Page 32 of Mated to the Mountain Bear
“I did.” That’s true. I’d changed my mind when I realised the water was still Baltic.
“The water heater.” It’s not a question. Understanding dawns on his expression, followed by steely determination, like he’s relieved it’s a problem he can actually solve. “I’ll fix it.”
“You don’t have to...”
But he’s already heading for the utility closet, eating up the distance in a few long strides.
I follow, not wanting to seem ungrateful, but also desperate for the promise of hot water. “Only if it’s not too much trouble…”
The closet is cramped, barely wide enough for his shoulders, when he crouches in front of the water heater.
I hover in the doorway, arms wrapped around myself, watching him examine connections with practiced eyes.
“My toolbox is by the door,” he says without looking back. “Could you grab it for me?”
I retrieve the metal box, heavier than expected, and set it within his reach. The light from the hallway barely penetrates the closet, leaving us in semi-darkness.
“Wrench,” he says, holding out his hand.
I dig through the tools, find what looks right, and pass it over. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and this time I swear his hand lingers a second longer than necessary. The touch sends heat up my arm, a reminder of how those hands felt in my imagination last night.
The silence stretches while I shift my stance, keeping my weight off the sorest parts of my feet, trying to think of anything other than the events of yesterday, which I’m trying to blame on some kind of stress-induced nymphomania. Except today isn’t starting much better as I struggle to find something to say that isn’t about how good he smells, even covered in sawdust from whatever he was doing earlier.
“How long have you lived up here?” I ask finally.
“Eight years.” His voice is muffled as he works, head and shoulders deep in the closet space. “I built the place myself.”
That doesn’t seem possible.
“The entire cabin?”
He smirks at the disbelief in my tone.
“Every board. With my brother’s help.”
I look around with fresh eyes, taking in the solid construction, the careful joints where walls meet ceiling, and the way everything fits perfectly despite the rugged setting.
“That’s amazing. I can barely hang a picture frame.”
He grunts and reaches deeper into the space, his shirt riding up slightly.
That’s when I notice the thick cobwebs clinging to his hair and shoulders and now caught in the dark strands that curl around his jaw.
“Oh, you’ve got...” Without thinking, I step closer, reaching out to brush the cobwebs from his hair. “Hold still, they’re everywhere.”
My fingers touch his wavy dark hair first, softer than I expected, then trail down to his shoulder, where more webbing clings to his shirt.
He goes completely still under my touch as I pick at the stubborn strands.
“Sorry, they’re really stuck,” I murmur, focused on my task.
But as I brush the last of the webbing from his shoulder, my hand lingers, registering the solid muscle beneath the fabric. My fingers seem to move of their own accord, following the curve of his shoulder, testing the strength there. It’s impressive.
Another slow swipe. I can’t seem to stop petting him.
What am I doing?
He turns his head slowly, and suddenly, we’re face to face in the narrow space. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his eyes and feel his breath against my cheek. His pupils are dilated, and there’s that heat again, the same look from this morning but stronger now.
