him when he looked so peaceful in front of the dying fire—warm, safe, and content.
She lifted the afghan and placed it over his lap. That didn’t seem like enough so she lifted it to his shoulders, hesitating when he made a soft noise, almost a sigh of contentment, as if suggesting this minor act of kindness was something more.
Maybe that’s the way with all little gestures. So small and yet they can hold strange power.
She smiled at her capacity for silliness. The fairy tales must have really gotten under her skin.
The cottage was quiet with two sleeping men. What to do now? Because sleeping on the floor at this point would seem like an insult.
Instead, she went into his room, unzipped her boots and gingerlycrawled into his bed. His smell lingered on the pillows, that shaving cream and pine blend mixed with the faint honey salve scent. After a few deep breaths, she relaxed, drifting to a fathomless sleep, and dreams where a man waited in a dark wood with strange longing in his eyes.
Chapter Six
W ILDER WOKE WITH a start. It was the ache that took him from troubled dreams of a low, husky laugh and lean lines of a body out of reach. This wasn’t a phantom pain but a throb where the prosthetic rubbed against him. The fire had long since burned itself to coals, but here and there, a bright orange glowed beneath the ruined logs, a hidden menace, beautiful in itsterribleness. He glanced down. The afghan from his bed lay draped over his chest. Quinn had done this, an unexpectedly kind gesture, and now he couldn’t curse her for haunting his sleep.
Outside the window, the dawn light was dim but growing in strength. The trees were blanketed but no more snowflakes fell from the steely skies. The heart of the storm had passed. Quinn would soon take herfather and leave.
Good. That was good. Better she go before he started to like her presence around here—the scent of cherry mint ChapStick, the questions, the chatter.
But for now, for these next few quiet minutes, she was in his bed. Her skin under his sheets, her long hair spanning his pillow. Would she leave that flowery shampoo scent behind? Or the one she carried on her skin, thedeeper secret that must linger beneath the shampoo and body wash. He hadn’t gotten close enough to her to catch it.
Correction. He’d never get that close.
Time to wrap up those inclinations and stuff them in a box, tie the damn thing up in a big bow of yellow “Caution: Do Not Enter” tape. Then stuff it in a locker and toss it off a bridge into a flooded river for good measure.
Quinnwas like a flame. Something he was drawn to despite the fact that he knew the danger. He learned a long time ago, in the worst way possible, that it wasn’t a game. And then got a damn good refresher course last summer.
He reached into his pocket for his beeswax hand salve, opened the tin, and rubbed it over his scars. You don’t play with fire unless you want to lose everything.
He clungto what little remained. Which was what? One good leg. Two eyes that could still read. A pair of burned but functional hands.
Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.
Better to accept reality. The facts were cold, hard. They didn’t fuck around. He wasn’t the guy who’d get the girl.
Not now. Not like this. Not ever.
W HEN Q UINN CAME out of Wilder’s room, rubbing her eyes, he was seated at the kitchentable, halfway through a cup of black coffee. A saucer smattered with toast crumbs was set off to one side.
“Morning.” She put her glasses on as her stomach audibly rumbled. She hadn’t eaten dinner last night. Bread and that pot of raspberry jam sounded mighty good.
He pointed to a pot on the counter. “Coffee?”
“Always.” She waved. “Hi, my name is Quinn Higsby and I am a caffeine addict.”
“Good.” He nodded as if her words somehow pleased him. “Folks who don’t drink coffee can’t be trusted.”
“There’s a wise life rule.” She selected a pale blue ceramic mug from the cup rack and filled
She lifted the afghan and placed it over his lap. That didn’t seem like enough so she lifted it to his shoulders, hesitating when he made a soft noise, almost a sigh of contentment, as if suggesting this minor act of kindness was something more.
Maybe that’s the way with all little gestures. So small and yet they can hold strange power.
She smiled at her capacity for silliness. The fairy tales must have really gotten under her skin.
The cottage was quiet with two sleeping men. What to do now? Because sleeping on the floor at this point would seem like an insult.
Instead, she went into his room, unzipped her boots and gingerlycrawled into his bed. His smell lingered on the pillows, that shaving cream and pine blend mixed with the faint honey salve scent. After a few deep breaths, she relaxed, drifting to a fathomless sleep, and dreams where a man waited in a dark wood with strange longing in his eyes.
Chapter Six
W ILDER WOKE WITH a start. It was the ache that took him from troubled dreams of a low, husky laugh and lean lines of a body out of reach. This wasn’t a phantom pain but a throb where the prosthetic rubbed against him. The fire had long since burned itself to coals, but here and there, a bright orange glowed beneath the ruined logs, a hidden menace, beautiful in itsterribleness. He glanced down. The afghan from his bed lay draped over his chest. Quinn had done this, an unexpectedly kind gesture, and now he couldn’t curse her for haunting his sleep.
Outside the window, the dawn light was dim but growing in strength. The trees were blanketed but no more snowflakes fell from the steely skies. The heart of the storm had passed. Quinn would soon take herfather and leave.
Good. That was good. Better she go before he started to like her presence around here—the scent of cherry mint ChapStick, the questions, the chatter.
But for now, for these next few quiet minutes, she was in his bed. Her skin under his sheets, her long hair spanning his pillow. Would she leave that flowery shampoo scent behind? Or the one she carried on her skin, thedeeper secret that must linger beneath the shampoo and body wash. He hadn’t gotten close enough to her to catch it.
Correction. He’d never get that close.
Time to wrap up those inclinations and stuff them in a box, tie the damn thing up in a big bow of yellow “Caution: Do Not Enter” tape. Then stuff it in a locker and toss it off a bridge into a flooded river for good measure.
Quinnwas like a flame. Something he was drawn to despite the fact that he knew the danger. He learned a long time ago, in the worst way possible, that it wasn’t a game. And then got a damn good refresher course last summer.
He reached into his pocket for his beeswax hand salve, opened the tin, and rubbed it over his scars. You don’t play with fire unless you want to lose everything.
He clungto what little remained. Which was what? One good leg. Two eyes that could still read. A pair of burned but functional hands.
Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.
Better to accept reality. The facts were cold, hard. They didn’t fuck around. He wasn’t the guy who’d get the girl.
Not now. Not like this. Not ever.
W HEN Q UINN CAME out of Wilder’s room, rubbing her eyes, he was seated at the kitchentable, halfway through a cup of black coffee. A saucer smattered with toast crumbs was set off to one side.
“Morning.” She put her glasses on as her stomach audibly rumbled. She hadn’t eaten dinner last night. Bread and that pot of raspberry jam sounded mighty good.
He pointed to a pot on the counter. “Coffee?”
“Always.” She waved. “Hi, my name is Quinn Higsby and I am a caffeine addict.”
“Good.” He nodded as if her words somehow pleased him. “Folks who don’t drink coffee can’t be trusted.”
“There’s a wise life rule.” She selected a pale blue ceramic mug from the cup rack and filled
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