CHAPTER 2 #2
His hands were still shaking from the cold. Red and chapped with no gloves to protect them. Before I could think better of it, I reached out and caught one of his wrists—gentle, but firm enough that he froze.
"You're freezing," I said, more statement than question. His skin was ice under my fingers, his pulse quick and fluttering. "When's the last time you felt your fingers?"
"I—" He blinked at me, seeming surprised by the touch, by the question. "I don't know. A while?"
I let go of his wrist and straightened, moving toward the small closet near the bathroom. Found what I was looking for—a pair of thick wool gloves, still new, that I'd bought last winter and never used. I turned back and held them out.
"Here."
He stared at the gloves, then at me. "I can't take your—"
"You can and you will." My voice came out rougher than I intended, edged with concern I didn't want to feel. "You won't do yourself any good if you get frostbite."
He took the gloves, slowly, his fingers brushing mine. Even through the brief contact, I could feel how cold he still was. "Thank you."
I nodded and stepped back, putting distance between us again. My hand still felt warm where he'd touched it.
"Firewood's stacked on the porch. More in the shed if you need it."
"Got it."
"Thermostat's here." I moved to the wall, adjusted it up a few degrees. The cabin was cold—too cold for someone who'd just spent an hour hiking through snow. "Keep it at seventy. Don't try to tough it out."
He opened his mouth like he was going to argue, then seemed to think better of it. Smart.
"Kitchen's stocked with basics. Help yourself."
"I don't want to take your—"
"It's there to be used." I moved toward the door, suddenly needing air that didn't smell like him. "You'll probably be here through at least Friday, maybe the weekend."
"That's okay," he said quickly. "I mean—if it's okay with you? I don't have anywhere else to be."
I paused at the door, hand on the frame, and made the mistake of looking back at him.
He was watching me, perfectly still. Not pushing. Not asking again.
Just... waiting. Trusting I'd make the call.
And ready to accept whatever I decided.
Waiting for me to decide for him.
The way he just stood there, ready to accept my call, made my chest feel too tight.
"It's fine," I said, voice rougher than I meant it. "Stay as long as you need."
His smile could've powered the whole property. "Thank you. Really. I'm Maverick, by the way. Mav."
Maverick. It fit him somehow—the restless energy, the wanderer vibe, the way he'd ended up stranded in the middle of nowhere without seeming particularly bothered by it.
"Clark," I replied, then added, because hospitality demanded it, "I'll bring dinner around six."
"You don't have to—"
"Six o'clock." I stepped out onto the porch before he could argue. "Don't let the fire go out. It'll get cold fast once the sun sets."
I didn't wait for his response. Just headed back across the property toward the main house, Bear padding along beside me.
I could feel Maverick watching me go. Feel the weight of his attention on my back, the same way I'd felt it when he first saw me by the woodshed.
I'd seen that look before. Recognition. Interest. The kind that made my gut tighten and my instincts sharpen.
He was attracted to me. It had been written all over his face when we first made eye contact, in the way his breath had caught, the way his pupils had dilated even in the cold. The way he'd responded when I touched his wrist—that little hitch in his breathing, the flutter of his pulse.
And the truly dangerous part?
I was attracted right back.
Not just aesthetically. Not just noticing he was attractive—the kind of attractive that came with not knowing it yet, all quick energy and open expressions that made me want to—
I cut that thought off.
But I couldn't cut off the physical response.
The air had shifted when he'd stood close to me in the cabin.
The protective urge that had roared to life when I'd felt how cold his hands were.
The entirely inappropriate thought I'd had about pulling him close, warming him up properly, making sure he was taken care of.
To this too-young, too-bright wanderer who'd literally stumbled onto my property with his inadequate coat and that backpack covered in pins from places he'd never stayed long enough to call home.
Who had no business being here, no business making me feel things I'd successfully avoided for five years.
Who had looked at me with those wide hazel eyes and waited—just waited—for me to tell him what to do.
But when I reached the main house and looked back at the cabin—just to make sure he'd gotten inside, I told myself—I saw him in the window, silhouetted by the lamp he'd turned on, unpacking his bag.
Making himself at home.
And I didn't hate it as much as I should have.
Bear whined softly beside me.
"Yeah," I muttered. "I know."
He didn't have to say what we both knew: I was going to do it anyway. I stood there another moment, watching the cabin, watching Maverick move around inside like he belonged there.
Then I forced myself to turn away and head inside.
I had dinner to make. For two.
For the first time in five years.