"Eat," he says, leaning his hip against the counter opposite me, crossing his massive arms over his chest. Biceps the size of my thighs flex with the movement.
I pick up the fork, my hand trembling. "How long was I asleep?"
"Long enough," he says, watching my mouth as I take a bite of eggs. "Storm’s worse. Road is gone. We’re buried in."
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. I look toward the window, but I see only a wall of white. The wind howls against the glass, a mournful, angry sound emphasizing our isolation.
"My car..."
"Forget the car," he cuts in, his voice hard. "It’s metal and plastic. I’ll pull it out when the snow clears."
"And when will that be?"
"Doesn't matter." His dark eyes lock onto mine. "You’re not going anywhere."
The finality in his tone sends a jolt through my blood. "I have a schedule, Logan. I have readers waiting for updates. I have a room at the Grand Pine Lodge with all my gear and my life sitting in it."
"I tried to call them," he says, his voice a low rumble. "The storm took out the main lines near the ridge, and the cell towers are screaming into the void. I sent a runner down to the lower pass—one of my boys. He’ll make sure they know you’re with 'family.' You don't need to worry about the Lodge, Savannah. You only need to worry about me."
"Family?" I choke out a laugh. "We just met yesterday."
He pushes off the counter, moving into my personal space again. He plants his hands on the island on either side of my plate, boxing me in. His face levels with mine, his scent overwhelming me.
"Time doesn't mean shit up here, Savannah," he growls. "I knew the second I saw you on the side of that road. Hell, I knew before that. When I saw you walking down Main Street."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "You saw me in town?"
"I saw you," he confirms, his gaze dropping to my lips. "Saw you looking at the mountains like you were looking for something. You found it."
The intensity of his stare suffocates me, addictive and heavy. "I was looking for a view," I whisper. "For my blog."
"You were looking for this," he corrects, arrogance radiating off him in waves. "For me."
I want to argue. I want to tell him he’s crazy, that this is just adrenaline and Stockholm syndrome wrapped in a flannel shirt. The slick heat between my legs tells a different story.
"Eat," he orders again, nodding at my plate. "I like my women with some meat on their bones, but you're running on empty."
I take a bite of bacon, chewing slowly as he watches. He watches everything. Every swallow, every lick of my lips. It’s unnerving. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced.
"So," I say, desperate to break the heavy silence. "Do you live here alone? It’s... big."
"It’s quiet," he says. "Keeps the bullshit out."
"The bullshit?"
"Town. Politics. People asking questions they don't want the answers to." He reaches out, his index finger tracing the line of my jaw. His skin is rough, calloused from years of gripping handlebars and wielding weapons. The contrast against my skin is electric. "Usually, I don't like company."
"But you brought me here."
"I didn't bring you here for company, Savannah."
The air leaves the room. His thumb brushes over my bottom lip, dragging it down slightly. My breath hitches, ragged and loud in the quiet kitchen.
"Why did you bring me here?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
He doesn't answer immediately. He stares at my mouth, his pupils blown wide, swallowing the iris. "Because if I had left you at that lodge, some soft-handed tourist would be buying you drinks right now. Looking at you." His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "And I don't share."
Possessiveness rolls off him like heat from a furnace. Toxic, archaic, completely overwhelming.
