His eyes narrow. “Third rule. You don’t go into the woods behind the cabin.”
I gesture toward the window. “We’re literally in the woods.”
“You know what I mean,” he says.
I cross my arms. “What’s out there? Bears? Serial killers? Your secret bunker where you keep all the women who didn’t follow your rules?”
He steps in close enough that my back nearly hits the kitchen counter. His voice drops. “Don’t test me, Ellie.”
The sound of my name in his mouth is a problem. It hits too deep, too familiar, too intimate, and I hate that my body reacts before my brain can throw up a wall.
I force a laugh. “You’re not that scary.”
His eyes slide down my body again, slower this time, like he’s taking inventory of everything I’m trying to pretend isn’t happening. “You sure?”
Heat climbs my neck. I uncross my arms and grab my backpack strap instead. It’s safer to hold on to something.
“I’m sure,” I say, even though my voice comes out slightly breathless.
Wyatt’s mouth tilts into something that isn’t a smile, exactly. It’s a promise. “Good.”
Then he steps back like he didn’t just turn the air into fire.
I exhale, annoyed, and yank my backpack up again. “Fine. Your rules. Whatever. Where am I supposed to?—”
“Down the hall,” he says, pointing. “Bedroom. Bathroom. Kitchen’s yours. Don’t touch the locked drawer in the desk.”
My brows shoot up. “Now who’s the serial killer?”
His gaze doesn’t flicker. “Fourth rule. Don’t touch what I tell you not to touch.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re allergic to fun.”
“Fun gets people hurt,” he says, flat.
That lands sharper than the flirtatious edge we’ve been skating on. For a second, I see it—something old and hard behind his eyes. Something that doesn’t joke.
Then it’s gone, replaced by that steady, confident Wyatt who thinks he can command the world into behaving.
I toss my backpack onto the bed in the small bedroom, then glance at the dresser like it might magically contain my clothes.
It doesn’t.
Because my clothes are locked inside my shop with a foreclosure notice taped to the glass.
I swallow the lump in my throat and walk back out, trying to keep my face neutral.
Wyatt is standing by the wood stove, arms folded, watching me like he can tell the exact second my pride starts to crack.
“What,” I say, too sharp. “Are you going to lecture me about packing better?”
“You didn’t pack at all,” he says.
“I packed,” I argue. “I have—” I unzip my bag and show him the sad contents: a travel toothbrush, a phone charger, a pair of flipflops, and a chocolate bar I stole from my own shop last week before I went for a hike along the Phantom River.
Wyatt’s gaze drops to the chocolate bar. Something like irritation flashes across his face.
“Really?” he says.
