Chapter 21
THATCHER
This is a bad idea.
Or possibly the best one I’ve ever made.
I don’t know which yet.
We’re standing in the hallway, snow and cold still clinging to her like it doesn’t want to let go.
I shrug out of my coat and reach for her jacket, unzipping it slowly. The thing is thin.
Cheap.
Useless against a mountain storm.
I have the irrational urge to toss it straight into the trash.
But that’s not my call.
I ease it off her shoulders, then lift her sweatshirt over her head.
The fabric clings, reluctant to let her go.
When it finally does, she’s left in a simple tank top, soaked through and doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that she’s freezing.
Or that I’m very aware of her soft curves and the unbelievable temptation she presents.
She swallows hard.
I force my eyes down, jaw tight, and notice her sneakers—ruined, soaked, useless.
A low sound rumbles out of me before I can stop it. I crouch, careful, lifting one foot in my hands.
She gasps, wobbles, instinctively grabbing my shoulder to steady herself.
Her hands on me.
Jesus Christ.
I remove her shoes and socks with more care than I’ve ever given anything in my life.
When I straighten, my hands pause at her waist—not touching yet.
Asking without words.
She doesn’t pull away.
In fact, she sways closer.
I grab her waistband. Realizing she’s wearing two pairs of pants, I readjust my grip.
Then, I shove them down.
I peel those wet pants off her skin slowly, deliberately, making sure she stays balanced, stays safe.
She lets me.
Not passive.
Just stunned.
Overwhelmed. Cold.
She’s beautiful. Breathtaking.
But she’s shaking.
That’s what matters.
I strip off my flannel and wrap it around her shoulders.
I see the warmth settle into her bones immediately.
Then I scoop her up without ceremony, holding her close like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I—I can walk,” she whispers.
“Not tonight,” I say quietly.
Not when I’m still feeling raw about what happened tonight—what could have happened.
I carry her through my house, every instinct screaming at me to protect, to shelter, to keep. I take her to the one room I should absolutely not take her to.
My bedroom.
I set her down in front of the bed and step back just enough to look at her. She’s swallowed by my shirt, hair still damp, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and dark with shock and something else I don’t want to name yet.
“Thatcher?” she says softly.
That’s my name on her lips.
And it does something to me.
I lean in before doubt can catch up—not rough but claiming all the same.
I kiss her.
Deeper than the first time.
Slower.
Full of everything I’m holding back.
She makes a small sound, surprised, and I pull away immediately, forehead resting against hers, breath unsteady.
“I won’t take anything you don’t offer,” I say, voice low and sure. “If you want me on the couch, I’ll go. No questions. But if you want me to stay—”
I stop.
I make myself wait.
“—I need you to tell me.”
Our eyes lock, and I wait.