Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
DENVER
Don’t know what I hear first—the knock or her teeth chattering—over Bear’s barking. I open, grimace, consider slamming it shut with a grumpy “No solicitors.”
Habit. But habit won’t work here.
And Bear isn’t having this plan. He darts toward her, shamelessly nuzzling her hand and rubbing against her leg. Never been so jealous of a four-legged friend.
I sigh, long and low. I knew this was coming. Still doesn't prepare me for her. Heard the generator all day, groaning and rushing. The old Wheeler cabin—wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
“Come in,” I mutter.
The woman pauses wide-eyed, shivering like a newborn foal despite Bear’s lavish attention. A messy bun of damp dark curls, lashes beaded with rain, breath fogging white in the cold.
“Come in,” I repeat, standing back and sweeping my arm. “Warm up at the fire.”
Her pensive face tells me she’s weighing her chances of being kidnapped, raped, or killed. No trust for strangers left in this world. No sense of hospitality, either. I go for plainspoken. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would've. Nothing's stopped me today.”
She giggles, cheeks flushing, head nodding like my logic is welcome. “You have a point. Not like I did much to protect myself.” Her hand drops to the small of her back—a tiny tell. She’s armed.
Fine by me. At least she’s smart enough to carry.
I gesture, and she accepts. We walk over to the hearth with its glimmering amber flames.
“Generator stop?” I grunt.
“Nope. Works well, actually.”
I run a hand through my long hair, eyeing her carefully. “Heard a commotion coming from the cabin, too.”
“With good reason. Pipes failed. It was quite … spectacular.” She chooses the last word with understated care.
Nope, she’s spectacular. Dark eyes, flushed cheeks, trembling lip. Fire won’t warm her fast enough. Not compared to me.
“Hot shower? Dry clothes?”
“Mop?”
I scrunch my forehead.
She gestures towards the ground. “I’m dripping everywhere.”
God, help me. I grind out between clenched teeth. “Handled. No worries.”
She freezes, eyes betraying the internal struggle. “But I can’t impose like this. Mess up your house, ask for a bailout, upset your peace.”
I shake my head, lie, “No bother.”
“I should figure this out for myself. I need to figure this out for myself. It’s why I’m here in the first place. But honestly … between me and you, I don’t know what to do.”
Her voice cracks, something raw under the smile.
Maybe that’s what I’m hearing in her—grief trying to sound brave. Still, it could get her killed out here.
My eyes narrow. “If you don’t know what to do, you shouldn’t be out here.”
“Probably not,” she agrees, eyes dropping.
“Can’t have you standing here getting pneumonia.”
“Nope,” she says, eyes rising to mine. God, she’s stunning. High cheekbones, sculpted face, thick fucking curves my hands ache to touch.
Against my better judgment, I offer a hand, murmur, “Denver.”
She freezes, stares awkwardly at my hand, then takes it. Her palm is petal-soft—dainty fingers, warm and alive. Electricity streaks across my skin. Breath catches, throat tight. Her eyes flicker away, pulse jumping before she meets my gaze again.
“Dahlia.” The edges of her mouth turn up. “But most people call me Dolly.”
“Dahlia, then.”
She cocks her head, brow lifting. Her light brown skin is flawless, achingly so. Like warm silk that I long to touch with my lips and my tongue. We’re still shaking hands. Won’t let go til she does, the only neighborly thing to do, only she doesn’t.
“Why not Dolly?”
“Because I’m not most people.”
“Fair enough.” She giggles, brings her other hand up to cover mine, too. “Sorry, I was so cold out there, and you’re so … warm.”
I shift my weight, try to comprehend her words, or the mischievous look that sparks in her eyes.
“All of me’s like that.” I want to slap my hand over my mouth. What the fuck am I saying? But I’m too entranced by her saucy grin and the deliciousness of her touch to let go.
Her mouth quirks. “Lucky you.”
I pull my hand back, turn away. So much for solitude.
“Shower, hot cocoa, dry clothes, and a fire,” I grumble, words feeling strange on my tongue. Apart from Bear and the chickens, I don’t talk much, and they never talk back.
“And then what?”
“Then, you stay until we can sort everything out tomorrow.”
She shakes her head, tempting lips pressed into a thin line. “But I couldn’t impose.”
“Already are,” I murmur.
She breaks into a grin. “You have a point. In that case, I may as well continue.”
I nod, firm—as if it’s a done deal. With an impatient flick of my hand, I invite her down the hallway to my bedroom and bathroom.
Modest, one-bedroom. Never needed much. Now I feel painfully aware of its inadequacy.
“Bed.” I stride forward, open the bathroom door.
“Shower.” Then, I point to a cabinet. “Towels.” Finally, nodding towards the dresser to my right. “Clothes. Help yourself.”
She smells like honey and wet pine. Trouble. I tap the doorframe. “Don’t touch anything.”