The storm finally starts easing sometime after midnight.
Not enough to clear the roads. Not enough to make traveling safe. But the wind softens from violent to steady, snow no longer hammering the cabin quite so aggressively.
Still, neither of us sleeps.
I’m stretched out on the couch staring at the ceiling while the fire burns low in the hearth, trying not to think about the woman twenty feet away from me.
Not succeeding. At all.
Every time the bedroom floor creaks softly, my entire body goes alert. Every time I catch the faint scent of vanilla drifting down the hallway, I have to physically unclench my hands.
This is a bad idea.
Lying here thinking about London curled beneath my blankets while I freeze my ass off on a couch.
I scrub one hand down my face.
Jesus.
The bedroom door creaks open quietly.
I glance up.
London stands in the doorway wrapped in one of my flannels, soft curls falling around her shoulders in messy waves. Firelight flickers across bare legs and sleepy eyes, and for one dangerous second, all I can think about is dragging her straight into my lap.
“You’re awake,” she whispers.
“So are you.”
She shifts slightly against the doorframe. “The couch looks uncomfortable.”
“It’s fine.”
“That might be the first lie you’ve told me.”
I huff out a quiet laugh.
Her gaze lingers on me for a second before dropping toward the blanket twisted around my waist. Then back up. My blood heats instantly.
“London.” The warning in my voice only makes her step farther into the room.
“I can hear your teeth chattering from the bedroom.”
“They’re not chattering.”
One dark brow lifts.
“Terrifying outlaw,” she murmurs. “Taken down by hypothermia.”
Despite myself, my mouth twitches. She smiles softly like she caught it that time. Then her expression gentles.
“You can come to bed, Troy.”
Every muscle in my body locks up.
“London—”
“I’m serious.” Her voice turns quieter. More vulnerable somehow. “It’s freezing in here.”
