Page 33 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I tell myself it’s practical.

I tell myself I’m being decent.

I tell myself I’m not listening for her.

Then her footsteps shift closer, and the door handle clicks.

My spine tightens.

The mudroom door opens.

And there she is.

Wearing nothing but my robe.

Her hair is wrapped in a towel.

Her bare legs are pale, peeking through the dark fabric when she walks.

Her knees are slightly pink from cold.

The robe hangs on her like a stolen thing—too big, sleeves bunching, belt tied tight around her waist like she’s afraid it’ll fall open and expose her to the world.

I stop breathing.

Jesus. H. Christ.

She’s fucking beautiful.

I thought so outside—half obscured by rain and darkness and the panic in her eyes—but inside, in the warm light of my cabin, she’s unreal.

Her eyes hit me first.

Hazel, but not the dull kind.

They’re luminous, shifting—green at the edges, brown at the center, with a gold halo around the irises that makes them look like they’re lit from within.

Her skin is pale and smooth, flushed at her cheeks.

Her lips are full and pink, a little chapped from the storm, and I have the sudden, violent urge to see what they’d look like softened by heat.

Or by my mouth.

The thought punches through me so hard I have to clench my hands into fists to keep from reaching out and doing something catastrophically stupid—like touching her face.

Like brushing the wet strand of hair I can’t stop staring at.

Like pulling that robe belt and—stop.

I force my eyes away from her legs.

From the curve of her hips under the robe.

From the way her throat moves when she swallows.

I look at the stove.

At the kettle.