinking the story could go on forever.”

He studied me for a long time, his fingers still toying with the bookmark. “Seems like a waste to go on that whole journey and not get the final payoff.”

“But isn’t it better to just enjoy the journey? Really take each moment in for what it is?”

Anson made a humming noise in the back of his throat as he stared at me. Something about his gaze told me he’d put together too many of my pieces. It only made the twitchiness worse. So, I focused on the Crock-Pot instead.

“It smells good,” he said, taking pity on me. “What is it?”

The timer said five minutes to go. “Chicken tacos.”

Anson gave another of those grunts.

“Want some?” I asked before I could stop myself.

He stiffened, just realizing that he’d backed himself into a corner. “I’m good⁠—”

“It’s just tacos, not torture or a marriage proposal. Plus, you’ll get to eat in the ambiance of Lolli’s dick flower. Unless you have something against tacos and dick flowers?” I challenged.

Anson’s lips twitched the tiniest bit. It was so slight I would’ve missed it if I hadn’t been focused on his face. He glanced at the Crock-Pot. “I like tacos.”

“Good to know you’re not a monster,” I said. “Grab some plates. They’re in the cupboard up⁠—”

But Anson had already opened the exact right cabinet.

“You really were snooping, weren’t you?” I accused.

He shook his head, placing two plates on the counter. “This was the most likely spot for them. Between the oven and the fridge. This counter space is obviously your workstation when you cook, so…”

I stared at him as I reached for the fridge handle. “Are you some sort of house psychic?”

Anson barked out a laugh—or something that resembled one. It was gritty and sounded rusty. “A house psychic?”

Opening the fridge, I peeked inside to find the things I needed. Salsa, sharp cheddar, lettuce. “You just seem to know all these things about my house without me telling you. Maybe it’s because you build them for a living.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, but his voice had lost the edge of humor.

I handed him the cheese and a grater. “Think you can handle this?”

Anson scowled at me. “You and your brother never think I can feed myself.”

I snorted. “Shep thinks it’s his job to take care of everyone in his orbit. I, on the other hand, just want to make sure you’re not going to maim yourself on my cheese grater. Not sure my homeowner’s insurance covers that.”

He let out a huff of air and set to work shredding some cheese for us.

I washed the lettuce and began chopping. It was nice having someone else in my space, even if he was quiet. The energy of another human being was comforting.

“This enough?” Anson asked.

I peeked over and nodded. “You can put it in a bowl. You probably know where those are, too.”

Anson got the cabinet right on the first try.

“Freaky,” I muttered.

He brought down two bowls, putting the cheese in one and setting the other next to my cutting board. His arm brushed mine—the hazards of a tiny kitchen. Just that faint touch of skin against skin sent a pleasant shiver skating over me.

Anson lifted the jar of salsa, frowning. “What brand is this?”

I stilled. “Brand?”

He nodded. “I’ve never seen it before.”

I set the knife down on my cutting board and turned to face him, an appalled look on my face. “Anson Bartholomew Cattigan.”

That lip twitch was back, a little stronger this time. “You know that’s not my name, right?”

“Well, I don’t know your full name, and I needed three names for emphasis.”

“It’s Anson Sutter Hunt.”

It was my turn to scowl at him. “God, that’s a good name. But that’s not the point. We do not eat store-bought salsa in this house.”

He smirked at me. Smirked. It wasn’t a smile, but it was somehow better, the slight curve of those lips beneath his thick scruff. I wondered how that scruff would feel when he kissed you, how it would feel if he—nope, nope, nope. I was not going there.

I took the salsa jar from Anson’s hand and opened it. “This was made with tomatoes, peppers, and onions from Nora’s garden. And a blend of spices that Lolli has been perfecting for years.”

Anson reached out and dipped his finger into the jar.

My jaw went slack. “You didn’t.”

He popped that finger into his mouth, and I shut right up. His brows lifted. “Damn, Reckless. That’s good.”

I swallowed hard, averting my gaze from that mouth. “Told you.”

