Page 18 of Holly's Grizzly

“Fine.” I huff a laugh. “Let me get you a better pillow, at least?”

She nods, and I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with that as I make a quick trip upstairs to grab one off my bed and slip a fresh pillowcase on it before returning to the living room.

By the time I get back, Holly is nearly asleep. It’s not a surprise after the day she’s had, but some part of me is still a little disappointed to see the night end.

Already, there’s a clock ticking in the back of my mind. As soon as the snow clears and the roads are passable, she’ll be gone.

Which is fine. It’sreasonablethat she’ll be on her way as soon as it’s safe for her to do so.

What’snotreasonable is the fact that I’m already dreading her leaving. Maybe it’s just the loneliness of deep winter and how quiet life can get up here, but… I don’t think it’s just that. At least not entirely.

Examining it in any more detail feels like a colossal mistake, so I don’t.

Instead, I walk slowly to the end of the couch where Holly is dozing, and when those blue, blue eyes of hers flutter open andanother small, sleepy smile turns up the corners of her lips, I ignore the sharp pang in my chest and hold out the pillow to her.

She lifts her head instead of taking it, and maybe it’s a sign she’s finally relaxing enough around me to be alright with accepting help—or, maybe more likely, she’s just tired enough not to feel self-conscious about it.

Whatever the case, I don’t question it as I slide the pillow beneath her head. I try not to think too hard about it when I drag the tips of my fingers through her fire-warmed hair as she lies back down.

And when I flip off the lights and head up to the loft, I do my damndest not to think of her there, just a few yards away in the darkness. I try not to think of anything at all as I tuck my hands behind my head, stare up at the skylight above the bed, and watch the snow swirl, knowing sleep is going to be a long, long time coming.

I wake to the scent of pancakes.

Wafting up from the kitchen, my mouth’s already watering as I blink blearily and spend my first few waking seconds trying to figure out why the hell my house smells like breakfast.

It only takes a couple of moments for everything that happened yesterday to come rushing back, and just a few more after that for me to be out of bed and halfway down the stairs before I realize.

Shirt. Shit.

I shucked mine off before I went to sleep, and probably shouldn’t be walking around half-naked while Holly’s—

“Hey,” she calls from where she stands at the stove, flipping a pancake. “Sorry if I woke you up, I saw you had everything on hand for pancakes, so I thought I’d return the favor of—”

Cake flipped, she turns, and stops speaking immediately when she sees me standing there, eyes widening as they rove up and down my naked torso.

I clear my throat awkwardly. “Sorry. I’ll go back upstairs and…”

Holly murmurs something from the kitchen, but I’m already retreating and miss whatever it is she says. By the time I make it back down—fully clothed, this time—there’s a bit of pink lingering on her cheeks.

“Sorry,” she says again, and I think I dislike the sound of the word on her lips even more than I dislikethanks. “This is weird, isn’t it? Me just barging in and raiding your cupboards. I should have waited for—”

I reach around her and grab one of the plates loaded up with fresh, steaming hot pancakes that look fluffy and delicious and perfect, then head to the cupboard for a bottle of maple syrup.

“These look great.”

Her cheeks flush pink again, but I think it’s more from pleasure this time as she finishes up the last pancake she’s working on and joins me at the kitchen island. As she does, she gives her hair a shake, and I notice a bit of perspiration on the back of her neck from standing over the hot stove.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a hair tie, would you? I lost mine in the river, and the only spares I had were in my pack.”

I reach over to open the junk drawer at the end of the island. “I think a rubber band is the best I can do. It’s been at least a decade since I wore my hair long enough to need those.”

“Sold,” she says gamely, studying me as she ties her hair up into a messy bun on the top of her head. “And you could still pull it off. You’ve got the whole ‘rugged man of the woods’ thing going on up here. It would fit the aesthetic.”

“The beard’s not enough?”

She tilts her head and gives it so much adorable consideration I have to chuckle.

“It’s a start, but a man bun would be the icing on top.” Her eyes sparkle, and the corners of her full lips turn up in a smile.

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