Back Home & Unbothered
Jasmine
The train had barely pulled out of Atlanta before Jasmine Monroe silenced her phone and dropped it face down on the seat beside her.
Let them wonder.
Let Eric call. Let her boss panic. Let the world try to spin on without her.
For once, she wasn’t going to be the one fixing it.
She leaned her head against the window, watching winter blur by. Trees stripped bare, skies
washed gray, distant towns dusted in white like powdered sugar over a sheet cake. She pressed her palm to her stomach—flat, firm, anxious. She wasn’t scared.
Not exactly.
She was raw.
Exhausted from wearing too many masks. Too much face. Too much forgiveness.
And now, two weeks after her very public breakup with Atlanta’s favorite socialite cardiologist and her very private resignation from the career she’d bled for—she was here. Back in Chestnut Ridge.She hadn’t seen her aunt Velma’s house in over a decade, but she could still smell the vanilla-cinnamon candle Velma used to burn in the parlor every December. She could still hear that raspy, country-warm voice yelling, “Jazzy girl! Bring me that bottle of eggnog and stop hiding those hips like you didn’t inherit the good ones!”
Chestnut Ridge had always been safe.
And now it was all she had.
Her boots crunched in the snow as she stepped out of the cab, black wool coat wrapped tightly around her full frame. Her thighs strained against her leather leggings with every step, but she didn’t care. She looked good. And for once, she dressed for herself.
The Victorian loomed ahead, two stories of blue-gray siding, white trim, and arched windows that looked half haunted and half regal. The wraparound porch sagged slightly, but the hand-carved banisters still held that same charm they had when she was a girl.
“I’m home, Auntie,” Jasmine whispered, stepping up onto the creaking boards. “Let’s see what kind of mess you left me.”
She jammed the antique brass key into the lock and gave it a twist. The door groaned open like it had aged fifty years since the last time she’d crossed its threshold. The smell of dust, lemon oil, and faint tobacco greeted her. The floor moaned beneath her boots as she stepped into the foyer.
It was... exactly as she remembered.
Velma had been stubborn like that. Nothing changed unless absolutely necessary.
The chandelier overhead still sparkled with crystals that caught the afternoon sun. The wallpaper still bore faded blue damask prints. And the fireplace—oh, that fireplace—still dominated the parlor with its carved wooden mantel and lion-paw feet.
But the radiator was dead cold.
And there was a draft that could slice through bone.
Jasmine wrapped her arms around herself and swore. “Girl, if this turns into a Christmas Hallmark horror movie, I swear I’ll throw hands with a ghost.”
That’s when the knock came.
Three slow, solid raps.
She turned.
Stared at the door.
Another knock. Heavier this time.
She opened it cautiously, half-expecting a neighbor with a casserole.
Instead, it was him.
The man standing on her porch didn’t belong to a casserole universe.
He was tall. Broad. Big in that way that made rooms look too small and jackets look lucky to hold on.
His beard was thick and neatly trimmed. His skin the color of dark honey after a storm. He wore a red-and-black flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing tattooed forearms and large hands—calloused and capable. His jeans were faded at the knees and hugged thighs made for sin.
And his eyes?
Dark. Sharp. Hungry.
“Jasmine Monroe?” he asked, voice deep enough to be illegal.
She swallowed. “That’s me.”
“I’m Blake Carter. Velma’s handyman. She left instructions for me to keep an eye on the property. Thought I’d stop by when I saw the light. Heating system working?”
She blinked. “I... haven’t really tested it.”
He nodded. “Then you’re about to be cold. It’s gonna drop below twenty tonight. You’ll freeze in here.”
He moved past her like a slow-moving storm, boots heavy on the floorboards. The scent of pine, smoke, and something sinfully masculine trailed behind him.
“Radiator’s this way?” he asked without looking.
“Parlor,” Jasmine said, shutting the door behind him. “You always walk into strangers’ houses without waiting to be invited?”
He glanced over his shoulder, smirk tugging at his mouth. “You always answer the door in lipstick and thigh-hugging pants like you’re ready to film a video?”
Her brow arched. “Excuse me?”
“No disrespect,” Blake said, crouching near the radiator and opening a toolbox she hadn’t even seen him carry in. “Just saying, if I freeze to death here, it won’t be from the cold.”
She folded her arms under her chest. “Do you always flirt with new clients, or is it just me?”
Blake didn’t look up. “Not flirting. Just telling the truth.”
The radiator groaned. He turned a valve, adjusted a few pieces. The man moved like he understood heat on a cellular level.
Jasmine sat on the edge of Velma’s fainting couch, crossing her legs slowly—fully aware his eyes flicked up when her thigh peeked through the slit in her coat.
