And then we just... went to sleep. Like two mature adults who definitely weren't lying awake for hours vibrating with unresolved tension.
His side of the bed is empty. Gray light filters through the windows, and the fire has burned down to embers again. The cabin is quiet.
Too quiet.
Then I hear it—a rhythmic thunk from somewhere outside. Wood on wood. I push back the covers and pad to the window, rubbing sleep from my eyes.
My breath catches.
Jake is in the side yard, splitting firewood. Without a shirt.
It's maybe twenty degrees outside. There's still snow on the ground. And he's standing there in just jeans and boots, swinging an axe like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Steam rises off his skin in the cold air, curling around shoulders thatare frankly ridiculous. His back flexes with each swing, muscles I didn't even know existed shifting under skin that's flushed from exertion.
He sets another log on the stump. Swings. The wood splits clean.
I should look away. I should definitely look away.
I don't look away.
He pauses to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand, and I get a full view of his chest. Defined. Sculpted. Lightly dusted with dark hair that trails down his stomach and disappears into his waistband.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
This is bad. This is very bad. Because last night I could almost convince myself that the attraction was circumstantial. Proximity. Firelight. The intimacy of being stranded together. But watching him now, in the cold light of morning, I have to admit the truth.
I am in so much trouble.
He looks up.
I jerk back from the window, heart pounding. Did he see me? He definitely saw me. I was standing there gawking like a teenager at a boy band concert. Very cool. Very dignified.
I hear him laugh—actually laugh—and I want the floor to swallow me whole.
By the time I've composed myself and made it to the kitchen, he's come back inside. He's put a shirt on, thank God, though he's left it unbuttoned and that's almost worse. He's standing at the stove, and there's a pot of coffee already made from a percolator.
"Morning," he says. There's a smirk in his voice.
"Morning."
I will not acknowledge the window incident. I will take this to my grave.
"Coffee's ready," he says. "Eggs in five."
"Thanks."
I pour myself a cup and lean against the counter, very carefully not looking at the strip of bare chest visible between the open sides of his shirt.
"Sleep okay?" he asks.
"Fine. You?"
"Fine."
We're both lying. The air is thick with everything we're not saying.
He finishes buttoning his shirt, finally, and turns to the stove. He plates the eggs and hands me one, and our fingers brush during the transfer. We both pretend not to notice.
