Of course there is. He lives alone. But still—if I stay overnight, where will I sleep?
______________
SOME HOURS LATER
"You take the bed." His voice comes out rougher than before, like gravel and whiskey. "I'll take the chair."
After an awkward silence-filled few hours, his words startle me. I glance at the reading chair near the fire. It looks comfortable enough for an hour of reading, maybe two. But for sleeping? For a man his size?
"That thing? You'll never get back up in the morning."
"I'll manage."
"But—"
"It’s not up for debate." He's already pulling a blanket from a trunk, tossing it over the chair. "The storm should pass by morning. You'll be out of here and I’ll have my peace back."
The dismissal stings more than it should.
"Right." I force brightness into my voice. "Well, thanks for not letting me freeze to death on your porch. I really appreciate it."
He doesn't respond.
Gosh, what is his problem?
I retreat to the bed, suddenly aware of how much space I'm taking up in his life. The quilt smells like wood smoke, pine, and something clean. I try not to think about that as I change into his oversized shirt, hyperaware of him trying not to look from across the room. Then it hits me: I’m alone in this isolated cabin, with a man who seems determined to keep his distance. This shirt, and the hot drink he made me earlier imply he’s not uncaring, at least.
When I finally slide under the covers, the bed feels enormous. It feels wrong being in a stranger’s bed, especially when they don’t want you there.
"Red?"
"What?"
"Thanks. For letting me stay."
After an uncomfortably long pause, he replies, "I didn't have much of a choice." Then he almost winces, like he wishes he could take the words back.
Ouch.
I want to argue—you always have a choice—but my eyes are already closing, exhaustion pulling me under. I stare at his silhouette across the room. Tomorrow will be another day of this, but maybe, just maybe, he will thaw a little. There's something about him that makes me want to try, despite everything. Something wounded beneath all that gruffness that calls to the part of me that's always trying to fix things, even when they don't want fixing.
Across the room, I hear him try to settle into the chair. The wood creaks under his weight. He shifts once, twice, no doubt trying to find a position that won't cripple him by morning.
He won't find one.
But I'm too tired to fight him on it tonight.
Chapter Four
RED
DAY 2 ~ CHRISTMAS DAY MORNING
Iwake up with my neck screaming and my shoulder locked at an angle that shouldn't be anatomically possible.
Then I remember the chair.Right. Because I'm a stubborn bastard who'd rather cripple himself than share a bed with a gorgeous woman who showed up on my porch in a Santa costume.
Gray light filters through the windows. The storm's still fucking awful from what I can see out the window. So, it looks like this woman still isn’t going anywhere fast. I try to move and have to bite back a curse—everything from my lower back to my skull feels like it's been put through a woodchipper.
