Chapter 9
Quinn
Iwake to the smell of coffee and the sizzle of something cooking on the stove. For a second, I forget where I am, then I roll over and hit the floor.
“Oomph.” I hit the floor hard, and that’s when I look up to see Luke staring back at me with a shit-eating grin.
The storm is long over, but the cabin is still lovely and warm. I’m in Luke’s flannel, with just one button buttoned. And my body aches, but in a good way. I stretch, feeling sore muscles I hadn’t used in, well, forever, and I can't stop the smile spreading across my face.
Mountain man knows what he’s doing.
I stand, pulling the flannel tight around me and buttoning the last two before realizing this flannel is the only thing I have on.
Luke stands in the small kitchen with a coffee mug in one hand and a spatula in the other. His hair is tousled like my hands had been in it all night, his beard even scruffier in the morning light, and the man is wearing sweatpants.
When the hell did he put those on?
“You’re domestic now?” I tease, leaning against the doorway. “Is this what happens when you sleep with a writer? Next comes brunch and Pinterest boards?”
Without turning around, he says, “Brunch, no. But if you ask nicely, I’ll build you a bookshelf.”
My mouth drops open. “You’re kidding.”
He turns, smirking just enough to make my insides do that thing again. “Dead serious. I can build a mean shelf.”
“Be still, my beating heart.”
He hands me a mug, his fingers brush mine. “Coffee. Strong. Figured you’d need it after last night.”
I sipped. “Wow. Look at you, all thoughtful and smug.”
“I’m not smug,” he said, turning back to the stove. “I’m just confident. There’s a difference. Plus, your cries and moans told me I did something right.”
This man.
I walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist, resting my cheek against his back, thinking, might as well go all in. “Mm. You get like this with all your guests? Or am I just special?”
He leans back a little. “First time I’ve ever cooked breakfast for a woman in this cabin.” When I give him a slap on his arm, he chuckles, then says, “Any woman and any cabin, actually”.
My heart does a slow somersault, but I’m not about to let him get the upper hand.
“Whoa! So, I’m like a really big deal? I mean, my mom always told me I was special, but now you’ve just cemented it.” He grunts, but I keep going. “So, you don’t make eggs and black coffee for tourists you rescue from fireplace disasters on the regular?” I tease him.
“Nope,” he said, flipping something in the pan with absurd grace. “You’re my first storm survivor.”
“Lucky me.”
He turns then, eyes locking with mine. His hand brushes my hair back. “I’m the one who’s lucky, Quinn.”
I swallow hard. “Don’t say it unless you mean it.”
“I don’t say anything I don’t mean.”
Time seems to stand still, both of us staring at each other like we are already too far gone.
Then he says, “Breakfast is gonna burn.”
I laugh, leaning up to kiss his cheek before turning toward the table.
“You really are the book boyfriend,” I say. “Broody, skilled hands, and makes a mean breakfast.”
He groans. “You’re gonna write me into one of your smutty books, aren’t you?”
“Already have a title,” I said, grinning as I take a seat at the table.
He raises a brow. “Yeah?”
I nod. “Wood for You.” I snicker. “Get it? Wood for you?”
He stares at me for a moment, then shakes his head and mutters, “You’re lucky I like you.”
And damn if those words don’t make my heart skip a beat.