“Right,” I mutter. “Social graces not required when your only neighbor is a moose.”
“If I’m lucky.”
I wrap my arms around myself and shuffle into the living room, pretending the cabin’s chill is the reason for my goosebumps and not the way his shoulder blades flex when he moves. His body is amazing. And mine is… not.
Focus, Sierra.
I drop onto the overstuffed armchair by the fire and pull a wool blanket over my legs. The cabin was nice—rustic but homey. A cozy fireplace, shelves filled with worn books. No pictures, though. It’d be even more amazing with a Christmas tree, or some lights strung up. Maybe a stocking. But I was sure if I mentioned that, I’d end up in the woodpile outside.
But everything smelled clean, like cedar and soap.
And, of course, testosterone.
I’ve never seen a man like him. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he stokes the fire with jerky movements. His jaw is clenched, and he just seems angry. But those eyes, they’re a piercing blue which is such a contrast to his dark hair and beard.
“So,” I say, trying to break the silence, “do you live off-grid, or is this just a seasonal hermit gig?”
His back tenses, but he doesn’t turn around. “I live here year-round.”
“That sounds… lonely.”
“That’s the point.”
I frown. “You ever hear of therapy?”
“I chop wood. Same thing.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. He turns, finally meeting my eyes, and there’s something in his stare that makes the air thicken. Not just irritation—but a hint of curiosity. He wants to laugh, but he won’t give in.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
I sigh, clearing my throat. “Oh, nothing. I just laugh when I’m uncomfortable. Or when I’m not. Or when things are dark and weird and I don’t know what else to do.”To be the funny girlinstead of the fat girl.I shake my head. “Definitely don’t sit next to me at a funeral.”
“At least you’re self-aware.”
“And at least you’re consistently cranky.”
He tilta his head slightly, something sparking behind those blue eyes. “Keep pushing, Snow Princess, and see how long you last here.”
I catch my breath—but not from fear. A thrill skates down my spine. God, why did those wordsdosomething to me?
“I’m not afraid of you,” I say, a little breathless.
“You should be,” he murmurs. “I don’t play well with others.”
Clearing my throat and trying to calm my racing heart, I say, “Lucky for you, I do. I’m not just a wrong turn with pretty boots and a bad cousin.”
That almost gets a smile.Almost.
“I’m making chili,” he says, turning away again as he makes his way to the kitchen. “If you’re picky, too bad.”
“Wait. You cook?”
“I eat,” he says simply. “Can’t exactly order takeout from the top of a mountain.”
Fair point. My eyes track him to the stove. The open-concept layout gives me a clear view of Hunter moving around the kitchen, and he looks damn good doing it.
I fold my arms, trying to keep myself from reaching out. “So what’s your deal, Hunter? You ex-something?”
