I pull my hand back, turn away. So much for solitude.
“Shower, hot cocoa, dry clothes, and a fire,” I grumble, words feeling strange on my tongue. Apart from Bear and the chickens, I don’t talk much, and they never talk back.
“And then what?”
“Then, you stay until we can sort everything out tomorrow.”
She shakes her head, tempting lips pressed into a thin line. “But I couldn’t impose.”
“Already are,” I murmur.
She breaks into a grin. “You have a point. In that case, I may as well continue.”
I nod, firm—as if it’s a done deal. With an impatient flick of my hand, I invite her down the hallway to my bedroom and bathroom. Modest, one-bedroom. Never needed much. Now I feel painfully aware of its inadequacy. “Bed.” I stride forward, open the bathroom door. “Shower.” Then, I point to a cabinet. “Towels.” Finally, nodding towards the dresser to my right. “Clothes. Help yourself.”
She smells like honey and wet pine. Trouble. I tap the doorframe. “Don’t touch anything.”
Chapter
Four
DAHLIA
Rustic warmth surrounds me like a hug.
So this is what solitude looks like.
My hands shake as I fight to peel off drenched clothes. Wet Spandex should be outlawed.
I remove my waist holster, set the handgun carefully on his dresser.
For a moment, I wonder what my mom would say.
The flesh beneath my clothes is inhumanly cold, my brown nipples pebbled, my body a mass of goose flesh. Teeth clank together as if I feel colder the warmer I get. Still, the heat of Denver’s cabin is like a miracle, the bedroom hearth blazing with curling golden flames.
Cozy, romantic.
The bed’s big enough for two. Does he have a woman somewhere? Maybe.
All I can care about right now is hot water.
I notice other details as I grab the pile of dripping clothes and throw them onto the bathroom floor’s pristine white tile. Can’t cause as much trouble there. After one more pause, I grab my gun, place it on top of the toilet within easy reach of the shower. Won’t do me good anywhere else.
I open the top drawer of the dresser he nodded towards, finding memorabilia instead of clothes. Newspaper clippings, military medals, a Purple Heart, a photo of a hulking, clean-shaven Marine. The blazing hair and eyes look familiar. Eyes so blue I could almost see through them. Denver in another life.
From the other room, I hear rustling and cabinets opening. My eyes dart to the bedroom door. The knob doesn’t lock. My body shivers, naked, vulnerable, and yet not nearly as vulnerable as I was alone in the damp and dark.
I find a big fluffy gray towel, place it on the sink, and another on the floor before playing with the water. My body’s so cold, I start with the faucet cranked to the C. Still feels like fire on my frozen hands.
I climb in the shower, take my time turning it up incrementally until I get to the halfway point between H and C. Every few minutes, I crank it a little higher, blood pooling back into my fingertips and toes with a hearty burn. Steam curls until I can no longer see the bathroom mirror, towel, or the gun.
I relax my shoulders, exhale luxuriously. For the first time in months, I can breathe without hearing the city in my head.
“You’d laugh at me now, Maya,” I whisper. “But I’m finally doing it.”
I grab a green bar of homemade soap. Rich cedar and earthy pine fills my nostrils. Like the faint warmth I noticed on Denver earlier by the fire—the way the light shimmered over his burgundy beard and hair, tightening a knot low in my stomach. The sounds of his gruff voice rumbling make it curl, snake into places I refuse to admit.
I gasp, realization hitting me all at once. I need to be documenting every moment of this!