“You got curves that’d bring a man to church,” he murmured as he stood.
“You offering confession?”
“I’m offering insulation.” He smirked. “Pipes should be flowing again in an hour. But I’ll check back before dark.”
He moved to the door, then paused. “By the way?”
She tilted her head. “Yeah?”
“That lipstick?”
“Mm?”
“Don’t wear it around me unless you’re prepared to find it smeared somewhere other than your mouth.”
Jasmine’s breath caught.
But she didn’t flinch.
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
Blake nodded once. A man who said exactly what he meant.
Then he left.
And Jasmine stood in the middle of that old parlor, flushed and flustered and... intrigued.
Very intrigued.
If the house didn’t melt first, she might.
Jasmine
The door clicked shut with a soft finality, and for a full ten seconds, Jasmine didn’t move.
Not an inch.
She stood in the middle of the parlor, heart thudding like a distant drum, her breath caught somewhere between indignation and curiosity. Her thighs still tingled from the way his eyes had traveled—bold, slow, unapologetic.
“Don’t wear it around me unless you’re prepared to find it smeared somewhere other than your mouth.”
She fanned herself with her hand.
“Jesus.”
The man had walked into her life like a furnace, turned up the dial, and sauntered out leaving nothing but smoke and want.
Jasmine peeled off her coat and let it fall over the arm of the settee. She needed air. Not cold air. Not snowstorm air. She needed headspace.
She padded barefoot through the house, each creaking floorboard another memory. Her fingers brushed over the banister as she ascended the stairs. Her aunt’s scent still lingered—lavender, lemon balm, and peppermint candy.
In the upstairs bedroom, she pushed open the closet and found exactly what she’d expected: velvet-trimmed church coats, tins of sewing buttons, and a cigar box labeled “STUFF THAT AIN’T YOUR BUSINESS.”
She smiled despite herself. Velma had always been full of grace and grit.
Jasmine kicked off her boots and stood in the center of the room. It was colder upstairs, but she didn’t care. She stripped down to her camisole and leggings and sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the antique vanity.
The woman staring back at her was different than the one who’d arrived in Chestnut Ridge.
This one had edges again.
Soft, yes. But sharp where it counted.
The old her—the one who’d bent herself to fit inside narrow dresses and narrower expectations—was gone. And in her place?
A woman with hips that swayed when she walked, eyes that narrowed when challenged, and a body made for comfort, pleasure, and taking up space.
Her fingers grazed her lips.
Still slightly tingling from Blake’s words.
It wasn’t just that he was fine—which, good Lord, he was. It was the way he spoke to her. Like he’d already decided she was worth desiring. Not in spite of her curves, but because of them. Like he was dying to touch her, not shrink her.
She stood abruptly.
This wasn’t a romance novel.
This was real life. And Blake Carter? Was not going to be her rebound mistake just because his arms looked like sin and his mouth moved like poetry dipped in bourbon.
She descended the stairs again just as the radiator let out a long hiss and started clanking to life.
A rush of warmth flowed through the pipes, and she laughed. Low. Surprised.
Damn handyman really knew his stuff.
She moved to the fireplace and crouched down, stacking logs the way Velma had taught her. She struck a match, fed the flames, and sat back as the fire began to crackle. Outside, snow fell like powdered sugar, blanketing the street in white.
Inside, she curled up on the couch in an oversized sweater, mug of tea in hand, legs tucked under her. The firelight kissed her skin and cast shadows on the walls like ghosts waltzing through time.
She pulled her phone from the coffee table and opened it reluctantly.
Fourteen missed calls from Eric.
Three voicemails from her former boss at the boutique chain.
One text from her mother: You left a perfectly good man, Jasmine.
She deleted it all.
No responses. No explanations.
Not this time.
The only message she kept was from Velma, saved in her voicemail for two years:
“You are not too loud, baby girl. You are not too big. You are not too much. You are mine. You are magic. Don’t forget.”
She closed her eyes and let it play again.
Just once more.
Then, finally, Jasmine let herself exhale.
She was home.
And somewhere out there—somewhere in this snow-covered, sleepy little town—was a man who looked at her like hunger and talked like temptation.
This winter might be cold.
But the fire inside her?
It had only just started to burn.
Jasmine
The fire warmed the parlor slowly, breathing life back into the old home the way a chest expands after a long-held breath. Jasmine stretched her legs toward the flames, feeling the pins and needles in her toes begin to thaw.
She wasn’t used to silence like this.
Back in Atlanta, even late at night, there was noise—honking, sirens, club music vibrating through downtown streets, people arguing, laughing, living loudly. Here? The only sound was the crackle of burning logs and the occasional whistle of wind sifting through the old window frames.
