I give up on mine and open the bedroom door. A delicious aroma wafts up the stairs and instantly makes my mouth water. Elsa trots past me and follows the scent—her ears might not work, but there’s definitely nothing wrong with her nose.
I follow her downstairs.
Elsa sits at Owen’s feet, staring up at him as he washes dishes. He pretends she’s not there, rinses off a mixing bowl, and sets it to drain.
He’s wearing the plaid shirt he had on under his sweater last night, with the cuffs turned back and pushed up to his elbows. He plunges those perfectly formed forearms into the soap suds and turns to look at me as I step off the bottom stair.
“Morning,” he says with a relaxed smile.
He couldn’t dazzle me more if fireworks flew from his pupils and burst around me.
I refocus my eyes on his defined shoulders, which aren’t as close to his ears as they were last night. Christ, those things would make the perfect chin rest. Or footrest, depending on the circumstances.
He’s a little rumpled, in a not-been-awake-long kind of way. I push the thought of waking up with his sleepy face next to mine out of my head. Along with how good he probably smells.
I shove my slightly clammy hands into my pockets and take a deep breath. “Hi.”
The fire is roaring, and there’s a fresh stack of logs next to it. I guess he managed that okay.
“She thinks you have yummy things.” I nod at Elsa, who’s doing a worse job of taking her eyes off him than I am.“Come on,” I tell her. “Morning bathroom time.”
I point toward the back door, and she follows me. Freezing air rushes in, and I close the door quickly behind her. “It’s not looking any better out there.”
“And still no phone or internet,” Owen says, as he pulls the plug out of the sink and reaches for a tea towel to dry his hands. “I tried your antique radio again. There are still issues with the plows, and the stay-at-home order isn’t going anywhere.” He groans and shakes his head.
“Well, that’s not awesome. But that smell is. What is it? Are you cooking something?”
“Banana bread,” he says, folding the tea towel and draping it over the oven handle, as if it’s a completely normal thing for him to say. Like, “coding” or “bugs” or whatever the hell jargon it is software almost-billionaires constantly use.
It certainly does smell like banana bread. But how can that be? How would someone like him know how to bake?
“Banana bread? That you made?”
“Woke up early, couldn’t get back to sleep. So thought I’d do something to say thank you for putting me up.”
“You made it from scratch? And it’s real? Likeactualbanana bread?”
He nods and smirks, as if he finds me amusing.
“Like, with bananas? And flour, and eggs, and whatever else turns bananas into bread?”
His laughter reaches his eyes, and they sparkle again. That’s all it takes to set off a trickle of pleasure from my chest to my lady bits. But add baking skills to the mix, and the trickle turns into a full-blown raging torrent.
“Yes.”
He leans back on the counter between the sink and the stove and rests his hands on the edge, making his arm veins stand out.
“Well, that’s a bit of a shock. I need tea.”
I reach past him to grab the kettle from the stovetop.My arm brushes against his and goose bumps run down my side as the hairs on my arm stand up. He doesn’t move. I’m close enough to discover he does smell good. Or maybe it’s the banana bread.
“I’m sorry if I was a bit snippy last night.” There’s a seductive not-been-up-long huskiness to his voice.
Oh, God. Don’t let him start sounding all sexy. Or being nice. It’s a whole lot easier to want him out of here if he’s an ass.
“You were.” I turn on the faucet.
“I was just desperate to get to my aunt and uncle’s place and couldn’t believe I was lost and stuck. And frustrated at not being able to get a message of any kind to anyone.”
