The nesting bench I commissioned three months ago. Before I even bought this place. Back when I was still living with my parents and telling myself I wasn’t thinking about settling down.
“Spare room?” Elijah asks.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He disappears down the hall without another word. Milo watches him go, then turns to me with raised eyebrows.
“A nesting bench, huh? For the guy who’s not planning to settle down anytime soon?”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking a lot of things.” His grin is insufferable. “Mostly about how full of shit you are.”
We get all four chairs arranged around my table and I step back to admire them. They look good. The whole place is starting to feel like a real home.
I toss another log into the fireplace. The fire crackles and pops, throwing warmth into the room. One of the best things about this cabin—the stone fireplace that heats the whole main room.
Outside, the wind picks up, sending snow swirling across my small porch. I shake the flakes out of my hair—still wet from unloading the trucks—and realize, not for the first time today, that I don’t have a jacket.
Because Tessa still has it. Has had it for over a week now.
Along with my favorite flannel.
And she hasn’t given them back.
I’ve thought about that more than I should. About her wrapped up in my clothes, surrounded by my scent. About whether she’s washed them yet or if she’s been wearing them around her apartment.
That thought leads to other thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. Thoughts about Tessa Lang in nothing but my flannel, her bare legs curled up on her couch, my scent all over her skin?—
I wonder if she sleeps in it. If she pulls it tight around herself at night like she did in my garage, trying to burrow into the warmth. And that look when I wrapped it around her shoulders—eyes wide, lips parted—like she was surprised anyone would take care of her.
That look. That’s the one that got me. Not the arguing or the clipboard or the way she refuses to back down from anything. It was that split second of vulnerability. The crack in her armor.
I’ve been thinking about that crack ever since. Wondering what else is underneath. Wondering what it would take to get her to let me see.
“You cold?” Milo’s watching me with an expression that’s way too knowing for my comfort. “Where’s your jacket?”
“Lost it.”
“Lost it where?”
“Just... lost it.” I busy myself arranging the chairs around my table, avoiding his eyes. “You want a beer or what?”
“It’s two in the afternoon.”
“And we just did manual labor. In the snow. Beer is appropriate.”
Elijah’s already settled at the table, running his hands over the wood like he’s checking for imperfections only he can see.The chairs look incredible, I have to admit. Simple, sturdy, with clean lines that match my table perfectly.
“These are beautiful,” I tell him. “Seriously. Thank you.”
He nods, a hint of color on his cheeks. “Glad you like them.”
“Like them? I’m going to show them off to everyone who walks through that door.” I grab three beers from the fridge and pass them out. “Which, granted, isn’t many people. But still.”
