As we walk, I'm acutely aware of her presence behind me. The sound of her breathing, the squish of her city boots in the mud. I keep my pace measured, slower than I'd move alone. Every few minutes, I glance back to make sure she's keeping up. Each time our eyes meet, that same jolt runs through me.
She's shivering harder now, teeth chattering despite her obvious attempts to hide it. Without thinking, I shrug out of my outer jacket and hold it out to her.
"I'm fine," she protests.
"You're freezing," I counter, my tone leaving no room for argument.
After a moment's hesitation, she takes it. The jacket engulfs her small frame, the sleeves hanging well past her fingertips. Something primitive stirs in me at the sight of her in my clothing.
The cabin comes into view just as another lightning bolt illuminates the sky. Simple. Sturdy. Built with my own hands from timber I cut myself. Nothing fancy, but it's withstood fifteen mountain winters.
I hold the door open, and she hurries inside. I follow, closing the door against the howling wind. The sudden silence is heavy between us.
She stands dripping in the middle of my living room, looking like a half-drowned kitten wearing a bear's coat. Out of place. And yet, seeing her here in my private space feels strangely right.
"You should get out of those wet clothes," I say, then immediately regret how it sounds. "I'll find you something dry to wear."
I turn toward my bedroom before she can see whatever's showing on my face. Because whatever this feeling is—thisinstant, overwhelming pull toward a woman I just met—it's dangerous. Distracting. And absolutely impossible to ignore.
three
Dahlia
Istandinthemiddle of his cabin, dripping all over the wooden floor and feeling utterly ridiculous in his enormous jacket. It smells like pine, sawdust, and something distinctly male that makes my pulse do weird things.
"Wait here," Thorne orders, then disappears down a short hallway.
Like I'm going anywhere in this weather? The storm rages outside, rain pelting against the windows like it's personally offended by them. I take the moment alone to survey my unexpected shelter.
For a bachelor lumberjack living in the middle of nowhere, his place is surprisingly... nice? Not fancy, but intentional. The main room combines living area and kitchen, with a massive stone fireplace dominating one wall. Everything is wood and leather and sturdy cloth in shades of forest green and deep blue. No tacky hunting trophies or beer can pyramids. The whole spacefeels like the forest somehow crept indoors and made itself comfortable.
Thorne returns carrying a stack of clothing. "Bathroom's through there," he says, nodding toward a door off the hallway. "These will be too big, but they're dry."
I take the clothes, our fingers brushing briefly. That tiny contact shouldn't send a spark shooting up my arm, but here we are. "Thanks. For everything. Most people wouldn't stop to help a stranger in a storm."
He just grunts in response. Super chatty, this one.
In the small bathroom, I peel off my soggy clothes and change into what he's provided—a flannel shirt that reaches mid-thigh and soft sweatpants I have to roll up about seventeen times at the waist and ankles. I look like a kid playing dress-up in daddy's clothes.Great.
When I emerge, Thorne is kneeling by the fireplace, coaxing flames from a carefully arranged pile of wood. The fire casts flickering shadows across his face, highlighting those cheekbones that could probably cut glass. He doesn't look up, but I swear he knows exactly when I enter the room.
"My clothes," I say, holding out my dripping bundle. "Where should I—"
"I'll take care of it." He rises to his feet with grace that someone his size shouldn't be capable of. He takes my wet things, carefully avoiding touching my hands this time, and disappears again.
I hover awkwardly near the fire, not sure if I should sit down. Actually, I'm not sure about anything right now. My usual stream of wisecracks has dried up completely.
"Sit," he says when he returns, gesturing to a worn leather armchair pulled close to the fire. "You're still cold."
I obey, because he's right. Despite the dry clothes, I can't stop shivering. He disappears into the kitchen area and returns with two steaming mugs, handing one to me.
"Hot chocolate?" I ask, surprised.
"Even lumberjacks have a sweet tooth."
I wrap my hands around the mug, savoring the warmth. "So, you're really a lumberjack? Like, professionally? I thought that was just a character in paper towel commercials."
"Twenty-five years cutting timber," he confirms, lowering himself into the chair opposite mine. "My father did it before me. His father before him."
