Page 17 of Unclench Me Softly

He nods. Just one.

I blink. “That was not rhetorical.”

“Traffic was light,” he says, voice low and deep and so serious it vibrates in my bones.

“I didn’t even give you directions yet,” I mutter.

He walks closer. Not fast. Not threatening. Just... there. Big. Quiet. Built like the forest grew him personally and sent him here to emotionally disrupt me.

I force myself to stand, sticky spoon still in hand.

“You’re... Sebastian Wolf?” I ask.

He nods again. “Seb.”

Of course it’s Seb. Of course the emotionally repressed poet who smells like cedarwood and unresolved tension is named Seb.

“I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,” I say, trying to wipe fudge ripple off my robe with the dignity of a woman who totally has her life together and is not thinking about what that beard would feel like between my thighs.

“Should I come back later?” he asks, gesturing to the ice cream. “You look... in the middle of something.”

“I was meditating,” I lie. “Through dessert.”

He almost smiles. Almost.

I don’t like what that does to me.

“Well,” I say, pulling myself up straighter. “Since you’re here, I guess we can get you settled. Unless anyone else wants to appear from the woods next. Maybe a werewolf? A pirate? My last shred of sanity?”

He doesn’t laugh.

He just picks up his own bag, leather. Rugged. Probably older than me, and waits for me to lead.

I sigh and drop the spoon into the empty carton like I’m burying my last comfort.

Then I mutter under my breath, “I’m billing every single one of these beautiful disasters for an extra night.”

I lead Seb across the compound like a perfectly grounded, extremely not-distracted guide who is absolutely not imagining what his hands would look like wrapped around a mug… or a waist… or tied to one of the sacred yurt posts for educational reasons.

He walks behind me, quiet, heavy-footed, deliberate, as I gesture vaguely at things that may or may not be real parts of the retreat.

“This is the Moon Path,” I say, waving toward a dirt trail I just named five seconds ago. “It connects the sacred domes with the labyrinth. It’s for grounding. Or walking. Or... wandering dramatically when you’re feeling raw.”

No response.

I glance back. He’s just watching me, brow slightly furrowed, like I’m some rare forest bird who just asked him to pay $5,000 for enlightenment and a stress rock.

God, he’s tall. And built like he could lift a log and my emotional baggage in one arm.

I clear my throat and keep walking.

“This,” I say, motioning toward the koi pond, “Is the Reflection Pool. Guests are encouraged to sit here and journal. Or cry. But only if they can do it quietly and without disrupting the fish.”

Still no comment.

Not even a pity chuckle.

I’m sweating now. Not from nerves. From attraction. Which is so much worse.

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