Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
AUSTIN
Coffee.
Flannel.
Boots and hat.
I slip out into the cold, exhales laced in white puffs of frost. Flesh braces against the cold as I trudge toward the old stump and woodpile, barely able to see my hand in front of my face.
Pogonip. Snow fog. It hangs heavy and eerie on the ridge turning everything—everything—impossibly white in the still of dawn.
Inside, Allie sleeps, cozy and warm. Makes the sacrifice easier somehow. Knowing the logs I bring in will fuel her comfort. Touch her in ways I can’t.
She’s been here for days now. I’ve stopped counting. Because counting feels like measuring, and measuring implies an end.
Can’t explain the feeling. But I don’t want an end. Not with her.
The gondola ride cracked something open inside my chest that I can’t fix. Like a dull ache that won’t go away. The same ache that haunts me when I see her in my flannel. Or hugging herself in the morning chill.
The ache that wants to pull her hard against my chest and keep her there.
We haven’t spoken about her ex. The date. How long she’s staying.
But we have fallen into the kind of rhythm I could get used to. Shared space. Quiet conversation. Understanding masked in calm.
She’s too good for a guy like me. A simple cowboy with small ambitions. But, God, I’d give her the world if she asked.
I go too fast for another log, miscalculate its weight, mind still wandering. Another cracks down on top of it, wedging my hand beneath. Impatiently, I pull it free, knuckles scraping, skin snagging, wood shifting and buckling.
“Dammit,” I mutter under my breath, staring at skinned knuckles and oozing red.
I pull a handkerchief from my Carhartt, wrap it tight and keep working. By the time I head inside, rough wood stacked against straining arms, the handkerchief’s soaked through. I clench my jaw against the angry throb.
As I pile wood against the hearthstones, I mind the drops of blood I need to clean after. Don’t want to alarm my house guest.
Before I finish, the pad of stockinged feet greets me, and I look up into cheeks still pink from sleep, hair disheveled. Curves beneath flannel. God help me, it makes my body boil.
She rubs her face, stretches with a little moan that tightens my throat and my jeans. Her sugarplum fragrance dances toward me, thick with longing.
“Your hand,” she squeaks, groggy-voiced. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.” I shrug.
“Not nothing,” she says, eyes dropping to the crimson drops betraying me near the wood stack.
“Let me take a look.”
“It’s fine,” I say, heat crawling up my neck.
“Thought you’d be less stubborn now,” she snaps back, hurt behind her eyes.
“It’s not that, Allie. Just…” I straighten, holding the handkerchief gently with my other hand. “I know how you clean things.”
Her eyes round, then she giggles, face going sheepish.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, trying to slide past her. But she rests a hand on my shoulder, stopping me.
“I promise to be more careful this time.”
I exhale slowly, biting the inside of my cheek.
“You take care of me in a thousand ways every day. Let me return the favor.”
I grunt. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I want to,” she answers.
Those words get me.
“You’ve made a royal mess of your hand,” she scolds in the bathroom, close enough that I can feel the heat of her breath. It takes every ounce of self-control not to pull her into my arms and kiss her.
Allie removes my Stetson, and my chest tightens. She sets it on the sink brim up like I would, then, pulls back the handkerchief. “Geez, Austin. This might need stitches.”
I grimace. “It’s fine.”
She frowns, lips pressing together like she’s already planning how to ignore me.
“Got needles and thread in the stable if you know how?” My hand doesn’t need it. But if she insists, I’d take a stitch or two for her.
“I am not using horse first-aid on you,” she gasps, placing a towel over my lap to catch a few stray drops of blood.
“Would’ve stopped by now,” I excuse. “Chopping kept the blood flowing is all.”
“Hold still,” she orders, rustling through the cabinet beneath the sink for peroxide, ointment, and band-aids. My heart warms in my chest, watching how she knows my place now. Almost like it’s hers.
When the cotton ball grazes my knuckles, I flinch. Not from current pain. That, I can bear. But past memory.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I pause. “Just don’t scrub like last time.”
Our eyes meet, her face inches from mine. “Sorry about that,” she says.
“Not looking for an apology. Just soft hands.”
She huffs a laugh. “Soft hands, then.”
I nod, closing my eyes against the feel of her warm, curvy body inches from mine. Her rose-tipped fingers, so gentle this time, sending little fiery trails, like sparklers, the length of my arm.
“Now, the ointment,” she narrates, so close, her exhales warm my cheek.
I keep my eyes closed. Fighting the sugarplum fragrance snaking around me, filling me with a need bigger than the Montana sky.
She doesn’t owe you anything, Austin.
Delicate fingers dab ointment, then band-aids. My heart beats so loud, I’m sure she can hear it.
I clear my throat. Try to stay cool.
That’s when her soft lips cover mine.
“Mmm,” I moan, half-surprised, half-pleased.
She starts to pull away. My hand comes up, gentle, cupping the back of her head and urging her toward me again. Then, stopping short. Only if she wants it.
Allie crosses the distance, mouth covering mine again, and flames spark like dry brush where my heart should be. Gentle fingers curl into my flannel, tugging me closer, letting me know she needs this, too.
When she pulls away, puts an inch between us, I regret it. “Hope that was okay,” she whispers. “But you had your eyes closed, like you wanted it.”
“Yeah, I wanted it. Still do.” Then, I nudge her against me again. This time, taking the lead. She sighs against my mouth, lips parting, and I sweep into her. Tasting, exploring, claiming.
Veins hot with yearning, blood churning. Don’t ever want this moment to end. But still, I inch back, and she rests her head on my forehead, breath fluttering like butterfly wings against my cheek.
“Can I tell you what I want?” she asks.
“Of course.” My heart thuds in my temples. There’s nothing I won’t give her.
“I want you to follow me down the hallway, Austin Fitz.”
I swallow loud, not trusting my ears. “For breakfast?”
She shakes her head, forehead still resting against mine. “No, the other way.”
I freeze, mind clamoring, body locked between want and restraint.