Emmett’s bent over the counter, talking to one of the volunteers, and it’s almost like all of the thoughts I’ve been trying not to have of him somehow manifested into the middle of the hospital lobby.
Relief hits first—fast and entirely too personal—at the sight of him standing there, whole, and very much alive.
And just like that, the exhaustion doesn’t feel nearly as heavy.
Because he looks good.
Healthy good.
Just . . .goodgood.
His tousled dark blond hair, faded flannel stretched across his back, black jeans, and worn boots do far more than suit him.
The whole rugged, dangerous lumbersnack situation should probably come with a warning label.
You’d never guess he walked out of this hospital with serious injuries ten days ago.
Or that he was only ever supposed to be here temporarily.
Timberline Peak looks like home on him.
Standing in the middle of the lobby gawking at Emmett Slate isn’t exactly subtle, so I shake off whatever haze I’m in and use his blind spot to sneak up behind him.
He’s holding one of my reusable coffee cups, grilling the poor volunteer for information on where he can find me. No matter how many ways he tries to spin the request, she won’t give an inch.
I prop an elbow on the desk and wait him out, nodding along as he launches into what sounds like his final argument.
“I’m not a creep. I’m just trying to drop off coffee because she’s been here for . . .” He checks his phone then stills. “Twenty hours.” His jaw flexes, hard.
A thrill races through me. It absolutely should not, but apparently pissing off Emmett Slate wakes up a very specific part of me.
“Hmm . . . knowing my exact schedule and whereaboutsfeelsvery stalker coded.”
Emmett turns to face me, his lips pressed thin.
I avoid his narrowed gaze, looking at the volunteer.
“Don’t you think, Doris?”
Behind her wire-framed glasses, Doris’s curious eyes ping-pong between us before she asks—completely serious—“Should I call security?”
When I hazard a peak at Emmett again, his gaze is checking over me—taking stock slowly and thoroughly.
I pretend not to notice and consider Doris’s question.
“No. He’s harmless.” I pat the counter twice. “Thanks, Doris.”
His nostrils flare.
“What’s this?” I point to the cup still clutched in Emmett’s hand as he follows me away from the desk and across the lobby.
“For you.”
He pushes the cup into my palm like he can’t decide if he actually wants to give it to me or if he’d rather lecture me.
Oh, he’s big mad.
But he’s not the only one.
