Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 39414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 158(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 158(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
“Still think I’m dramatic?” I ask.
“I think you like being right,” she says.
I push off the counter and cross the room, stopping a few feet from her. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to make her aware of exactly how much space I’m choosing not to take.
“You’re shaking,” I say.
“I’m not,” she lies, chin lifting.
“You are.”
She narrows her eyes. “Stop paying attention to my body.”
My gaze drops to the way her fingers are curled around the mug, knuckles pale, then slides back up to her face. “No.”
Ellie’s breath catches, quick and annoyed, like she hates that word in my mouth. “God, you’re bossy.”
“I’m in charge here.”
“Why?” she challenges. “Because you have a beard and a cabin?”
“Because you came to me,” I say, and my voice goes low without asking permission. “Because you’re under my roof. Because there’s a storm outside and a man out there who thinks he can track you.”
Her face tightens at the reminder. She looks away, jaw clenched. “I didn’t come to you. I came to… an address.”
“And the address was mine.”
“I didn’t know,” she mutters.
I crouch in front of her, not touching, just lowering myself into her space until she has to look at me. Her eyes flicker down to my mouth and back up like she caught herself.
Good.
“Now you know,” I say.
Her lips part, then press together. “You don’t have to keep saying it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s… fate.”
I almost laugh, but it comes out as a low exhale. “Fate doesn’t post ads.”
Ellie’s brows lift. “So this is your fault?”
“It’s my decision,” I correct. “Big difference.”
The lights flicker once overhead—quick, warning.
Ellie’s shoulders tense.
“See?” I say. “Flicker.”
She rolls her eyes, but her mouth tightens. “Congratulations. You predicted weather.”
I stand, reach for the lantern on the shelf, and set it on the coffee table. Then I grab the battery pack and the emergency flashlight like I’m laying out tools for a job.
Ellie watches, trying to look unimpressed. “Do you always turn storms into a performance?”
“I always turn storms into preparation.”
“Same thing,” she says.
I glance down at her. “You hungry?”
“No.”
“That means yes,” I say.
She gives me a look. “I’m not a child.”
“You keep saying that like I care,” I tell her, and her cheeks flush even though she’s trying not to react.
I move into the kitchen, pull out a pot, and start heating soup. Something simple. Warm. Real food. The kind of thing a body needs when it’s cold and stressed and pretending it’s fine.
Ellie follows, leaning in the doorway with her arms crossed. The flannel is too big on her, sleeves hanging past her wrists, hem hitting mid-thigh. It’s my shirt, my scent, my cabin. The possessive part of me hums low and satisfied.
I hate that part of me.
I also don’t.
“You’re staring,” she says.
I don’t look away. “I’m allowed.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am in my kitchen.”
Her eyes narrow. “That is not how ‘allowed’ works.”
I lift a brow. “It does with me.”
Ellie makes a frustrated sound and pushes off the doorway, stepping closer. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet you’re still here,” I say, and the words come out with more meaning than they should.
She stops too close to me. The air between us tightens. I can feel her heat through the flannel. I can smell that faint chocolate note still clinging to her skin.
Ellie’s gaze flicks to the pot. “You’re cooking.”
“Yes.”
“Who are you?”
I smile without warmth. “A man who doesn’t let his wife starve.”
The word wife lands heavy.
Ellie’s breath stutters. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I ask, voice calm.
“Don’t call me that like it’s real,” she snaps, but her voice is thin around the edges.
“It is real,” I say. “On paper.”
Ellie’s eyes flare. “Exactly. On paper.”
“Paper matters,” I tell her. “Especially to men like him.”
Ellie’s jaw tightens. “Don’t talk about him.”
I set the ladle down with controlled care. “Then give me something else to talk about.”
Her gaze locks onto mine. “Like what?”
I take a slow step toward her until her back hits the counter. Not hard. Just enough to make a point. Her hands lift automatically, palms pressing to the edge behind her.
Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t move away.
I lower my voice. “Like the way you keep trying to pretend you’re not affected.”
“Affected by what?” she challenges, breath quick.
“By me,” I answer, blunt.
Ellie’s cheeks flush. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“Am I wrong?”
Her mouth opens, then closes. A beat. Two.
The lights flicker again—longer this time. The cabin dips into a dim, unsteady glow.
Ellie swallows, eyes darting toward the lamp overhead like she can will it to stay on.
“Wyatt,” she says, and it isn’t a joke now.
“I’ve got it,” I say.
The power cuts.
Everything goes silent for half a second—no hum of the refrigerator, no overhead light buzz—just wind and the low crackle of the stove.
The lantern on the coffee table kicks in with a soft glow, the flame inside steady and warm. Shadows jump across the walls.