As soon as I pull the blanket over my legs again, Murphy curls up next to me like we never moved at all.
I stroke the soft fur behind his ears, and his tail thumps gently. “You like living out here in the middle of nowhere? Lots of squirrels and birds to chase?”
“He loves squirrels. Hates the crows who try to dive bomb him every spring.” Wyatt’s deep voice shocks me, and I yelp, sending Murphy to full alert. He presses his body to me like a shield, then noses my neck with a whine.
“Oh, God. Are you always that quiet?” My bruises protest when I twist around, and I hiss out a breath.
Wyatt shrugs, and his cheeks take on a hint of color. “Part of the training. I don’t even think about it. Murph, settle.” The dog relaxes instantly, and Wyatt skirts the couch to stand in front of me.
I have to crane my neck to meet his gaze, and his stare is so intense, I quickly avert my eyes. Panic starts to tighten a band around my chest. Shit.
Don’t let him see how scared you are. He hasn’t hurt you yet. Maybe…he won’t. Maybe he’s just a good guy. A good, scary guy. Just…breathe.
He crouches down so we’re on the same level, and his expression softens. “Look at me.” All I risk is a quick glance. I can’t read him, but a hint of warmth tinges his voice. “Thought you might be more comfortable with some pants,” he says, offering me a bundle of faded gray flannel. “I can cut the legs shorter for you.”
The gesture is sweet—and unexpected—but I won’t take anything else from this man. Except food. And shelter for one more night. We are snowed in after all. I already owe him more than I can repay.
“You don’t have to mutilate your clothes for me.”
“Hope...” There’s that tone again. The one that says he won’t take no for an answer. Every time Simon used that tone, I knew I was in for a beating. But with Wyatt...I think hurting me would kill him. “Put them on. Please? I’ll get the scissors.”
I would feel better if I weren’t half naked. More confident. Less like a wounded bird afraid to be stepped on. And he said please.
“Fine.” Slipping my feet into the pant legs, I maneuver the pajamas halfway up my thighs, then push up to standing. There’s a tie sewn into the waistband, but I’m so wobbly—and a little dizzy—I fumble with the strings. Nope. Can’t do it. Not with the robe in the way.
Even with the belt undone, it’s a challenge. My hands tremble, and fresh tears burn my eyes. This isn’t rocket science. Or a marathon. I should be able to manage one simple bow. But I can’t.
“Let me.” Wyatt’s fingers are warm, calloused, and gentle as he secures the tie, then lowers himself to one knee in front of me. From the lines tightening around his lips, the motion causes him pain, and I want to ask him what’s wrong.
Before I can find the words, I’m distracted by how the black Henley clings to his shoulders. By the scent of his soap—Irish Spring if I had to guess—and the way his hair curls ever so slightly over his collar.
“There.” Rising with two scraps of flannel in his hands, he arches his brows. “Better?”
“Yes.” It doesn’t matter that everything’s too big on me. That the thick socks are twice as long as I need, that the t-shirt hits me mid-thigh. Every part of me is covered and warm, and no one’s hurt me since Wyatt pulled me out of the SUV.
As he turns to the kitchen, I grab his arm. “Thank you.”
“They’re just pants. Old ones.” He shrugs, preparing to shake off my hold, but I tighten my fingers on his wrist.
“I mean for everything. Taking care of me. Making me breakfast. Not…prying.” I take a step closer, but my legs aren’t steady. I pitch forward, right into Wyatt’s chest. His very warm, very hard chest. His arm bands around my waist, and we’re so close, I can feel the beat of his heart.
“Whoa. You’re not ready to be upright yet, darlin’. At least not for long.”
Oh, God. I didn’t know how much I needed someone—needed him—to hold me like this. It’s been so long since anyone’s touched me with kindness. Offered comfort. Safety. Right now, I have all of that and more wrapped up in this gruff, handsome package.
“Wyatt.” I breathe his name, and his groan tells me he’s as affected by this as I am. “Please.”
“Please what…?”
Sliding my uninjured arm around his neck, I pull myself up onto my toes and touch my lips to his. For a brief second, we’re one. Connected in a way I’ve never felt before. I think Wyatt senses it too, because when I break off the kiss, the look in his eyes? Desperation. Pure, raw need. And longing. But then he blinks, and all that emotion vanishes.
“This is a bad idea.” He deposits me back on the couch and, before I can say another word, strides for the kitchen.
Great. Just how much more grumpy, alpha male can I handle?
Wyatt
I can’t read Hope. One minute, she’s defiant and almost snarky. The next, timid and afraid. And just now? That kiss took guts.