She wrapped her sweater tighter around her, but the warmth wasn’t what comforted her.
It was the stillness.
The peace.
For the first time in months, her shoulders weren’t up around her ears.
She closed her eyes and let her head fall backward. The heat brushed her cheeks, warming her skin, loosening her thoughts. She was drifting when—
A creak sliced through the quiet.
Her eyes snapped open.
The front porch.
She froze, breath caught in her throat as heavy footsteps approached. There was a familiar rhythm to them—slow, confident, purposeful.
Then the knock came.
Three taps. Low, deliberate. Not impatient. Not timid.
Just claiming space.
Jasmine stood quickly, adjusting her sweater and ignoring the sudden flutter in her stomach. She crossed the room and opened the door—
And there he was again.
Snowflakes clung to Blake’s beard, melting into tiny drops on his warm skin. The flannel stretched across his chest looked like it had been made for him alone.
“Heat kicked on?” he asked, gaze sweeping over her body in a single, warm stroke.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “Just… checking?”
“Making sure you’re not freezing to death.” His voice dipped into a shade of concern that made her pulse trip. “This house gets cold. Velma hated that.”
Her chest softened. “You… knew her well?”
He nodded. “Better than most.”
“Good memories?”
His jaw worked once. “Some.”
Jasmine sensed the heaviness behind the word but didn’t pry. A man like Blake didn’t give away everything at once. He was the type who unfolded slowly, revealing sharp edges and softer corners only when earned.
She lifted her chin. “So… did you drive all the way back here to check on my heat?”
“No.” His eyes pinned hers. “Came back to check on you.”
Her breath stuttered.
He didn’t step inside.
He didn’t step back either.
He just stood there in the doorway, radiating heat she swore she could feel beneath her skin.
“You settling in?” he asked.
“As well as anyone could without furniture and with only one working radiator.”
His lips twitched. “I can help with that.”
“With which part?”
He smirked. “Whichever one you’ll let me.”
God. The man was lethal.
She swallowed hard, searching his face for signs of games. But he didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Didn’t look away.
This man wasn’t flirting.
He was stating terms.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Blake said, finally stepping back onto the porch. “Storm’s gonna get worse tonight. Don’t open the windows and don’t let the fire go out.”
“Yes, sir,” she blurted before she could stop herself.
His eyes darkened. Slow. Heated.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Don’t call me sir unless you mean it.”
Her heartbeat slammed.
He let the silence stretch, thick and electric, before giving her a nod and walking off into the snow.
The door shut with a soft thud.
Jasmine pressed her back against it, palms flat against the wood, chest rising and falling too fast.
HOLY. HELL.
Chestnut Ridge was going to be… dangerous.
And delicious.
Whichever came first.
Blake
Blake Carter’s boots crunched through the snow as he strode down Jasmine Monroe’s walkway, fists shoved into his pockets, jaw clenched so tight he could feel the pressure in his temples.
He didn’t intend to come back.
He’d fixed the radiator. That was the job. Done.
He told himself he’d head home, grab a beer, turn on the game, go about his life the way he always did—quiet, simple, alone.
But the moment he drove off, he kept seeing her.
Jasmine.
Standing in that old Victorian with lips glossed berry red, hips hugged by leather, thighs soft and thick and calling to him like a sin he’d already committed in his mind.
He wasn’t a man who chased.
He watched. He waited. He chose slow.
But the moment he saw her on that porch?
He was gone.
She was trouble wrapped in warmth. Fire dipped in softness. That confident tilt of her chin. That spark behind her eyes. That unspoken dare in the way she laughed.
Blake reached his truck and leaned against the door, breath forming white clouds in the cold.
He shouldn’t want her.
He’d promised himself not to touch anyone local. Not to get involved with anyone who could break him the way the last woman did. Not to feel anything he couldn’t walk away from.
But Jasmine Monroe was not forgettable.
She was the kind of woman who stuck. Who lingered. Who carved her way into a man’s bones and stayed there.
And he’d be lying if he said the idea didn’t scare the hell out of him.
He ran a hand down his beard and exhaled.
He needed to keep a professional distance.
He needed to keep his hands to himself.
He needed to—
His phone buzzed. A text from his buddy, Jonas.
Storm’s rolling in strong. Roads’ll be bad. Stay put.
He glanced back at Jasmine’s house.
Warm light glowed from the parlor window.
She was alone.
Soft.
Curvy.
Tempting.
Blake swallowed hard.
He didn’t need to get involved.
He didn’t need to get close.
He sure as hell didn’t need to go back to her porch two hours later.
And yet…
He already knew he would.
