And trying her best to pretend she is not.
Something twists low in my chest.
I ignore it.
“Take off your coat. You are soaking the floor,” I say.
She jumps a little, then fumbles with the zipper and shoves the coat off her shoulders. It lands in a puddle of melted snow. She makes a face and bends to grab it.
“Just leave it,” I say, sharper than I mean to.
She freezes, half crouched.
I step in, scooping the coat off the floor before she can touch it again. Snow drips off the edges, so I shake it once and toss it over the back of the recliner closest to the fire.
“There,” I mutter. “It will dry.”
She straightens slowly, watching me like she cannot tell if I just helped or corrected her.
Then she shifts a little, and I finally get a proper look at her. That white sweater is soft and fitted, clinging in ways I have no business noticing. Curves that hit me low and hard.
I tear my eyes away, jaw tight, trying to pretend I am not cataloging every line of her body like a damn fool.
I focus on the fire instead. Not on the way her breath lifts her chest. Not on the curl she tucks behind her ear like she has no idea what that small move does to a man.
I pretend so hard it hurts.
She is staring at my torso. Trying not to, but she is. Her gaze skims over my chest, my abdomen, the trail of hair that disappears into the waistband of my jeans. She looks away fast, cheeks going bright red.
Good.Maybe she is embarrassed enough to look literally anywhere else. Maybe she will stop noticing everything I am trying not to feel.
I toss a couple more logs into the stove. The flames flare higher and heat spills across the cabin. I stand there for a moment, letting the warmth lick my skin.
I know storms.
I know when the air shifts and the wind tastes like ice.
I knew this one was coming hours before the first flake.
So I did what I always do.
Took the axe outside.
Split enough wood to last through the worst of it.
Worked until sweat rolled down my spine even in the cold.
I came inside without bothering with a shirt because the fire had the place hot enough to roast me. I grabbed the axe again and headed for the door, planning to split one more round before the storm buried everything.
The moment I pulled the door open, she was right there on the porch, hand raised like she was about to knock.
And just like that, everything changed.
She rubs her arms, trying to chase the cold from her bones. She looks around the cabin in small, curious glances. The recliners by the fire. The small kitchen to the right. The single bed through the open doorway. The rug in front of the stove. A narrow hallway beside the bedroom that leads to the bathroom. The storage room near the back wall.
This place is not big. Not cozy. Not even really meant for company.
Yet she stands there like she is trying to figure out where she fits.
