Chapter Two: Dangerous Ground

Ayana sat directly across from Nelson at the dining table, acutely aware of every breath, every glance, every shift of his body. Her mother had outdone herself—pot roast, roasted vegetables, homemade rolls, apple pie cooling on the counter. The kind of spread meant to impress.

It was working, but not the way her mother intended.

"So, Ayana," her father said, cutting into his meat with enthusiasm. "Boston treated you well. Your mother says you're considering staying up there permanently?"

The table went quiet. Catherine's fork paused mid-air. Her mother's smile turned brittle.

"I've been offered a position," Ayana said carefully. "At a nonprofit. Working with at-risk youth."

"That's wonderful work," Nelson said, his voice neutral. But his knuckles were white around his fork. "Important. Those kids need advocates."

"Thank you." She met his gaze, refusing to look away first. "I think it's where I could make a real difference."

"Could?" Her father's laugh was strained. "Sweetheart, your home is here. Your family. Your community. We need you too."

"My home is where I choose to make it, Dad."

Silence stretched across the table like a wire pulled taut. Her mother reached for the wine bottle, refilling glasses with unnecessary precision. Catherine suddenly became fascinated by her green beans.

Nelson's eyes never left Ayana's face.

"Well," her father said finally, clearing his throat. "We'll discuss it later. Let's just enjoy having you home for the holidays. Right, Nelson? Tell her about the center's new youth leadership program."

Nelson blinked, seeming to surface from somewhere deep. "It's... we've had good success. Fifteen kids enrolled. Focused on career planning, life skills, college preparation." He took a long drink of water. "We could always use more volunteers. If you're interested while you're here."

"I'd like that." She leaned forward slightly, watched his eyes flick to her neckline before jerking away. "I'd love to see what you've built."

"It's not just me. Dr. Hayes, the staff, the community—"

"But you're the one who made it happen," her father interjected proudly. "Nelson's being modest. This man works eighty-hour weeks. Practically lives at that center."

"Practically?" Ayana asked softly, still holding Nelson's gaze. "Or actually?"

Something flickered in his expression—acknowledgment, maybe. Or warning.

"The work is important," he said quietly. "It deserves dedication."

"And you deserve rest," Dr. Hayes's words, probably. But Ayana said them anyway. "Even saints need to take care of themselves."

"I'm no saint." His voice dropped, rough. "Trust me."

The words hung between them, loaded with meaning only she seemed to hear. Her father laughed, completely oblivious. "Nelson's too humble. The man's a pillar of this community."

If he only knew what his pillar was thinking right now. Because Ayana could read it in Nelson's eyes—the war between restraint and hunger, duty and desire. She'd awakened something in him, and he hated her for it.

Good.

The rest of the meal passed in careful small talk—church events, community gossip, Catherine's upcoming engagement party. Ayana pushed food around her plate, hyperaware of Nelson's presence. The way he moved with controlled precision. The deep timbre of his voice. The flex of his throat when he swallowed.

She was twenty-four, not sixteen. She should be past this.

She absolutely wasn't.

"Ayana, help me with dessert?" Her mother's tone made it clear this wasn't a request.

In the kitchen, away from the men, her mother turned with that expression—the one that preceded lectures about propriety and reputation.

"That dress is inappropriate."

"It's a sweater dress, Mom. It's winter."

"It's too short. Too..." Her mother's lips pursed. "Revealing. You know how people talk in this town."

"Let them talk."

"Ayana Marcus." Her mother's voice dropped to that dangerous whisper. "You represent this family. Your father is a respected leader. Nelson is a guest in our home, a pillar of our community, and you're sitting there—"

"Sitting there what?" Heat flooded Ayana's cheeks. "Existing? Wearing clothes? Being an adult?"

"You're being provocative. I saw the way you looked at him."

The accusation landed like a slap. Ayana's heart hammered. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't play games with me. I raised you better than this." Her mother's eyes were sharp, knowing. "Nelson Ward is your father's best friend. He's twice your age. He's dedicated his life to service after losing the love of his life. Don't make yourself foolish over a man like that."

*Too late,* Ayana thought. But she said, "You're imagining things, Mom."

"Am I?" Her mother studied her face. "Just... be careful. This family has a reputation to maintain."

