Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77611 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77611 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
I could still be lost in that, which is a scary thought. But now I’m here, safe and snug in what I can only assume is “the cabin.”
I shiver with remembered cold, despite the wood-burning stove in the center of the living room that’s radiating heat. It’s huge, just as tall and twice as wide as I am, and I’ve never been so thankful for anything in my life. Being warm is not something I’ll be taking for granted ever again.
I’m also damn thankful not to be naked—and I’m tacking that on because I’m pretty sure I was undressed after I got here. Stripped, toweled brusquely and redressed in a buttery-soft baggy T-shirt and sweatpants. Then I was wrapped in blankets and held while being urged to sip a cup of broth before being carried into the bathroom to pee.
The hands holding my head slide down to cup my flaming cheeks. Oh good. I survived the freeze, so now I’ll get my chance to discover whether or not someone can die of mortification, right here in this tree graveyard of a mountain getaway.
I’m not sure if it’s better or worse that I was only partially conscious for the most embarrassingly intimate relationship of my life. Let’s go with worse. There’s no coming back from that. All the mystery is gone now. A man helps you sit down to pee one time and that’s it. Sex is off the table.
Sex is still on the table. Don’t lie.
There has to be something wrong with me if thinking about his hands on me, even in a caretaking capacity, is turning my semi into a full-on sequoia. I’m shocked at myself.
Are you really?
Truth? It’s not even the weirdest sexual experience on my resume. Getting turned on by being taken care of while suffering from hypothermia isn’t in the same realm as, for example, continuing to have sex with a guy when you realize halfway through what he meant when he said he felt a kinship with horses.
He neighed, Winnie. Whinnied, if you will.
I won’t. Never again. I’m open to a lot of things, but pony play isn’t one of them. Still, perspective is a good thing. And so are fuzzy distractions. As soon as I make eye contact, I’m rewarded with two matching yips, as if the dogs are chiding me for taking so long to greet them.
There’s no stopping the “Awww” that escapes my lips. How can anyone be upset around those faces? Covered in silky curls—one auburn and the other a pure golden brown—they watch me with bright, curious eyes, like my favorite stuffed animals come to life. “You’re both so cute and this cabin smells like candy. Is it a trap?”
When I reach out, they sniff my hands and shiver with delight instead of answering. What are these teacup terrors doing here instead of inside some reality housewife’s giant purse?
Are they his? They can’t be. He looks more like the big-dog type, maybe a mastiff or an Irish wolfhound or something. Maybe they got lost in the woods too, only they don’t look like they’ve suffered a day of their teeny tiny lives.
I never had a pet. Our apartment is too small and Connor and I both have after-school activities that make our schedules too complicated to add a dog to the equation. But if I could choose, these two would be perfect for me. They’d keep each other company while I graded papers, and I can imagine carrying them to class in a backpack or dressing them up as robber barons and revolutionaries for Halloween. Aren’t there studies about animals in classrooms promoting positive attitudes toward learning and decreasing test anxiety?
My school would never okay something like that, but it would be amazing if they did.
“You both need to stop being precious right now, or I’m going to talk myself into taking you home with me, and that would be stealing.” I scrub their tummies and they squirm in ecstasy. “Not to bring up a sore subject for me, but have either of you seen the bathroom?”
My teeth feel about as fuzzy as my head, and I really do need to stand up and aim for myself now. It’s a pride thing.
“Win?”
One word in that voice, just the sound of my name, and my entire body reacts as if a switch was flipped. My spine straightens, my dick stirs again, and I know even before I look toward the top of the stairs that I’ll see my dragon. Is he wearing glasses with that lumberjack beard now?
Fuck. Me.
I think I might be in trouble. So much trouble that Taylor Swift could direct a beautiful, tear-jerking ten-minute video about it, and it still wouldn’t fully encapsulate how I feel about this man holding a book while wearing those sexy, black-framed glasses.
I hang out with kids all day, so I know that comparison works. There’s even a scarf involved. Look it up.