He lowers me slowly, my legs unsteady as my feet find the ground. The phone keeps ringing, insistent and demanding.
"I should..." he starts, running a hand through his hair.
"Answer it," I finish, stepping back and trying to straighten my clothes with shaking hands.
He pulls the phone from his pocket, frowning at the display. "Matty."
While he takes the call, I busy myself checking my equipment, trying to ignore the way my entire body thrums with unfulfilled desire. The rain continues to pound the roof, and the Christmas lights flicker again, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
"Road's completely washed out," Wyatt says after hanging up. "Bridge won't be passable until morning at the earliest."
My stomach flips. "I can't stay here."
"You don't have a choice. Creek's running too high to cross anywhere else."
The thought of being trapped here with him, with all this tension crackling between us, makes my pulse race with equal parts fear and anticipation. "There has to be another way."
"Not unless you can fly." He moves closer again, and I can see the hunger still burning in his eyes. "Main house has a guest room. You'll be comfortable."
Comfortable is the last thing I'll be, spending the night under the same roof as Wyatt Callahan. But the storm shows no signs of letting up, and the rational part of my brain knows he's right.
"Fine," I say, trying to sound professional. "But just until the roads are clear."
He nods, though something that might be disappointment flickers across his face. "Course."
As we make our way through the rain toward the house, I catch glimpses of more Christmas decorations. Lights outline the porch railings, and a wreath hangs on the front door, somehow managing to look both festive and masculine at the same time.
Inside, the house is warm and inviting, decorated for the holidays with a surprising amount of care. A tall Christmas tree stands in the corner of the living room, covered in simple white lights and rustic ornaments that look handmade. Garland drapes the mantel above a stone fireplace where a fire crackles cheerfully.
"Matty's wife," Wyatt explains, following my gaze. "She insists on decorating every year, whether I want it or not."
"It's beautiful," I say, and mean it. The decorations transform the masculine space into something magical, warm and welcoming in a way that surprises me.
He shows me to the guest room, a cozy space with a quilt-covered bed and more twinkling lights around the window. "Bathroom's across the hall. I'll find you some dry clothes."
When he returns with a soft flannel shirt and sweatpants, our fingers brush as he hands them over. The contact sends sparks shooting up my arm, and from the way his jaw tightens, he feels it too.
"Dinner's in an hour," he says, his voice carefully controlled. "If you're hungry."
After he leaves, I change into his clothes, trying not to think about how they smell like him, woodsmoke and leather and something purely masculine. The shirt hangs loose on my frame, the sleeves falling past my hands, and the sweatpants require rolling up several times.
I catch my reflection in the dresser mirror and hardly recognize myself. Hair still damp and tousled, cheeks flushed, wearing his clothes like I belong here. The thought terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.
Dinner is a quiet affair, the kitchen table feeling both too large and too small for the tension humming between us. He's changed into dry jeans and a clean shirt, and I find myself staring at his hands as he cuts his steak, remembering how those fingers felt on my skin.
"Storm should pass by morning," he says, not looking up from his plate.
"Good." I take a sip of wine, hoping it will calm my nerves. "I have appointments tomorrow."
"Right. Course you do."
The conversation dies again, and we eat in silence punctuated only by the rain against the windows and the occasional crack of the fire. Every time he looks at me, heat pools low in my stomach, and I wonder if he's thinking about what happened in the barn.
After dinner, I help clean up despite his protests, and we move around the kitchen in a careful dance, avoiding contact that might set off the powder keg between us. But when I reachfor a dish on the high shelf, he steps behind me to help, his chest brushing my back.
I freeze at the contact, and I feel him go still behind me. His breath is warm against my neck, and for a moment neither of us moves.
"Emmy," he says, my name rough with want.
