Page 107 of Perfectly Grumpy

She inspects the label. “Even if it is, it’s not going to kill you, Sheriff.”

“Who knows what’s actually in there?” I protest. “Someone could’ve filled it with poison.”

“I seriously doubt anyone broke into this cabin just to swap out the first-aid supplies with poison. Even Bart doesn’t have the wherewithal to come up with that.”

She pulls out the antibiotic ointment next. “Maybe it’ll hurt less if I distract you,” she says more gently. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

“The thing you don’t know,” I grit out, “is that I hate get-to-know-you questions with no point.”

“What a fun little fact. I bet you’re a delight at cocktail parties. Okay, since you love pointless questions, where do you see yourself in ten years?”

“Are you trying to torture me for fun?” I ask.

“Always, Sheriff.”

I sigh. “My dream’s always been to playhockey.”

“And after that?” she asks, staring at my cut.

“I want to get published. But writing’s a long shot.”

Her hand lingers on my arm as her face tips toward mine. “You’re not just some long shot, Tate. You’re extraordinary. Your book will get published. It’s too good not to.”

I blink, stunned by her words, before glancing down at the bandage I didn’t know she applied. “Wait…you’re done already?”

“See? Distraction works like a charm.”

I let out a low chuckle. “So you weren’t just asking about my dreams because youcare?”

“Of course I care.” She puts away the first-aid supplies, tossing me a grin. “Yousurvived,didn’t you?”

“Barely,” I mutter.

Suddenly, the lights flicker in the cabin before they die completely, plunging us into darkness.

“The storm must’ve knocked out our power,” I say, standing. “I’ll see if there are candles.”

I find my way through the dark room until I reach the small cabinet in the kitchen. Inside are two candles and a matchbox. I light them, setting them on top of the fireplace mantel since it’s too hot for an actual fire.

She stands in the center of the room, her damp clothes clinging to her, pupils dilated in the dim light.

Her gaze drops to my chest, then quickly away. “Might want to hang that up to dry while we’re here,” she says, pointing to my soggy cotton shirt.

I squint at her. “Are you asking me to undress, Sunny?”

Her cheeks flush, barely visible in the dim light. “You know what I meant.”

She turns toward the sofa bed as I pull my wet shirt over my head and hang it on the back of a chair. When I sit next to her, she doesn’t acknowledge me. Or the tension in the room. Or the way she’s avoiding even looking my way.

And I’m suddenly aware of how alone we are—no family, no children, no distractions.

It’s not like we haven’t done this all week. But this time, it’s different—we can’t ignore the pull between us now.

A piece of damp hair falls into her face, and before I can stop myself, I reach out and gently tuck it behind her ear, my fingers lingering against her skin.

Her gaze lifts to mine, and for a second we both still, the candlelight making her face glow.

If I lean in, if I close that inch of space between us…

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