"Because...?"
"Because," he says roughly, "I'm trying very hard to be a gentleman here."
"What if I don't want a gentleman?"
He groans, pressing his forehead to mine. "You're killing me."
"Dramatically dying is more Mr. Rochester's thing, don't you think?"
"That's it." He stands suddenly, taking me with him. I squeal as he sets me on my feet. "Bed. Now. Alone."
"Fine." I stretch up to kiss his cheek, delighting in how his breath catches. "But just so you know, in my book, the mountain man definitely has flannel pajamas."
"Goodnight, Harper."
"With little axes on them."
"Go."
"Maybe some bears..."
"Harper." But he's laughing now, a full, rich sound that makes my heart soar.
I back toward the stairs, unable to stop smiling. "Sweet dreams, mountain man."
"Sweet dreams, troublemaker."
Chapter 8
Dean
She's humming.
She does that when she thinks no one's watching – quiet little melodies while she works on her laptop, unconscious movements that match the rhythm. Right now she's curled up in my armchair, wearing one of my old flannel shirts over her jeans because she was cold this morning. She hasn't noticed it slipping off one shoulder, doesn't realize what the sight of her in my clothes is doing to my sanity.
It’s been over a week since I kissed herby the fire, and I'm losing my mind.
"Oh!" She startles when she finally notices me in the doorway. A blush creeps up her neck. "How long have you been standing there?"
Too long. Not long enough. "Just checking if you wanted coffee."
"Thanks, but Boris and I already had our morning chat."
I hide my smile. She's taken to talking to the coffee maker every morning, telling it her writing plans for the day. It should be ridiculous. Instead, it's endearing as hell.
"How's the book coming?"
"Slowly." She tucks her hair behind her ear – a nervous habit I'm learning to read. "I keep getting... distracted."
The way she says it, soft and shy, sends heat through my veins. She glances up at me through her lashes, then quickly back to her screen.
"Distractions can be good," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "For creativity."
Her blush deepens. "Maybe. Or maybe they just make it hard to focus on anything else."
Fuck. She has no idea what she does to me, sitting there in my shirt, looking all soft and rumpled and tempting. No idea that every innocent glance, every accidental touch, every goddamn time she bites her lip like that – it's torture.
"I should get back to work," I manage.
