4
OLIVER
The fire in the woodstove has burned down to embers, but the heat in my veins hasn’t dropped a single degree. I stare at the rough-hewn beams of the ceiling, my body stiff on the too-short couch. Outside, the wind howls, battering the logs of the cabin. Inside, the silence is heavy. It’s weighted with the scent of her—vanilla, rain, and the dark, sweet musk that belongs only to Avery.
She’s in my bed.
The thought hits me like a sledgehammer. Avery Nolan. The woman who tried to fix a rotting porch with a prayer is currently wrapped in my sheets, her soft curves pressing into the mattress where my body should be.
I sit up, the old springs of the couch groaning. My neck cracks as I roll it. I didn’t sleep. I spent six hours listening to her breathing, counting the seconds between inhales, tracking the rhythm like a target. It’s pathetic. I’m the Vanguard. I have discipline. I have control.
Or I did, until yesterday.
I stand and move to the woodstove, the floorboards silent under my bare feet. I toss a few logs onto the coals and watch the flames lick up the dry bark. The room brightens, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. The storm has buried us. I checked the perimeter through the window an hour ago—snow is drifted four feet high against the door. We aren’t going anywhere.
A soft thud from the bedroom freezes me.
The door creaks open. Avery stands there, blinking against the sudden light. She’s wearing my flannel shirt. It hangs off her shoulders, the hem brushing her mid-thigh, leaving her legs bare. Her hair is a mess of dark waves, tangled from sleep. She looks soft. Vulnerable.
And completely off-limits.
"Morning," she whispers, her voice raspy. She hugs her arms around herself, trembling slightly, though the room is warm.
"Coffee's on the stove," I grunt, turning my back to her. I can't look at her legs. I can't look at the way the top button of the flannel is undone, hinting at the pale skin of her throat. "Get dressed. Real clothes. It's cold."
"I don't have real clothes, remember? They’re still damp," she says. "The fire isn't exactly a high-speed dryer for heavy denim."
"Wear the sweatpants I gave you."
"They fall down every time I take a step, Oliver. I had to roll the waistband four times."
I grab a mug from the hook, pouring the black sludge I call coffee. "Then hold them up."
She huffs, walking into the kitchen area—my space—and hopping up onto the counter. Her bare feet swing, heels thumping rhythmically against the cabinet doors.
"Stop that," I snap.
"Stop what?"
"The kicking. It’s annoying."
She stops, gripping the edge of the counter. Her blue eyes track me as I hand her the mug. "You're grumpy. Even worse than usual."
"I didn't sleep."
"Why not?"
Because I was thinking about burying my face between your thighs.
"Storm kept me up," I lie. I take a sip of my own coffee, the bitter heat grounding me. "Power's still out. Probably will be for days."
Avery looks toward the window, where the whiteout presses against the glass. "So we're trapped."
"We're secure," I correct her. "There's a difference."
She sets the mug down and hops off the counter. She moves to her bag and starts rummaging through it. I watch her, my eyes narrowing.
"What are you doing?"
