Her laugh was soft but insistent. “Oh, I can tell. You’re good at it though. Cooking, cleaning, brooding quietly.”
I glanced at her, eyes narrowing. “Brooding quietly is an art form, Colette. You wouldn’t understand.
“Cole,” she leaned back, smirk curling her lips. “Maybe I would. Maybe I’d like to study it up close.”
Heat prickled down my spine, and I had to focus on the eggs again, flipping one with a deliberate flick. Anything to keep my hands from twitching toward her. “Your name is Colette.”
“And everyone calls me, Cole.”
“No,” the word was softer than I had intended. “Not everyone.”
She laughed again, soft and knowing, and the sound sent something low in my chest tight and sharp.
I was aware of every inch of her leaning toward me, of the warmth escaping the blanket she had draped over herself, of the faint scent of pine and cinnamon smoke. I wanted to look, but I didn’t. I wanted to touch, but I didn’t.
Instead, I slid the plate closer and muttered, “Eat. Before it gets cold.”
Her grin was wicked. “You’re such a man.”
“Yes,” I said, exhaling through my nose, allowing myself a little smile. “A man who’s definitely not enjoying this too much.”
She tilted her head. “Mhmm. Sure. Totally not.”
I ignored her, flipped the last egg, and for one long moment, let myself imagine what it would feel like if she leaned just a little closer — just enough to blur the line between breakfast and something more dangerous.
She reached for the salt that sat on a small tray between us.
At least, that’s what it looked like.
Her arm brushed mine — bare skin against flannel — and the world seemed to narrow to that single point of contact.
Static. Heat. The faintest hitch of her breath.
I should have moved. I didn’t.
For the first time since arriving at this overbooked retreat, I found myself wishing I hadn’t opted for the long sleeves.
My pulse stumbled. Every muscle went alert, waiting for a sign that it had been accidental. A mutteredsorry, a quick retreat.
None came.
She stayed right there, shoulder against mine, close enough that I could have counted the freckles on her collarbone.
“Salt,” she said finally, voice a little too even, smile a little too wide. “You’re hoarding it.”
I looked down. The shaker sat by my knee, forgotten.
I passed it to her without a word.
She smiled — small, polite, devastating — and went back to sprinkling the eggs like nothing had happened.
I tried to chew. Tried tobreathe. Tried to think about anything other than the way she’d leaned into me instead of away.
When she laughed a minute later at something that wasn’t funny, I knew it hadn’t been an accident.
I cleared my throat, searching for a safe topic and coming up empty. “So,” I started, hoping the words would just come to me. “What do you do when you’re not… decorating strangers’ cabins and freezing to death?”
She tilted her head, fork halfway to her mouth. “You mean when I’m not traumatizing reclusive authors?”