The timer dinged, saving me from making an utter fool of myself. I got to work pulling the tortillas out of the warmer and plating them so we could assemble our tacos. “You want a beer?”

“Don’t drink.”

I glanced at Anson as I handed him his plate. “Oh. I’ve got Coke, too. Water, milk, OJ.”

“Coke’s good,” he muttered as he took the plate.

I grabbed a soda for him and a Corona for me, then paused. But before I could change my plan, Anson cut me off.

“You can have one. Not gonna send me on a bender or anything.”

I bit my bottom lip but grabbed the beer. “I didn’t want to be rude or unkind.”

Anson lifted the lid on the Crock-Pot. “Went through a rough patch. Leaned a little too heavily on the bottle, so I just cut it out. Then it’s not a risk.” He motioned for me to go before him.

I grabbed the serving fork and quickly shredded the chicken, placing some on my two tortillas. “That takes some serious strength.”

Anson merely shrugged as he served himself. “Don’t miss it most of the time. The moments I do are exactly why I cut it out. Do ginger beer instead.”

I studied Anson as I slid onto a stool at the island. There was so much I wanted to know yet couldn’t bring myself to ask. “It’s easy to try to numb yourself when you’re going through something painful.”

He took the stool next to mine, cracking his Coke. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

I loaded my tacos with cheese, lettuce, and salsa, using that as an excuse to avoid meeting his eyes. “Not substances or anything. But I had to turn everything off after my family died. I couldn’t look at pictures or see mementos. I had to pretend like they never existed at all.”

It was the first time I’d actually said that out loud, admitted that I’d erased my family in my mind for so many years.

Anson was quiet. The silence swirled around us like a living, breathing thing.

Finally, I forced myself to look at him. I expected disgust or maybe judgment; instead, I found understanding in those blue-gray eyes.

“Sometimes, the only way to stay alive and breathing is to pretend it never happened. Over time, you can let it in, piece by piece, but if you do it all at once, you could drown in the grief.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask what he’d lost. Who. But I didn’t want to ruin the gift Anson was giving me right now. Understanding. The feeling of not being alone.

I’d spent the last fourteen years surrounded by people. The Colsons’ home was never quiet. People were always everywhere. But a small part of me still felt alone. As if no one really understood what I’d been through.

But the pain swirling in Anson’s eyes told me he understood. The fact that I could spill the thing I was most ashamed of, and he got it? That was one of the greatest gifts I’d ever received.

I took a sip of beer, trying to clear the lump in my throat. “I still feel pretty guilty about it.” That and the fact that the last few moments I’d shared with Emilia had been spent fighting about a stupid shirt.

Anson studied me for a long moment. “Is that what the house is? Atonement?”

I took a minute to really think about his question. To be honest with myself, even if I didn’t like the answer. Finally, I shook my head. “It’s my search for peace.”

That was the real truth. Restoring the Victorian was me trying to finally put my family to rest, but at the same time, carry them with me. It was trying to truly have a home.

Anson nodded slowly. “There’s no greater gift than peace.”

His words were simple, but they carried weight. Because they were spoken by a man who clearly hadn’t found it yet—not for any length of time anyway.

I picked at my tortilla, trying to get up the courage to ask my next question. “Do you get that peace anywhere?”

Anson stilled, his taco halfway to his mouth, his eyes cutting to me. “Sometimes. Working on a house, losing myself in the physicality of it all. Or for a few minutes in the quiet at the cabin. There’s something about Sparrow Falls. It helps.”

Every word he spoke felt like a treasure. Because I knew he didn’t give this sort of thing to just anyone. Probably not even Shep.

“That’s good. Hold on to those things,” I whispered.

Anson grunted in what I thought was agreement and set to eating his dinner. I took that as a sign that chatting time was over. We ate in silence, but the comfort was still there. Both in having Anson here and knowing it was good for him to have the company, too. I couldn’t imagine how lonely it was to live your life so cut off from others. And getting these true glimpses of him…it killed that he lived his life that way.

When we finished eating, Anson immediately set to cleaning up.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said.

