"You're soaking wet," he observes, his voice dropping an octave. "Your lips are blue."
"I'm fine," I chatter, my teeth betraying me instantly.
He swears under his breath, a harsh curse directed at the sky. Before I can process his movement, he strips off his gloves, shoving them into his pockets. His bare hands are rough, calloused, scarred across the knuckles.
He reaches out and touches my cheek.
The contact is a shock to my system. His skin is hot, his thumb rough against my frozen jaw. I gasp, my eyes widening. He’s not hurting me. He’s checking my temperature, but it feels like he’s branding me.
"You're ice cold," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. His eyes darken, the mossy green turning turbulent. "You don't have the sense God gave a squirrel, do you, Little Bird?"
Little Bird.The nickname hits me in the chest. It’s patronizing. It’s dismissive. And damn it, I can’t help but like it.
"My name is Avery," I manage to whisper.
"I know who you are," he says. "The city girl who thinks she can tame the mountain with a rusted saw and a YouTube tutorial."
He pulls his hand back, and I instantly miss the warmth. The loss is surprisingly sharp.
"I'm not a city girl anymore," I say, trying to summon some dignity. "I live here."
"You exist here," he corrects, looking at the cabin with disdain. "In a structure that’s barely standing. This porch is the least of your worries. The roof line is sagging on the north side. You have dry rot in the foundation. And a storm is coming in tonight that’s going to make this little drizzle look like a spring shower."
"I'll handle it," I say stubbornly.
"You'll die," he states. It’s not a threat. It’s a fact to him.
He looks past me, staring at the front door of my cabin. "Do you have heat?"
"I have a wood stove," I say. "I just... haven't figured out the flue yet. It gets a little smoky."
He closes his eyes for a second, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he’s dealing with a migraine. "So you have no heat. You’re wet. And you’re alone."
"I'm fine," I repeat, though I’m hugging myself now, the cold finally seeping into my bones deep enough to hurt.
He opens his eyes, and the intensity is back, focused entirely on me. It feels like being pinned down. He takes a step closer, crowding me against the newly fixed railing. The rain continues to pour, but he acts like it doesn't exist. He’s creating a shelter with his body, blocking the wind.
"You're not staying here tonight," he says.
"Excuse me?" I blink, water dripping from my eyelashes. "I most certainly am. I have blankets. I have cans of soup. I’m not leaving my house."
"This isn't a house, Avery. It’s a coffin waiting for a snowfall." He says my name like he’s tasting it, testing the weight of it on his tongue. "My cabin is a mile up the ridge. It has a generator. It has heat. And it has a roof that won't collapse."
"I'm not going to your cabin," I say, incredulous. "I don't even know you. You could be an axe murderer."
A corner of his mouth twitches. It’s almost a smile, but it’s too dark, too dangerous. "If I wanted to hurt you, you wouldn't be standing here arguing with me."
He looks at my hands, which are shaking uncontrollably now. He reaches out and takes them in his. His grip is firm, encompassing both of my hands in one of his. The heat transfer is instant.
"Look at you," he says softly, his voice rough. "You're shaking apart."
"I'm just cold," I whisper.
"You're hypothermic," he corrects. "Or close to it."
He releases my hands and steps back, but he doesn't leave. He looks around the porch, his gaze landing on my pathetic toolbox. He bends down, snaps it shut with a loud click, and picks it up.
"Hey!" I protest. "That's mine."
