I swallow hard. “Fine.”
Wyatt’s brow lifts slightly.
I glare at him, then turn away, marching toward the bathroom like I’m furious instead of flustered.
The bathroom is small and clean and smells like cedar. I shut the door and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
My cheeks are flushed. My eyes look too bright.
I hold the flannel up.
The thing is, it’s a good shirt. Soft. Thick. The kind of flannel that would swallow me whole and make me feel small in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.
I pull my hoodie off, then pause, hand on my bra strap, because now I’m standing in a stranger’s bathroom in a mountain cabin, and the stranger is Wyatt Cooper, and he’s outside the door with the kind of voice that makes my knees weak.
I mutter, “Get it together,” then shove my arms into the flannel.
It slides over my skin like a claim. It smells like smoke and soap and him. It hits mid-thigh. The sleeves hang past my wrists.
I look ridiculous.
I look like I belong to him.
My stomach flips.
I open the door and step back into the cabin.
Wyatt’s gaze snaps to me and holds. Hard.
For a second, he doesn’t speak.
His eyes drag down my body in that flannel like he’s imagining his hands on my thighs, his mouth on my neck, his teeth on the pulse that’s hammering there.
Then he lifts his gaze to mine and says, quiet and rough, “Fuck.”
Heat rushes through me so fast it’s dizzying. I plant my feet. “It’s just a shirt.”
“It’s my shirt,” he corrects.
I roll my eyes because if I don’t, I’ll melt. “Congratulations.”
Wyatt steps closer. “Turn around.”
I blink. “No.”
“Ellie.”
The way he says my name makes it feel like an order.
I cross my arms. “Why?”
His eyes flick to my crossed arms. “Because I want to see what it looks like on you.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s the only reason you need.”
I glare, but I turn anyway because my body is a traitor and because some part of me wants to see how far he’ll push.
