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)
Ellie’s breath catches. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I echo, calm.
She points toward the window like the dark outside is personally offending her. “It’s… really coming down.”
“Yeah.”
“And we’re snowed in?”
“Possibly.”
Her eyes narrow. “Possibly.”
I step away from her and pour soup into two bowls like I’m not acutely aware of her body pressed to my counter in my shirt with only lantern light between us.
“Eat,” I say.
Ellie takes the bowl, still glaring. “Stop ordering me around.”
“Stop giving me reasons.”
She huffs, then takes a bite—and I watch her face despite myself. The way her shoulders loosen a fraction. The way warmth hits her system and she tries not to show relief.
She catches me watching. “What.”
“Nothing.”
“You always say ‘nothing’ when you’re thinking something,” she accuses.
I sip my own soup. “You’re observant.”
“I’m not stupid,” she says.
“I know.”
The wind slams against the cabin again, louder. Something thuds on the roof—branches, snow load, whatever the mountain is throwing at us.
Ellie flinches and tries to hide it.
I take her empty bowl from her hands when she finishes, fingers brushing hers for half a second. Static jumps. She stills.
“You’re cold,” I say.
“I’m fine.”
“Ellie.”
Her eyes flash. “Stop saying my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you own it.”
I lean in close, voice low. “I own the paper.”
Her breath catches again, and she hates herself for it. I can see the war in her eyes: fear, anger, attraction, the desperate need to stay in control.
I don’t give her control.
Not here.
I gesture down the hall. “Bedroom.”
Her brows lift. “I’m not—”
“You’re sleeping in the bed,” I cut in. “That part isn’t negotiable.”
“And you?” she challenges, crossing her arms again like it’s armor.
“Couch.”
She snorts. “Sure.”
I tilt my head. “You want me in the bed with you?”
Her face goes red in the lantern light. “No.”
“Then don’t challenge me.”
She opens her mouth to fire back, but another gust hits the cabin and the temperature seems to drop. Her shoulders hunch slightly, the flannel doing its best but not enough.
I take a step closer. “Go.”
Her eyes flare. “Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop acting like you’re not…” She trails off, jaw tight.
“Not what?”
Ellie swallows. “Not tempted.”
I let my mouth tilt, just slightly. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m tempted.”
Her breath stutters. “Then why are you acting like you don’t want me?”
The question hangs there, raw and reckless, like she threw it without thinking.
The lantern light catches the wet shine in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks, the way her lips are parted like she’s waiting for me to ruin her.
I step in close, close enough that the front of my shirt brushes the flannel. Close enough that her body goes still like it’s listening.
My voice drops to a rough whisper. “I’m acting like I won’t ruin you.”
Ellie’s throat works. “Ruin me.”
“You’re already cracked,” I say, honest and sharp. “Someone’s been squeezing you until you thought you had to run. If I touch you the way I want to, you’re going to shatter.”
Her eyes flare with anger. “Don’t talk to me like I’m breakable.”
I lean closer, letting my breath fan over her mouth. “You’re not breakable. You’re volatile.”
Her fingers curl on the counter behind her. “Wyatt…”
I don’t touch her. I make her feel it anyway.
“You want me?” I ask.
Her eyes flick down to my mouth. Back up. “No.”
I smile, slow and dark. “Liar.”
Ellie’s chest rises sharply. “I’m not your—”
“My wife?” I finish for her, and the word is a blade and a promise all at once.
She hates how it lands between us.
“I’m not,” she whispers.
“You are,” I say, and I let my gaze drag down her body in my shirt. “You’re wearing it like you belong here.”
Her cheeks burn. “It’s a shirt.”
“It’s my shirt.”
She makes a frustrated sound. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re here,” I repeat, quieter now. “In my cabin. In my dark. Asking me why I don’t want you.”
Ellie’s eyes sharpen. “I didn’t ask—”
“You did.”
A beat passes.
Then she pushes off the counter abruptly and walks toward the hallway like she’s fleeing her own words.
“Fine,” she snaps over her shoulder. “I’m going to bed.”
I watch her go, jaw tight, forcing myself not to follow too close. Not yet. Not when she’s wound up like this, when she’s half fear and half heat and she doesn’t know which one to feed.
She stops in the bedroom doorway and turns back.
In the lantern light, she looks like trouble in flannel. Bare legs. Messy hair. Eyes too bright.
“Are you coming?” she asks, voice sharp.
I lift a brow. “To the bedroom?”
She glares. “To— to check the windows. The locks. Whatever you do when you pretend you’re not… you.”
My mouth tilts. “I’ll check.”
She nods too quickly and disappears into the bedroom.
I move through the cabin with quiet steps, checking the doors, the windows, the lock on the back entry. I tug the curtains shut, scan the black outside. The storm turns everything into a white blur. Visibility’s garbage.
I should be focused on that.
Instead, my mind keeps snapping back to her voice.