Her breath catches.
"I'll come back," I say, low and rough. "Twenty minutes."
I'm out the door before I can do something even stupider, like kiss her. The cold hits me like a slap, but it's nothing compared to the heat burning in my chest. What the hell is wrong with me? I just met this girl.
Twenty minutes. In and out. Supplies, fuel check, then back to my place where I can't smell her vanilla scent or see her curled up in my clothes or hear that laugh that makes me want to...
The door locks behind me with a click.
Twenty minutes. I can do this.
Chapter 3
Harper
The moment Dean's footsteps fade, I slide down the door and bury my face in his coat. It smells like pine and woodsmoke and man, and I'm officially in trouble. The kind of trouble that would make my best friend Josie squeal with delight and my ex... well, he wouldn't be happy about any of this.
"Get it together, Harper," I mutter, forcing myself to stand. "He's just being nice. Doing his mountain man duty. Probably rescues helpless women every Tuesday."
But the way he'd touched my shoulder, rough fingers grazing my skin... that hadn't felt like duty.
I shake off the thought and explore my temporary shelter. The cabin is gorgeous. All warm wood and natural stone, with windows that probably offer amazing views when they're not obscured by biblical amounts of snow. A narrow staircase leads to the loft, where I find a queen-sized bed topped with what looks like a handmade quilt.
Everything here feels solid. Real. The opposite of my carefully curated IKEA life in Seattle.
I'm halfway through investigating the small kitchen's cabinets (fully stocked, because of course mountain man is prepared) when three sharp knocks make me jump.
"Harper?" His voice is muffled by the storm. "It's me."
I definitely don't run to the door. Power walk, maybe.
He steps in with a blast of cold air and snow, carrying supplies and radiating that intense energy that makes the cabinfeel suddenly smaller. His dark hair is dusted with white, his cheeks red from the wind, and it's completely unfair how good he looks.
"Brought food," he says, setting down a box and taking off a jacket he must have grabbed in his cabin. "Extra blankets. Firewood. Water. There's a landline if you need it. Cell service is usually weak up here, even in good conditions."
I try not to stare as he efficiently unloads everything. The t-shirt he's wearing pulls across his shoulders with each movement, and I'm starting to understand why all those romance novels feature lumberjacks.
"Thank you." I clear my throat. "Really. I know this isn't how you planned to spend your evening."
He straightens, and suddenly the kitchen feels very small. "Plans change."
"Do they? You strike me as someone who likes his routine."
His eyes narrow slightly. "You trying to figure me out?"
"Maybe." I lean against the counter, aware I'm still wearing his coat, aware of every inch of space between us. "Is it working?"
"No." But his mouth quirks up slightly. "How's the fire holding up?"
"Good! I mean, I think. I haven't actually checked. Or, um, ever maintained a real fire before."
He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "city girls" and moves to the fireplace. I definitely don't watch the way his jeans tighten as he crouches down to add another log.
"Come here," he says, and my heart definitely doesn't skip, either. "You need to learn this."
I approach cautiously, kneeling beside him. He explains about airflow and log placement, demonstrating with steady hands. I try to focus on the lesson, but he's radiating heat, andwhen he reaches past me to grab the poker, his arm brushes mine.
"Got it?" he asks, his voice rougher than before.
