Page 22 of The Cabin

His eyes get dark. “I’ll turn around.” His words come out like grit through his teeth, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“It doesn’t matter because I’m not sleeping here!” My arms flail out, motioning around me.

“Yes, you are.”

“Fine! ThenI’msleeping on the couch.” I start to stomp out to the living room but he blocks my path.

“No.”

“Well then, I guess we’re at a standstill.” His unamused expression does nothing to deter me as I hold his glare with one of my own.

“Fine,” he sighs, and I start to celebrate, once again attempting the trek out of the room.

He puts his hands on my shoulders to stop me.

“What now?” I bite out, and he turns me, giving me a little push back to the bed.

“Get changed and get in bed.” Grayson walks over to the other side of the bed, rips open the comforter, and climbs in. I just stand there staring. “Get changed, Sol. And get in bed.”

“With you?!” I squeak, and he runs a hand over his face.

“Yes. With me. If you’re going to be difficult, then we’ll both sleep in here.” I feel like all the ax murderers in the surrounding woods can probably hear my gulp.

He turns on his side, facing away from me, turns off the lamp next to him, and smashes his head onto his pillow.

I just stand there. I cannot share a freaking bed with somebody’s husband! With this big, strong, handsome, infuriating man.

“I’m about three seconds from tying you to this bed, Sol.” My stomach clenches.Oh my god, Sol. Now isnotthe time to be picturing him tying you to this bed for…other reasons.

I furiously strip out of my clothes and into the t-shirt. I start to frown because it doesn’t smell like him, but then I remember he’s annoying and demanding and stupid and I get over it.

Downing the glass of water and two aspirins in one go, I shove myself into the covers, staying as far as possible from Grayson, and lay my head down. I plan to do an impressive amount of moaning and groaning (HEY NOW, not likethat), but I feel my eyelids grow heavy, and begin to lose consciousness in record time. My dreams star a grumpy lumberjack as always, but this time he speaks. This time he grumbles, “What am I gonna do with you, Sol?”

Chapter 9

Waking up is a challenge. Both physically and mentally. I would rather wait for a sinkhole to open up and swallow me whole than get out of this bed. This is a nice bed. Speaking of which…I don’t have a nice bed. Whose freaking bed is this?

I fly into a sitting position which turns out to be a really poor choice because now I am really, very dizzy. I try to check out my surroundings, but my eyes are crusted shut and I literally have to peel them apart with my fingers. Taking in the dark wood walls, the sky lights in the ceiling, the set of men’s boots by the barn style door, it hits me. Ah yes, I fucking slept in Grayson’s bed last night. It’s all coming back so wonderfully to me now. And I wish it wasn’t. I wish I had actually blacked out and could forget every single thing that transpired last night. Does this mean I can’t cross it off the checklist? I cannot do that all over again, I’ll lose my mind.

The smell of bacon wafts through the air and the growl in my stomach overrides the fact that I know I probably look like I was hit by a freight train. The tequila freight train. Oh well. I’ll just slip into the bathroom, splash some water on my face, and then go on the hunt for the source of the smell.

It takes all of forty-five seconds and standing in the hollowed-out door frame of the very unfinished bathroom to remind me that I will not be washing away any evidence of my sins this morning. Nope, I’ll be forced to wear them like a huge red letter A.

As stealthily as possible. I move along the wall, FBI agent onCriminal Mindsstyle, trying to assess the kitchen situation without Grayson seeing me. I’m not so sure I’m ready to deal with him. Peering around the corner, I’m met with a shirtless Grayson (has he just given up on shirts then?) leaning over the stove. I just don’t understand how he gets his back to look like that. So muscley. It feels like that would be way too much work to maintain. But what the hell do I know?

“I know you’re hiding, Sol.” His tone is gruff, like he hasn’t spoken since he woke up. Wow. I was unprepared for how that would affect me. Especially in the lower belly region.

Apparently, I am not cut out for the spy life. “Hiding? Who’s hiding?” I pad over to the kitchen island.

“Sit.” Great, we’re back to the caveman talk.

I do as I’m told (stupid) and wait in silence as he cooks. I’m not sure if I’m just running on empty after drinking enough tequila to shit out an agave plant last night or so intrigued by this grumpy, growly side of Grayson that I wanna see how this plays out, but I don’t start anything about last night. I just wait patiently. Okay, patiently maybe isn’t the word I would use. But I at least stay quiet.

A very decadent stack of chocolate chip pancakes is placed (or maybe set down with an attitude is a better description) in front of me. I’m suddenly surrounded by butter and syrup and piles and piles of bacon and I know this is what true love must feel like. I never felt about Brian the way I feel as I look at these pancakes.

“You made all this?” I ask, spinning on the barstool to face him as he takes the seat next to me.

“There aren’t exactly a plethora of breakfast places that deliver up here,” he grunts and I feel my face break out into a smile.

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