“After the shower, Dolly.” I chuckle. Amazing how quickly a body can swap basic concerns like getting warm for more abstract stuff like getting famous.
I step out reborn, wrapped in thick towels and padding back into his cozy bedroom. I eye the bed, throat tightening. It smells like him. The whole room does, and now so do I, too. I drop down a drawer at the dresser, find oversized flannel and sweats to sink into.
I grab the shirt, bury my nose in it, soaking up the forest before sliding it over my arms. My nipples pebble again, not from cold but the thought of this impossibly soft fabric brushing over his muscular chest. I wonder if he’s got red hair there, too. How far it trails.
The gray sweatpants are buttery soft and in danger of sliding past my hips. I pull the drawstring tight, roll the waistband three times. My hand goes to the top drawer again. Curiosity, I tell myself. But another glance at the photo makes warmth pool behind my ribs.
“You arenot,” I gasp, gliding back into the living room. Enormous socks that add three to four inches of empty wool to the front of each foot pad my footfalls.
He turns, catches his breath, then looks away again, cheeks burning. “Not what?”
“Making hot cocoa from scratch?” I sigh, eyes taking in the saucepan where he stirs creamy milk and a thick round of chocolate with a wooden spoon until it looks thick as pudding.
He shrugs. “There a problem?”
“One thing,” I say, raising a finger and beelining to his spice rack. Cinnamon and cayenne powder. I sprinkle a pinch of cinnamon in the bubbling brew, then an expert dash of cayenne pepper.
His eyebrows raise, like I’ve committed a sacrilege.
“Mexican hot chocolate.”
He shifts his weight, face hesitant.
“Warms you from the inside out,” I say before catching myself.
His eyes find mine, and now my cheeks burn, my explanation suddenly a whole different type of promise.
I add, “Spice for the mountain man. Trust me, you’ll love it.”
“Try anything once,” he mutters, stirring the thick beverage.
“It’s my favorite. “My mom’s side of the family are Hispanic.”
He grunts, side-eyeing me. “Your favorite? Mental note taken.”
A broad grin captures my face.
He stops, scrutinizes me long and hard. “That sunshine ever set with you?”
I giggle. “Never. Hope it doesn’t annoy you.”
He grabs two rustic stoneware mugs, one stamped with a wolf, the other with a raven. Fills them in equal measure. “No whipped cream. Sorry.”
“Are you kidding me? This is perfect!”
He fights the smile tugging at that granite face, runs a hand through his thick red locks. “Tomorrow, I’ll work on your cabin. Tonight, relax.”
His eyes sweep to the fireplace and the rough-hewn mahogany leather couch piled high with oversized plaid pillows.
We take a seat, enough space between us for Bear to snuggle at our feet, curling up. I pet him with my toes, both hands wrapped tight around the warm mug. I raise it slightly. “Thank you for this.”
He grunts, looks away like he’s perturbed. The fire crackles, sinewy flames flickering as my eyes sweep the cabin, taking it in. Huge, hand-hewn logs comprise the walls, tightly packed against any drafts. They glow golden against the brown bark mantelpiece and the gray and blue river rock of the hearth.
“This place is gorgeous. Did you build it yourself?”
Denver nods, eyes wary.
Shoot! I should be filming this. I reach for my cell phone.