Ayana carried the pie back to the dining room, feeling Nelson's gaze like a brand on her spine. When she bent to serve her father's slice, she felt the dress ride up her thighs. Felt Nelson's sharp intake of breath.

She wasn't imagining it.

And she wasn't sorry.

---

After dinner, her father dragged Nelson into the study—budget reports, program planning, church partnership details. Catherine escaped to call her fiancé. Her mother busied herself in the kitchen, pointedly not asking for help.

Ayana found herself alone in the living room, staring at the Christmas tree and wondering how two weeks had already become an eternity.

"You shouldn't do that."

She spun. Nelson stood in the doorway, his expression dark, conflicted. He'd rolled up his sleeves, exposing corded forearms that had no business being that distracting.

"Do what?"

"You know exactly what." He stepped closer but stopped short of entering the room, like an invisible line held him back. "Walking around dressed like... looking at me like..."

"Like a woman?" She lifted her chin. "Should I wear a turtleneck and floor-length skirt? Would that make you more comfortable?"

His jaw clenched. "This isn't a game, Ayana."

"I'm not playing." She moved toward him, watched him tense like a cornered animal. "I'm just existing. If that makes you uncomfortable, maybe you should examine why."

"Stop." The word was harsh. "You don't understand what you're doing."

"Don't I?" She stopped an arm's length away, close enough to see gold flecks in his dark eyes, the silver threading his temples. Close enough to smell soap and something warmer, distinctly male. "You've been looking at me all night like I'm something you want but can't have. Don't pretend I imagined it."

The air between them crackled. She watched the war play out across his face—desire versus duty, want versus guilt. His hands flexed at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for her.

"You're Marcus's daughter," he said finally, voice strained. "You're twenty-four years old. You're—"

"Not a child anymore." She took another step. "That's what scares you, isn't it? That I grew up. That I came back different. That you can't hide behind 'she's just a girl' anymore."

"Ayana—"

"You feel it too. I know you do."

For one breathless, electric moment, she thought he would close the distance. Thought he'd grab her, show her exactly what those strong hands could do. She saw it in his eyes—the hunger, the desperation, the need.

Then her father's voice boomed from the study: "Nelson! Did you see the community center enrollment numbers?"

Reality crashed back. Nelson stepped away like she'd burned him, his breathing uneven, his expression shuttered.

"This can't happen," he said quietly. "Whatever you think you want—"

"I know exactly what I want." She held his gaze. "The question is whether you're brave enough to admit you want it too."

She walked past him, letting her arm brush his, feeling him shudder at the contact. At the doorway, she glanced back.

He was staring after her like a man watching his own salvation slip away.

"Goodnight, Nelson," she said softly. "See you at the center tomorrow."

His eyes widened slightly. "What?"

"I'm volunteering. Starting tomorrow." She smiled. "Dad set it up. Didn't he tell you?"

She left him standing there, frozen, as she climbed the stairs.

---

Catherine was waiting in Ayana's room, cross-legged on the bed, eyes wide.

"Oh my God," her sister breathed. "Ana. What are you doing?"

"I have no idea." Ayana collapsed beside her, adrenaline still singing through her veins. "But I can't stop."

"He looked at you like..." Catherine shook her head. "Like he was drowning and you were air. Like he wanted to—" She stopped herself. "This is insane. He's Dad's best friend. He's forty-five. He lost the love of his life and hasn't looked at another woman since. This is—"

"I know." Ayana covered her face with her hands. "I know it's wrong. I know it's impossible. I know all the reasons this can't happen."

"But?"

She dropped her hands, met her sister's eyes. "But I've spent my whole life being good. Being perfect. Being what everyone else needed me to be. And for the first time, I want something just for me. Even if it destroys everything."

Catherine was quiet for a long moment. Then: "He's going to fight this. You know that, right? He's spent twenty years building walls. You're asking him to tear them down."

Ayana's smile was sharp, reckless. "Good. I like a challenge."

Downstairs, she heard Nelson's deep voice saying goodbye, heard the front door close. She went to the window, watched him walk to his truck through the falling snow. He paused before getting in, looked up at her window like he knew she'd be watching.

Even from this distance, she felt the heat of his gaze. The warning in it. The want.

*Two weeks,* she'd told herself when she'd boarded that bus.

Now she wasn't sure either of them would survive two days.