I watched him move toward the fireplace, seemingly unbothered by the chaos outside. The blanket tugged around my shoulders as I pushed myself upright.
He crouched at the hearth, and how he quickly coaxed flame from the embers impressed me. His calm competence only made him more attractive.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
He glanced at me over his shoulder. “Always.”
The storm outside suddenly didn’t feel nearly as dangerous as the one gathering quietly inside my chest.
Before I could do anything reckless about how he made me feel, my stomach betrayed me. A loud rumble broke the quiet, and heat filled my cheeks.
“Fire’s not all I know how to make. I can cook over one too.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I protested weakly, but he was already pushing to his feet.
“I want to.” He nodded toward the blanket nest. “Sit. Stay warm.”
His gentle command was impossible to argue against. So I tucked the blanket around myself while he strode into the kitchen. I heard him rummaging, muttering to himself, before he emerged again. His arms were loaded with supplies, and he looked absurdly good.
“What’d you find?” I asked, trying not to sound overly eager.
“More than enough for a meal,” he replied with a smile. “As long as you like oatmeal.”
He set a couple of cans, oats, a jar of dark amber preserves, honey, spices, water, a pan, a big wooden spoon, two bowls, and smaller spoons onto the floor in front of the fireplace.
“I like food.”
I immediately wanted to bury my face in the blanket at my lame answer, but Bexley let out a low, amused rumble. The sound sent a shiver of awareness down my spine that I refused to examine too closely.
Bexley made our meal over the fire like he’d done it his entire life. His forearms flexed with every stir of the wooden spoon. The firelight cast shadows along the muscles beneath his T-shirt.
Watching him cook was better than porn.
And I felt strangely safe sitting here with him while snow piled up against the windows and the rest of the world remained an unreachable blur.
“Almost ready.”
I hadn’t expected to feel so comfortable with someone I’d known for less than a day. Or for our conversation to flow like we’d already shared a hundred mornings like this. I couldn’t help but wonder what this thing between us could become if I didn’t have a flight home tomorrow.
Bexley divided the oatmeal between the two bowls. He added fruit to mine, then spooned some of the dark amber preserves across the top like it belonged on a restaurant menu instead ofbeing thrown together from an almost empty pantry during a blackout.
He handed me the bowl, and my eyes fluttered shut when the first bite hit my taste buds. “Oh my, this is incredible.”
Across from me, he shrugged one massive shoulder like it was nothing. “It’s just oats.”
“I’ve had oatmeal before, and it didn’t taste anything like this,” I argued after eating another spoonful. “It’s like comfort in a bowl.”
He looked up from fixing his dish with a smile. “Glad you like it.”
We ate quietly by the fire, the wind still howling against the windows, but somehow feeling far away. Every time he shifted, the firelight caught the sharp lines of his jaw. I kept pretending not to notice, but my pulse wasn’t fooled.
I scraped the last of my oatmeal from the bowl, and a streak of warm preserves dripped onto my finger. I lifted my hand automatically, freezing when Bexley moved first. He leaned in and wrapped his hand lightly around my wrist. Then his head dipped, and his mouth closed over the tip of my finger.
Heat shot through me, and my whole body lit up in response. The world fell away until there was only the warmth of his lips, the soft drag of his tongue, and the sound of my own heartbeat roaring in my ears.
Bexley’s gaze met mine, his eyes dark with desire.
Neither of us spoke. Or moved.
