Page 14
“Morning,” I say.
He turns around, and all that frowning just falls away. He looks at me with so much happiness that it stops me in my tracks.
Wow. Nobody’s ever looked at me like that.
“You’re awake,” he says softly.
I nod, smiling. “You’re cooking.”
The frown returns when he looks down at the pan. “I’m trying.” He glances at the surrounding mess. “Eggs are a terrible design. Why do they break so easily? The birds sit on them all day, and they’re fine.”
“Birds are lighter than you, baby.”
The word just slips out. Shit. Like we’ve been doing this for years.
He goes very still, his eyes darken, then he crosses my kitchen in two steps and kisses me. Slow and deep, one big hand cupping my jaw. He smells like rain, fresh-cut wood and burned egg, and I don’t even care about the eggs.
“Nobody’s ever called me that,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Baby?”
“Anything.” He rests his forehead on mine. “Nobody calls a tree anything.”
That’s when I notice the light. My kitchen is bright. Way brighter than usual. I look past him, and both shutters are hanging straight for the first time I remember. The window that’s been stuck shut for two summers is propped open. And the gate out front, the one that sticks so bad I have to kick it every morning, is swinging open and shut in the breeze. Smooth and silent.
I turn in a slow circle, looking around. The roof isn’t dripping. The leaning shelf by the door isn’t anymore.
“Rowan,” I say slowly. “Did you fix my house?”
“Some of it.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “I don’t sleep much. Your gate was an embarrassment, and your roof had a hole in it the size of my fist. How have you been living like this?” He asks in his ‘humans are insane’ tone.
I harrumph. “I have been living like this just fine, thank you.”
He cocks an eyebrow, crossing his huge arms over his stupid, huge chest, smirking. “You’ve been putting a bucket under it.”
I raise my own brow. “It’s a very nice bucket.”
He looks at me like I’m the most ridiculous creature he’s ever met. And then he smiles, a real one, slow, and… my pussy clenches.
This is too good. Way too good. Men around here don’t fix a damn thing, let alone your gate before breakfast. Men don’t look at you like that while you’re wrapped in a blanket with your hair all over the place. There has to be a catch.
I grab his wrist, lift his arm, and start inspecting his body.
He lets me, eyes patiently observant above me. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for hinges.”
He lets out a chuckle. “I don’t have hinges, Hattie.”
I keep looking. “You’re made of wood. You have to have hinges.”
“I’m not a door, sweetheart.”
I check his other elbow, anyway. Then his wrist. Then I go up on my toes and check behind his ear. He stands there and lets me, eyes all warm and amused, while I run my fingers over the grain on his neck looking for a seam.
No hinges. No seams. No catch. Just warm, smooth, living wood and a pulse beating under my fingertips.
“Satisfied?” he asks.
