My heart does a clumsy little tumble inside my chest.
Of course he did.
Outside, wind rattles the windows again, followed by the steady hiss of snow against glass.
Weston’s gaze shifts toward the sound.
I follow it.
The world beyond the curtains is still white and wild and very much storming.
“So,” I say. “That looks... dramatic.”
He exhales through his nose. “Yeah.”
“You’re still trapped here?”
“For a while.”
The words should probably make me nervous.
Instead, warmth blooms low and sweet in my belly.
“Oh no,” I say solemnly. “What a terrible hardship.”
That earns me a full look, the kind that makes my pulse misfire. “You making jokes because you don’t realize how bad it is, or because you like having me here?”
Heat floods my face.
“Weston.”
His hand slides to the back of my thigh under the blanket, slow and warm and very distracting.
“That wasn’t a hard question.”
I look down, suddenly fascinated by the quilt. “Maybe both.”
A rough, satisfied sound leaves him.
Then he tips my chin up until I have no choice but to look at him.
What I expect is teasing.
What I get is something else entirely.
Something quieter. Deeper.
“Last night meant something to me.”
The breath leaves my lungs.
Just like that.
No games. No hedging. No pretending it was the storm or the mood or a moment that got away from us.
He said it plain.
Weston goes on, eyes locked on mine. “I’m not the kind of man who says things he doesn’t mean, Lexie.”
