For a second, everything in the room fell away—the itinerary, the schedule, the world outside the cabin. There were just his hands on my waist. Mine on his arms. Breath caught somewhere in the middle.
Then, slowly, his fingers eased back. Not a sharp release, but a quiet one—his touch dragging slightly before falling away.
I stepped back, but somehow, I still felt him.
Then his gaze dipped to my mouth, and I forgot how to breathe again.
“I guess I should go get ready,” I whispered. Because if I didn’t speak, I wasn’t sure that I wouldn’t do something else. Like reach for him again.
The moment broke like a wave pulling away from shore. Whatever had been holding us there unraveled.
Dean stepped back too, running a hand through his hair as if the tension had finally caught up to him. He turned toward the table, grabbed an apple out of the basket, and took a large bite.
“That’s probably a good idea,” he agreed.
I wasn’tsure how long I stayed in the bathroom. Long enough to shower, blow-dry my hair, and overthink that moment by the window for way too long.
There was no denying it anymore—there was chemistry between Dean and me.
The kind that pulled when I pushed.
The kind that turned silence into foreplay.
How the hell was I supposed to survive another week of this?
I gripped the counter and stared at myself in the mirror.
“This is a job,” I said firmly. “You cannot go lusting after the man who hired you to be his fiancé.”
But the part of me that hadn’t been touched in over a year raised a very compelling eyebrow.
“It could be fun.” I tilted my head—then turned away, instantly disgusted with myself.
It must have been my biological clock talking. Because that awful,horrible,voice was wrong.
My chest tightened, and something low in my belly clenched.
I felt like there was a ticking time bomb inside me, and I had no idea when it was going to blow.
My mind slipped back to the way his hands gripped my waist—steady and sure. The kind of touch that knew its strength and held back just enough to not be overwhelming. A pressure that was commanding, yet safe at the same time.
I exhaled and went to my garment bag, which hung on the back of the door, then stared blankly at the outfit hanging there.
“What the hell do you wear to a square dance, anyway?”
I’d contemplated this question for days and had finally settled on a pair of denim shorts—cute, but not overly short, and a green flannel blouse that I would tie at my waist.
“Why do you care so much?” I asked myself.
But I already knew the answer.
I wanted to please him––and the thought instantly left an unsettled feeling in my gut.
Frustrated, I yanked the shirt off the hanger, put it on, then sat on the edge of the tub and shoved my feet into theembroidered brown-and-green boots I’d found at a thrift store a few years ago.
I hesitated for half a second. Then stalked toward the door.
I flung it open, forced myself into the room?—
