Kori
I've been in this cabin one full day, and I already know exactly how long it takes Randall Anderson to make me forget my own name.
About four seconds, give or take, roughly the time it took this morning when he came in from the woodshed, snow dusting his shoulders, forearms flexed under rolled up sleeves like he'd forgotten it was below freezing outside.
I stopped talking mid-sentence.
Something about the pharmacy in Bramble, completely gone from my head the second a drop of melted snow slid down the side of his throat and disappeared under his collar.
I shouldn't be doing this. I should be finishing my screenplay, rationing my insulin like a responsible adult, and counting down the days until this storm clears so I never have to look at those forearms again.
Instead, I'm standing at the kitchen window with a mug gone cold in my hands, watching him split wood in the yard, and my entire body's decided this is the most interesting thing it's ever seen.
Every swing of the axe pulls his shirt tight across his back.
There's a rhythm to it, lift, swing, crack, reset, and I have zero business finding it as attractive as I do.
His jaw's set with the kind of focus most men only bring to things they actually care about, and I catch myself wondering, stupidly, what that focus would feel like turned on me instead of a piece of firewood.
He’s entirely too grumpy but his sour personality doesn’t hinder my physical attraction in the slightest.
Damn the man.
His dark eyes dart up and he catches me staring through the window.
I don't look away fast enough.
By the time he stomps the snow off his boots and comes inside, I've already busied myself with the coffee pot like I wasn't just openly ogling him through glass.
"You always watch people work, or is that a special service you're offering me?" he asks, hanging his coat by the door.
"I was looking at the trees."
"There aren't any trees where you were looking."
"There's a lot of trees in Colorado, Randall. Statistically some of them were probably in my line of sight."
He huffs something that isn't quite a laugh, and it does something unfair to my chest anyway.
"You need anything cut up smaller for the fireplace?" he asks. "Or are we just gonna stand here lying to each other?"
"I don't need help."
"Didn't ask if you needed it. Asked if you wanted anything cut."
"I'm capable of managing a fire, thank you."
He raises an eyebrow at the sad, lopsided little stack of kindling I'd attempted earlier, which looks less like firewood and more like the aftermath of a small crime scene.
"It's a disaster."
"It's an artisanal disaster." I cross my arms, refusing to give him the satisfaction of admitting he's right. "I'm workshopping my technique."
"You've got about forty minutes before that fire dies out completely and this cabin drops ten degrees."
"I'm aware."
"You gonna do something about it, or just stand there defending your artisanal disaster?"
"I'm going to solve it myself, since apparently I'm not allowed to have a single skill deficiency without you turning it into a whole thing."
"You're the one getting defensive about kindling."
"I’m not defensive."
"You're gripping that mug like you’re about to hurl it at my head."
I look down. I am, in fact, gripping the mug hard enough that my knuckles have gone pale. I set it down on the counter with more force than necessary, which doesn't help my case even a little.
"Fine," I say. "Fine. Maybe I don't know how to build a fire that doesn't look like it was assembled by a raccoon. Happy?"
"Ecstatic."
He's already crossing the room toward the hearth, crouching down to survey the wreckage of my attempt with something that might be amusement if his face weren't so committed to permanent scowl mode.
"You stacked it wrong. It needs air, or it just smothers itself."
"I know how fire works."
"Clearly."
"I have a doctorate level understanding of combustion, actually."
"Sure you do."
He starts rebuilding it, quick and efficient, hands moving with the same easy competence I watched through the window twenty minutes ago, and I hate how much I like watching him do this too.
There's something deeply unfair about a man who looks that good doing something as mundane as rebuilding a fire.
"Where'd you learn to do that?" I ask, mostly to have something to say that isn't please keep kneeling in front of the fireplace looking like that.
"Army."
"They teach fire making in the Army?"
"They teach you a lot of things you don't expect." He strikes a match, and the kindling catches almost instantly, flames licking up through the gaps he left on purpose. "Field medic work involves more improvising than people think."
"Field medic." I file that away, curious despite myself. "That's how you..." I gesture vaguely toward his leg where his limb ends abruptly with a prosthetic foot attached, immediately regretting it the second his shoulders go tight.
"That's how I lost the foot. Yeah."
“Sorry. I swear I have manners."
"Could've fooled me, given the trespassing thing."
"It looked like a legit listing!"
He stands, dusting his hands off on his jeans, and for a second, we're just looking at each other across the small space of his living room, firelight catching the sharp lines of his face in a way that makes it very hard for me to remember why I'm supposed to be annoyed with him.
"You're staring again," he says.
"I'm wondering whether you're going to lecture me further."
"I was planning on telling you dinner's in twenty minutes, if you're capable of managing that without setting off a smoke alarm."
"I'll have you know I'm an excellent cook."
"Based on what evidence?"
"I don’t need evidence. It’s a fact.”
That gets an actual laugh out of him this time, low and surprised, like it caught him off guard as much as it did me. It transforms his whole face, softens the permanent scowl into something boyish and unfairly handsome, and I feel the floor tilt a little under my feet.
"What?" he says, catching me staring yet again.
"Nothing. You should laugh more. It's a good look on you."
"Don't get used to it."
"Too late. I'm already writing it into my screenplay."
"You're writing me into your screenplay?"
"Not you specifically." I shrug, enjoying the way his ears have gone slightly red.
He steps closer, and the air in the room shifts, gone thick and warm in a way that has nothing to do with the fire he just built.
"And what type of character am I supposed to be?"
"A grumpy loner who secretly has a heart of gold and definitely, definitely doesn't want to kiss the annoying woman currently squatting in his cabin."
"That's oddly specific."
"I'm a professional writer. If I weren’t specific, I’d have a career problem."
"You're something else," he mutters in a rough tone, and I have to tip my head back to keep looking at his dark eyes as he closes the last of the distance between us. "Don't know if annoying's the word I'd use."
"What word would you use?"
He doesn't reply verbally. His hand comes up, calloused fingers catching my jaw, tilting my face up to his, and I have exactly one full second to think oh, we're doing this before his mouth is on mine.
It isn't gentle or hesitant. It's like he finally stopped fighting a battle he'd been losing all day, and the second his lips meet mine every ounce of my usual smart mouth just melts away.
I fist my hand in the front of his shirt to keep myself steady, and he makes a low sound against my mouth that I feel deep in my core.
One of his arms bands around my waist like he's got no intention of letting me put distance back between us anytime soon.
When he finally pulls back we're both breathing hard and his forehead drops to mine.
"That," he says, voice wrecked, "was a mistake."
"Definitely," I agree, not moving an inch away from him. "Huge mistake."
"You're not leaving my kitchen."
"You can’t stop me."
"No? Cause I wasn’t finished." His thumb brushes along my jaw, and I lean into it before I can stop myself.
"Oh," I breathe. "Well. In that case."
He kisses me again, and I don't bother pretending I mind even a little.