Not the cold itself—I’d grown up in Montana, spent my whole life working outside in February. But the contrast. Going from freezing wind that cut through layers of clothing straight into the warmth of the house. It made every muscle ache. Made my fingers burn as feeling came back into them.
Made me aware of just how empty the house felt when I walked in alone.
Except tonight, it wasn’t empty. It hadn’t been since she’d arrived.
And that was the problem.
Amber Maxwell was living in my house. Working in my office. Sitting across from me at meals. Existing in my space in a way that made it impossible to forget she was here.
I’d tried. God knows I’d tried. I’d worked longer hours. Ate with the men, even though I worried about her eating and stayed in the barn until after dark.
None of it worked.
Because she was always there when I came back. A light on in the office. Her laptop open at Cade’s desk. The faint scent of her shampoo lingering in the hallway.
I smelled food before I even got the door open. Real food. Not another sandwich or frozen dinner.
Fuck.
I stopped with my hand on the doorknob, jaw clenched. I should turn around. Go back to the barn. Skip dinner entirely. Because walking in there meant seeing her, and I’d been doing a damn good job of avoiding that.
But my stomach growled, and I was cold, and tired, and sick of running from a woman in my own damn house.
I stepped into the kitchen and stopped.
Amber stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot, her back to me. She’d changed out of the professional shirt and slacks she wore every day into a pair of jeans and sweater that hugged her curves. Her hair was down, falling in dark waves past her shoulders.
She looked like she belonged here.
The thought hit me like a fist to the gut, and I wanted to rage at it. At her. At myself for even thinking it.
She didn’t belong here. This wasn’t her kitchen. This wasn’t her home. And the fact that seeing her standing at my stove made something in my chest ease—something I’d been holding on to for way too long.
I must have made a sound because she turned.
“Dalton.” She turned, spoon in hand. No smile. Just those steady brown eyes meeting mine.
“What are you doing?” I used that same cold, hard tone I always used with her.
She didn’t flinch. Just turned back to the stove with maddening calm. “Making dinner. Beef stew. I thought it was time I took a turn at kitchen duty.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know.” She kept stirring, not looking at me. “But you’re going to eat it anyway.”
The certainty in her voice brought a half-assed smile to my face. “That so?”
“That’s so.” She glanced over her shoulder, a small smile of her own peeking through. “Unless you want to be rude and waste perfectly good food.”
I should have reminded her this wasn’t her job. But my stomach growled, and the kitchen smelled better than it had in years.
“Where’s Cade?” I asked.
“He went into town. Something about meeting friends at a bar.” She turned back to the stove. “He said not to wait up.”
So, it was just us, alone in the house. Damn my brother.
I pulled off my coat and hung it by the door, then moved to the sink to wash up. I shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be staying. Shouldn’t be standing in this kitchen with her like this was normal. Like we were normal.
