“Starving. I was going to eat after I got the shots.”
I start making grilled cheese and soup. Comfort food. “So your folks are in Portugal?”
“My parents opened a restaurant a few years ago.” She's trying to sound casual, but there's sadness underneath. “They invited me for Christmas, but it's a long flight for just two days, and work is so busy…”
“You haven't seen them in a while?”
“Two years.” She watches me stir the soup. “They think I work too much. They're probably right.”
“Are they?”
She considers this. “I don't know anymore. It seemed so important this morning. Now I'm stuck in a cabin in a stranger's clothes, my phone is dead, I'll probably lose my job, and somehow... it doesn't feel like the end of the world.”
I laugh. “This mountain has a way of putting things in perspective.”
“Is that what it did for you?”
“Something like that. Took me ‘til I was old to figure out what mattered, though.”
“How old are you?”
“Forty.”
“Forty's not old,” Clara says quickly, then blushes.
“It is when you're what… twenty-five?”
“I’m twenty-six next month. And you don't seem old.” Another blush. “I mean?—”
“Thanks, I think.” I can't help the small laugh that escapes.
We eat, Clara making little sounds of appreciation. When was the last time a beautiful woman sat at my table? She finishes, then yawns and stretches.
I smile at her. “I’ll take the couch…”
“That's ridiculous,” she says. “You're like six-four. You can't sleep on that.”
I shake my head. “The sofa was my uncle’s. I keep meaning to get a new one. Anyway, I've slept in worse places.”
“We're adults. The bed's big enough. You stay on your side, I'll stay on mine.” Her cheeks are pink, not meeting my eyes.
“Clara—”
“Unless you snore?”
This is ridiculous. I stand abruptly. “I don’t snore. We should sleep. Storm might break tomorrow.”
But we both know it won't.
Chapter Three
CLARA
The bed is big, but it could be a twin for how aware I am of every inch of space between us. I lie rigid under the covers while Beau settles on top of them, fully clothed, a human furnace radiating heat just inches away. Comet bounds onto the bed, scattering pillows everywhere before settling at our feet with a satisfied huff.
“Sorry about him,” Beau mutters in the darkness. His voice is so deep it almost vibrates the mattress.
“It's fine.” My voice comes out breathless… what the hell is wrong with me? The man is lying on top of the covers like a complete gentleman, and I'm hyperaware of every breath he takes, the way the mattress dips towards his weight, creating a valley I have to resist rolling into.
