“I don’t need?—”
“You’re soaked.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “Change or your core temp will drop. That’s not happening on my watch.”
I sink onto the worn leather chair. My eyes sting.
This is not how today was supposed to go.
The plan was simple: finish the route, prove I’m reliable, and maybe earn an invitation to the volunteer appreciation dinner next week. Emphasis on maybe, but I really want to be invited. Instead, I’m stranded with a man who looks at me the way people look at a package delivered to the wrong address.
The sting sharpens behind my eyes. I blink hard.
No. Not here. Not now.
I set the tin carefully on the table. As I press my palms against my thighs, I stare at the ceiling. Anything to keep the tears at bay. Cole Hart doesn’t seem the type to appreciate crying.
He returns with an armful of clothes: a thermal shirt, sweatpants, and thick socks. He sets them on the arm of thechair without meeting my eyes. “They’re mine. They’ll be big, but they’re warm.”
“Thank you.”
“Change in the bedroom. I’ll make coffee.”
“Okay.”
He walks to the kitchen alcove, and I hear the clatter of mugs and the hiss of water heating.
I stare at the clothes. They’re folded with the edges lined up.
I should be grateful.
Iamgrateful.
But I also feel like the kid who showed up to the party nobody wanted to throw.
I grab the clothes and head toward the hallway. The bedroom door is made of solid wood with a simple lock. I slip inside and close it behind me.
A dark quilt covers the bed. A lamp sits on a three-drawer dresser. A glass of water waits on the nightstand, condensation beading on the sides. Outside, the window shows nothing but white.
I peel off my wet layers, and my skin prickles. The thermal shirt is soft but too big with sleeves that fall past my fingertips. It smells like cedar and laundry soap. I pull on the sweatpants, which are also too big, even though no one would ever call me thin (I prefer the termcurvy), and roll the waistband twice. The socks are thick wool and instantly warm.
Okay, this is better.
I catch my reflection in the window. My hair is a damp mess, my cheeks are pink, and my eyes are too bright. I look like someone who tried too hard and failed anyway.
Spoiler alert: I always look like this.
I smooth my hair and take a breath.This is fine. It’s one night. I can do one night without being a burden. I head out.
He stands by the stove, holding two mugs. He glances at me, nods once, and hands me a cup. “Coffee. Black.”
“Thank you.” I take it, and the heat soaks into my palms. Steam curls up, smelling rich and strong.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t sit. Just stands there, backlit by the fire, looking like he’s calculating the fastest way to restore order to his disrupted evening.
This is my fault. “I’m sorry. For barging in. For not leaving when you told me to.”
A muscle jumps in his cheek. “You didn’t know.”
“I should have.”
