He’s just a man that continues to surprise me with his coffee creamer, handmade coffee mugs, fancy chicken coop, and feelings. Feelings that I’m wondering if he’s having or if I’m just delirious. Which is a serious possibility between the car accident and head injury. And I’m just a woman that shouldn’t kiss a man because I’m snowed in with him. He lost his wife in the same way he found me. I don’t even know if he’s kissed another woman since he lost her. He’s vulnerable. Maybe. I think.
Kissing him doesn’t really seem like it would just be kissing him. It feels like it might be knowing him and then wanting to know more.
This really doesn’t have to be anything more than it is. Besides, it really doesn’t make sense. Real life will resume as soonas the snow melts.
I uncross my legs and scoot away from Boone before standing up and brushing myself off. “Cinnamon rolls.”
“Right. Cinnamon rolls,” he repeats as he stands up almost as quickly as I did.
And I can’t be sure, but it looks like he’s blinking back something that makes me think I’m not the only one that was arguing with their thoughts.
Chapter Nine
The cabin feels darker as night creeps in. The windows have long been curtained by the unrelenting snow, but the lack of sun makes everything inside seem a little colder, and it sends a shiver up my spine that evokes a physical movement that catches Boone’s attention.
“Are you okay?” He rushes over, his large hands swallowing up my upper arms from behind. The chill is suddenly doused.
“It just felt cold in here for a second,” I reply way too breathlessly. “What time is it?”
“Probably time for food and not coffee,” he says playfully, his hands dropping from my arms, inviting the cold back to my skin. “I can fix soup again.”
“You step away from the kitchen, sir. Coffee is what you do best, so just stay in your lane,” I demand.
“But I thought you said anyone can put enough effort in to right a wrong,” he teases, repeating back my own words of wisdom. “You could teach me a few skills as payment for saving your life. Turn this lumberjack into a chef, or at least a man who can cook for himself. I think it’s the least you could do.”
Boone is beginning to melt, not that he had ever been rigid. He was softer than I expected, and I didn’t really expect a lot since I hadn’t exactly expected to be in his cabin for Christmas. But I could tell there was something giving way as his smiles came more easily, and he seemed…less tall.
Was that a thing? Could people shrink as you got to know them?
“I suppose.” I slowly succumb to his request, telling myself this is the only thing I can succumb to.
“So, can I do something for supper while you start on the cinnamon rolls?” he asks with what seems to be a thread of enthusiasm woven through his tone.
“How many eggs did you collect?” I question.
“Six.”
“Do you think the ladies have laid more?” I’m calculating what I will need for the rolls and what he’ll need to make omelets.
“I can go check,” he answers quickly, already rushing toward the door without me having to prompt him.
He’s out the door in less than two minutes, and when the door closes, I let out the carbon dioxide that I’m trying to convince myself is slowly poisoning me with its minimum toxicity. That would help explain the flushing, the confusion, and the shortness of breath.
It’s either carbon dioxide poisoning or it’s Boone.
I’m not ignorant, though. It’s not the carbon dioxide.
This entire thing is a bad idea. Boone’s proximity is beginning to sand away at my own protective shell. I don’t really want to admit it, and wouldn’t admit it to him, but I have to admitit to myself, if only to keep myself from doing something utterly stupid.
I assess my surroundings. This kitchen is too small. We need some kind of island to separate us, to make sure proximity doesn’t wreak havoc on our very separate, very different, very real lives.
“Three more!” Boone announces as soon as he enters back into the cabin. “Also, it’s stopped snowing. Now we’ll just have to wait for the trucks to come through to clear the roads.”
“Oh.” I exhale and then quickly attach a smile to my response. My pulse is trying to figure out whether to beat relief or disappointment. It should most definitely be relief, but sometimes the body isn’t responsive to reason. “That’s great. How long until that happens?”
“Hard to tell. With it being Christmas Eve tomorrow, they may try to get to it more quickly, or it may delay them,” he explains while he shrugs off his coat and steps out of his boots. “You’re most likely stuck with me for another day, at least.”
“How was Goose?” I ask, changing the subject.
