"What happened?" he asks, voice rough.
I sit back on my heels, blowing a stray curl out of my face. "Creative explosion."
He eyes the newspaper piles. Resigned . "I told you she’s messy."
"It cleans up," I say, dipping my rag into the soapy water.
He grunts and walks to the sink, scrubbing grease off his hands with a bar of harsh soap. Muscles in his forearms flex as he works. "Did you eat?" I ask.
He pauses. "No."
"I saved you pancakes. And there’s ham."
He dries his hands on a towel and turns. I’m still on the floor, at a severe disadvantage. He towers over me. "You're feeding me now?"
"Part of the job. Care and feeding of the household."
"Maddie is the household. I'm the landlord."
"You're the dad," I correct. "And dads need to eat."
His lip twitches. "I'm always grumpy, Sunshine. Default setting." He walks over. Instead of stepping around me, he crouches. Knees pop. Eye level. The kitchen feels too intimate, the air thick. He reaches out. My breath hitches. His thumb brushes my cheekbone. Rough, calloused sandpaper against my softness. He rubs firmly.
"Blue," he murmurs, eyes locked on mine.
"We were making skies."
He doesn't pull away. His thumb traces the line of my jaw, dropping to the sensitive spot just below my ear. My heart hammers against my ribs. "Paint on your neck, too," he says, a low vibration I feel in my bones.
"I do?" My voice whispers.
He leans in, his heat radiating off him like a furnace. I catch the scent of motor oil, sharp pine, and the heavy, musky pheromones of a man who’s been exerting his dominance over the mountain all day. It triggers a primal, biological demand that makes my pussy clench and start to soak through my clothes. My body isn't just screaming; it’s drenched in the need to be claimed by him .
He tilts his head, putting his nose right behind my ear. He inhales deep, scenting me like an animal. I freeze, my knuckles turning white around the wet rag. "Right here," he rumbles against my skin. His lips graze my throat, and his breath is hot. My legs go weak and I let out a wrecked breath. I don't push him away; I lean into him. He grabs my jaw, his grip hard and possessive as he tilts my head back. He’s putting off so much heat I can barely breathe. I want him to bite me. I want his mark on my skin.
"Shane," I breathe.
The sound of his name snaps him out of the trance. He pulls back abruptly. Cold air rushes into the space between us. He stands, face a mask of stone, eyes blazing. "Finish cleaning up," he says, voice harsh. "And stay out of the garage."
He stalks to the fridge, grabs a water bottle and the plate of cold pancakes, then takes the stairs two at a time. Retreating. I stay on the floor, clutching the wet rag. My body hums, alive and aching. He almost kissed me. And worse, he knows I wanted him to.
By evening, the temperature plummets. Wind howls around the corners of the cabin, a mournful sound. Shane hasn't come back down. I feed Maddie grilled cheese and tomato soup, then put her to bed with stories about bears. When I return downstairs, the house feels massive. I check the locks. The bolts slide home with a reassuringthunk. Restless energy coils tight in my stomach.
I wander into the living room. Freezing. I kneel on the rug before the massive stone fireplace and arrange logs. It takes three matches, but the kindling catches. Fire crackles, casting dancing shadows against the log walls. I curl up on the leathercouch, charcoal pencil in hand. My hand moves across the sketchbook without permission. Sharp jaw. Heavy brow. The scar cutting through the eyebrow. The messy charcoal captures him perfectly.
"You're good."
I jump, sketchbook sliding off my lap. Shane stands at the bottom of the stairs, half-lit by firelight. He’s changed into a fresh white t-shirt that makes his tan skin and dark tattoos pop. "You move too quietly for a man your size," I say, retrieving my book.
He enters the room. Firelight glints off his eyes. "Keeps me alive." He comes around the couch and sits on the heavy coffee table, facing me. His knees almost brush mine. "Let me see," he says, nodding at the book.
I clutch it to my chest. "Private."
"You're drawing in my living room, by my fire. Let me see." A command, softer this time. Slowly, I lower the book and flip it around. He studies the sketch. Rough, unfinished, undeniably him.
"You made me look…" He trails off.
"Human?"