He cut me off with a shake of his head. “You cooked. I clean.”

His tone was so gruff I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. “It was a team effort, so why don’t we clean together?”

Anson arched a brow at me. “I grated cheese.”

“It still counts,” I argued.

A soft whine sounded from the threshold of the kitchen. Biscuit looked up at me with pleading eyes.

“Oh, all right.” I plucked a piece of leftover chicken from my plate. “Sit,” I commanded.

Biscuit plunked his butt on the floor, and I tossed him the chicken. He caught it on the fly and dashed to his bed.

When I turned around, Anson was shaking his head. “You’re gonna spoil that dog.”

“He deserves a little spoiling,” I defended.

Anson muttered something under his breath that I couldn’t quite make out.

“Just hand me those plates,” I groused.

We fell into an easy rhythm. Anson rinsed the dishes and then handed them to me to put into the dishwasher. There was something about watching his hands in the suds as he scrubbed. Long, strong fingers bending and flexing, his forearm muscles pulling taut as he moved.

I forced my gaze away as I took the last plate, placing it in the dishwasher. As I straightened, I nearly smacked into Anson, not realizing he was still standing at the sink. “Sorry, I⁠—”

My words cut off as my breath hitched. He was so close. I could smell the hint of sweat still clinging to his skin from the day’s work, the tinges of sawdust and sage.

His eyes swirled, the blue disappearing completely into the stormy gray. “Thanks for dinner.”

My gaze dropped from Anson’s eyes to his mouth, the lips surrounded by scruff. The ache to know what they would feel like pressed to mine flared hot and bright. The need to know what he tasted like surged.

“Reckless,” he growled.

My focus shot back to his eyes. They flashed, blue streaking through the gray.

“Don’t.”

“I—”

He cut me off with a single look. “This isn’t that. I don’t do relationships.”

Pain flared somewhere deep, the agony of rejection making me start to pull away. But Anson grabbed my arm. His grip managed to be both gentle and firm. But his fingers burned, the contact searing into me.

“It’s not you,” he gritted out. “I don’t do relationships with anyone. Not friendship, not more. Wouldn’t want to saddle a single soul with the fucked-up shit that’s me. But you keep looking at me with those kiss-me eyes, all green and sparking gold, and it’s killing me. Doesn’t matter how much I want to drown in your taste. How much I want to know what it would be like to sink into that sweet heat. I can’t. I won’t.”

And then he was gone. Striding out of the kitchen before I could say a word.

The slamming of the door jolted me out of my haze.

My skin buzzed with the phantom energy Anson had left in his wake. I could still feel his fingers wrapped around my arm. Could hear his words echoing in my head.

I was too hot, my skin felt too tight for my body. I squeezed my thighs together on instinct, trying to relieve a little of the ache—one Anson had put there and refused to do a damned thing about.

I was so screwed. And not in a good way.

My feet pounded against the floorboards of the Victorian as I raced down the hallway, screaming for my parents, for Emilia. My throat was raw as smoke choked me, but I only screamed louder. No sound came out.

I was almost to my parents’ room. So close. They would be in there. They would keep me safe.

But just as I took the next step, the floorboards gave way with a horrific crack. Suddenly, I was falling, the flames swirling around me and swallowing me whole.

I jerked upright with a cough and sputter, breathing heavily. Biscuit whined next to me, his front paws up on the mattress.

“It’s okay. I’m okay,” I soothed as I patted his head. Or maybe I was reassuring myself.

I tried to even my breaths and slow the inhales and exhales, but something tickled my nose as I did. Fear slid through my veins, freezing me to the spot as my gaze jerked to the open window.

Smoke.

I leapt from the bed, grabbing my phone and rushing from my bedroom, Biscuit right by my side. No smoke alarms were going off in the guest cottage, and I’d replaced all the batteries when I moved in. It had to be from outside. A forest fire?

Quickly hooking Biscuit’s leash to his collar, I stepped outside.

A gasp slipped from my lips, and my hand flew to my mouth. The house. My house. It was engulfed in flames.