Supervise. Sure, we could call it that. Even if no supervisor had ever stared at me with such naked hunger in his eyes.
“Probably smart,” I agreed, but I couldn’t resist flexingslightly as I picked up the axe again. The sharp intake of breath from Charles was worth the shameless display.
The sun was starting to set by the time I finished, painting the clearing in shades of gold and orange that made the whole scene look like something out of a bloody fairy tale. Charles had disappeared back into the cabin while I stacked the split wood, but warm light glowed from the windows, and I could smell something delicious cooking.
I found him in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove that made my stomach growl with hunger. He looked all kinds of edible in a soft flannel shirt and jeans that hugged his ass in ways that should probably be illegal, and his hair was still slightly mussed from the mountain air.
“Smells incredible,” I said, leaning against the doorframe to watch him cook.
“It’s the beef bourguignon I made yesterday at home. Just heating it back up and making mashed potatoes to go with it.”
“My stomach is rumbling from the smell.”
The smile he gave me was soft and genuine, the kind that made my chest feel too tight. “You worked hard, so you deserve a good meal.”
We ate dinner by the fire, the flames casting dancing shadows on the log walls while we talked about everything and nothing. Charles shared stories about growing up in Charming, about small-town life and how much he loved it, and about crazy brides and even crazier mothers-in-law. I spun tales about my travels—carefully edited versions that removed any reference to supernatural elements, but true in their essence.
It wasn’t until we were cleaning up the dishes that I realized the incredibly peace it had brought that my phone had been silent all day. No messages, no calls, no alerts fromthe various monitoring systems Gabriel insisted on using to keep track of his agents in the field.
No signal meant no connection to the outside world. No way for Gabriel to monitor my activities, track my location, or watch me through the bloody surveillance network he’d built into every piece of technology I carried.
Yes, he still had his ways—or more accurately, El’s ways—but it wasn’t the same. That method cost a lot of power and was only to be used when absolutely needed, according to his own rules and guidelines. I’d picked that little tidbit up when I’d read through the handbook. All fecking four hundred pages of it.
For the first time in three centuries, I was completely, utterly alone with a protectee. Unsupervised. Unmonitored. The realization should have terrified me. Instead, I felt something that might have been relief.
We settled in the living room after dinner, the fire crackling and spreading welcome heat as it grew cold outside. Charles was on the couch with a cookbook he’d bought in the store, leafing through it, while I was doing my damnedest to read a Maeve Binchy novel. I loved her books, always full of friendship and family and that undeniable Irish warmth, but I had a hard time focusing on the book.
Charles was so bloody beautiful. The firelight cast warm shadows across his face, making his hair look more red than blond. Every time he turned a page, I caught a glimpse of his long fingers, the same hands that created edible works of art. How I wanted to feel those fingers on my skin, in my hair when I kissed him, on my cock, which was once again hardening at the sight of him.
When he smiled at something in the cookbook, his whole face transformed, and I had to grip my book tighter to keep from crossing the room and kissing that smile rightoff his lips. The domestic intimacy of the moment was almost unbearable—the two of us in this cozy space, the outside world forgotten, nothing but flickering firelight, the soft sound of pages turning, and the growing awareness that we were completely, utterly alone.
He looked up, smiling when he caught me staring. “Book can’t hold your attention?”
“I like looking at you better.”
It was the truth, but that didn’t mean it was smart to say it aloud.
He slowly closed his book. “You mentioned you love to dance. Would you teach me?”
I stared at him. “You want me to teach you to dance?”
“I’ve always wanted to learn. And we’re stuck here together with nothing else to do, so…”
I should’ve said no. Should’ve made some excuse about the space being too small or the lack of proper music. Should’ve remembered Gabriel’s warnings about maintaining professional distance.
Instead, I nodded eagerly. “Absolutely.”
Charles’s face lit up like Christmas morning. “Really?”
“Really.” I stood and moved to the center of the small living area, pushing the coffee table out of the way to create more space. “Come here.”
He approached cautiously, as if he expected me to change my mind at any moment.
“Dancing is about connection,” I said, holding out my hands. “Trust. Letting your partner guide you.”
Charles placed his hands in mine, and the contact sent electricity shooting up my arms. His palms were slightly damp with nervous sweat, but his grip was firm.
“First lesson,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “is learning to move together. Feel the rhythm.”
