Like the way he looked at me last night. Even when I was being cold, it was like he saw something more in me. Something that made my heart skip a beat.

I top off my mug of coffee, and slip out into the morning chill. The air is sharp with pine and rain. The grass is still damp from last night’s rain, and it sticks to my feet as I move.

Whiskey trots after me with his tail high.

I frown at him. “You know you aren’t supposed to be outside.”

He just flicks his tail as if to say, “You forced me to talk through the woods yesterday, now I can do whatever I want.”

As we approach, Gage looks up. His gaze flicks to me, then down to my bare feet. His eyebrow shoots up.

“Morning,” he says, turning back to his work.

Inside the pen, a pair of young raccoons peek from a small wooden box. One blinks sleepily. The other hisses and ducks away.

“Well hello to you too,” I say.

“They were orphaned,” he says.

My heart clenches, and I look at them more closely. “Poor things. Are they okay?”

“They’re still adjusting.”

“I can appreciate that.” I sip my coffee. “What time is it?”

“Not quite seven.”

I groan. “And you’re already out working? That’s gross.”

“Didn’t take you for a morning person.” He smirks. “I guess I was right.”

“I guess so.”

“But you’re out of bed.”

“Because someone else likes to start his day early.”

Whiskey meows from behind us, as if letting Gage know who calls the shots in our relationship.

Gage scratches his cheek. The scar there catches the early light, drawing my eyes. I’m curious about it, but of course, I say nothing.

Instead, I say, “Thanks for letting me crash here.”

“It’s no problem.”

“Well, I hope we’re not in your way. I know having two guests wasn’t part of your plan.”

“I don’t usually plan beyond what happens next.”

We fall silent, and I shift from one foot to the other.

“Still. You didn’t have to help me.”

He shrugs. “You looked like you needed it.”

I look down, then back up at him. “I did.”

He’s silent for a beat, watching the trees. Then he says, “You okay?”