Listen to my horror story tonight.Then decide.
I made a promise.
So I kill the lights, lock the bay door, and scan the street as I step out to greet Carl and Jasper.
The entire walk to the pier, Jag’s shadow lingers, breathing against my neck and daring me to turn.Each time I do, no one is there.
By the time the bodyguards ferry me across Sitka Sound, the violet haze of dusk darkens the island.
Pushing open the door to the guest house, I brace myself for finding Wolf curled up somewhere I can’t reach him.
Instead, I’m hit with warmth.Real warmth.The smell of food.
The kitchen looks like it was claimed by a professional chef.Pots steaming.Plates waiting.A skillet abandoned on the stove, crackling with the last hiss of oil.
Wolf stands at the sink with his back to me, sleeves shoved up, sculpted forearms on display, scrubbing a pan.
I take the opportunity to appreciate the rear view, the broad shoulders tapering down, denim clinging to a hard ass, and legs strong enough to slam a woman against a wall and fuck the fight out of her.
His hair is messier than usual, but his shoulders are loose, so much lighter than this morning.He’s painfully beautiful, and the sight of him in his tattered shirt with the seams holding strong adds to my breathlessness.
“Hi.”I hang my jacket on the hook and pad into the kitchen.“You cooked.”
“I’m feeding you, Birdie.”He wipes his hands on a towel and slaps it over his shoulder.“Pretty sure it’s edible.”
“Thank you.”I lean my brow against his shoulder and steal a whiff of his dark, masculine scent.“Do I have time to shower?”
“Ten minutes.Don’t make me hunt you down.Or do.Your choice.”
I smirk, snag my bag, and bolt upstairs.
Speeding through the shower, I scrub off the grease and the stink of gasoline until I no longer feel like a grungy oil pan.I pull on a soft shirt and clean jeans and towel-dry my hair, rushing because the smell downstairs is already dragging me back.
When I pad into the kitchen again, the table overflows with roast halibut, buttered potatoes with fresh dill, charred asparagus slick with oil, and a basket of bread that steams with warm yeast.
He even poured wine.
Everything looks delicious.Especially him.
“Looks like a damn feast.”I sway closer, the hunger hitting me hard with so much food under my nose.
He shrugs, but there’s pride in it.“Feeding you makes me happy.”
“You make me happy.”It comes out more honest than I intend, and I hug my waist, feeling awkward.“You shouldn’t have done this.You needed to focus on yourself today and—”
“Stop.”
“I don’t want to be a burden.”
“Shut up.”His tone darkens, all iron and no give.“Come here.”
His arms open, and I step into the muscled circle of them.He smells like soap, sautéed herbs, and a wildness that doesn’t belong in a modern kitchen.
For a moment, I let myself lean into his strength, savoring his closeness.My head brushes his collarbone, and his heart thumps against my cheek, grounding.
Then he eases back, one arm sliding away to tug a chair from the table, and waits for me to sit.
I obey his wordless command, feeling stupid for how much I’m rattled by his care and attention.
