"You're staring," she said without looking up.
Shit. "Sorry."
"It's okay." The corners of her luscious mouth quirked up. "I'm fascinating to watch, I know."
Was she flirting? His wolf perked up with interest.
"I should bring in more firewood," he said abruptly, standing.
Jules looked up, startled, then closed her laptop and set it aside. "I'll help."
"You don't need to?—"
"Lex." She gave him a look. "I'm not going to sit here like some spoiled princess while you do all the work. I can carry wood. Just let me get my coat and boots."
A few minutes later, they stood at the woodpile together, snow swirling around them. She insisted on carrying her share despite his attempts to give her lighter pieces.
"I'm not fragile."
"I didn't say you were?—"
"You're doing that thing." She adjusted her grip on the logs. "That protective thing guys do where you treat me like I might break."
"I don't?—"
"You do." She headed back toward the cabin. "It's kind of sweet, actually. Annoying, but sweet."
He followed, arms loaded with wood, his wolf preening at being called sweet. When had he lost control of this situation? Probably the moment Adam and Faye had orchestrated getting Jules here.
They stacked wood by the fireplace in companionable rhythm. Once. Twice. Three trips. On the fourth, as they walked back toward the woodpile, Jules stopped.
"Can we walk for a bit? I'm going stir crazy being cooped up in the cabin."
He should say no. Should keep his distance. Instead, he heard himself say, "There's a path through the trees. It's not far."
They walked in silence at first, their boots crunching through fresh powder. The snow had lightened to gentle flurries, and weak sunlight filtered through the clouds. She looked up at the sky, face soft with wonder.
"It's beautiful out here."
It was. But he wasn't looking at the trees.
"Tell me something about yourself," she said suddenly. "Something real. Not the grumpy mechanic act you put on for everyone else."
"It's not an act."
"It is, though." She stopped walking, turning to face him. "I've seen glimpses of the guy underneath. The who remembers I like cinnamon in my coffee and gives me plant care advice via text message." A small smile played at her lips. "Someone who's not as scary as everyone says."
"Jules—"
"You know things about me, Lex. You remembered the cinnamon. You knew I sometimes sleep at the shop when things get bad." Her eyes searched his face. "How do you know these things? We've barely spoken before this week."
The question hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. He could lie. Could deflect. Could add another layer to the walls he'd built around himself.
Instead, something cracked.
"I've been watching you." The words came out rough, scraped raw. "For months. Before you came to the garage Monday."
She went very still. "What?"
