Not that I’m thinking about his muscles.
Or how they flexed when he was spotting me on the bench press.
Or how his t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders.
Nope.
After lunch, he started heading toward the stairs. Back down to his basement cave.
“Are you going to work outall day?” I called after him, unable to help myself.
He paused on the stairs. “That’s the plan, yes.”
And then he disappeared down the stairs.
I cleaned up, returned to the great room, and tried to read my ecology textbook.
And so here I am.
Distracted by a bandage.
And a kissed hand.
You’re pathetic.
You know that, right?
Three days.
It’s been three days and you’re already developing Stockholm Syndrome for a mining CEO.
Well, it’s technically not really Stockholm Syndrome.
But still.
By the time evening rolls around and I’m cooking the second chicken, the smell must finally lure him out of his cave. He appears in the kitchen doorway and I do a double take.
He’s changed clothes. Clean cashmere sweater, dark jeans that fit him way too well. His hair is neat, like he actually combed it for once instead of just running his fingers through it. And he must have used some of our precious melted snow water to wash his face because he looks refreshed despite spending hours in the freezing gym.
The cologne hits me from across the room. That expensive woodsy scent that I’ve been trying very hard not to associate with safety and warmth and waking up in his arms.
I focus very intently on the chicken.
“Smells good,” he says.
“It’s chicken,” I reply. “I’m not exactly performing culinary miracles here.”
“Still. Thank you for cooking.”
The politeness throws me off. We’ve been doing this weird dance all day, circling each other, and I don’t know what any of it means.
Dinner is ready twenty minutes later. I plate everything, and we settle at the kitchen island because the dining room is too formal and cold, and eating by the fire feels too intimate after this morning.
He pours wine without asking if I want any. Expensive red from his ridiculous wine cellar. At least it’s not frozen solid.Though I suppose the alcohol content combined with the natural insulation of the underground cellar helped.
“To surviving,” he says, raising his glass.
I clink mine against his. “To not dying in a blizzard.”
