I woke up. The tiny fireplace in the bedroom had long since been walled off and the cottage’s ancient furnace worked only sporadically. I had to remember to do something about that, although what, I wasn’t sure. The furnace was too old to be repaired and Silas Ford didn’t have a dime to his name to fix up the cottage. And to think it was only the beginning of September.
I was almost afraid to get out from under the covers. Exhausted from working at the bar until late last night, the notion of staying in bed a little longer tempted me; but my animals would start the breakfast ruckus anytime and I had a lot to do, including following up on Gunny Watkins’s list.
With a groan, I dragged my butt out of bed, slipped into a pair of yoga pants and piled an extra layer on top of my tank top before I shuffled to the bathroom. God, I looked worn-out. Dark smudges underscored my eyes. Not that it helped much, but I washed my face, brushed my teeth and combed my shoulder-length bob into a semblance of order. My artificially blackened hair struck a harsh contrast against my skin, making me look sickly, gothic or both. My pale roots were showing.
I went to stoke the fire in Ash’s room, but when I tiptoed to the door, I found it ajar. I peeked in. A robust fire already burned in the hearth. Ash looked very different from the drifter who’d showed up at my door. Not only had his health and pallor improved, but he’d shaved, transforming his features from shabby chic to contemporary elegant. He had a wide face, a straight nose and a nicely defined mouth. His grandmother had always said he was a handsome kid. She hadn’t been boasting.
Metallica blared from his earphones. Wearing only a pair of sweats, he did sit-ups on the braided carpet, crisp, fast, picture-perfect sit-ups that might have split me in half or killed me on the spot. His wide shoulders and his abs revealed little need for such rigorous exercise, even though he didn’t look like a bodybuilder or a punk on steroids. His body came across as balanced, flexible and resilient, despite the scars and even after several months in the hospital.
Dear God. Men like him shouldn’t be allowed to go shirtless. Or maybe they should be required to go shirtless all the time?
“Good morning,” he said, startling me.
“Oh, hi,” I said, blushing like a tween.
Standing there, enduring Ash’s scrutiny as he continued to exercise, my skin flushed, my pulse raced and my belly fluttered. And I don’t mean fluttered as if I had a couple of butterflies in there—no—nothing like that, nothing soft, benign or pure. I mean fluttered , as if a rabble of migratory butterflies numbering in the millions had overtaken my body with lust all the way to the cellular level.
What the heck was wrong with me?
I disguised my reaction by petting Neil, who greeted me with a doggy smile and a wagging tail. I avoided Ash’s stare, afraid of partial brain failure. My eyes wandered the room as I tried to focus my attention on anything that wasn’t a physical part of Ashton Hunter, like the IV bag. He’d rigged it on the bedpost so that he could exercise with the needle in his arm.
“Do you think that’s such a hot idea?” I said.
“What?” he said, without missing a beat.
“Exercising so hard when you’re still hooked up to an IV?”
“I can’t stand the bed anymore,” he said. “I’ve got to move.”
“You’re supposed to be resting.”
“Only a few more to go.”
I tore my eyes away from the human sit-up machine and took in the room. He’d settled in for sure, organizing his belongings with military precision. His backpack and gear hung from the pegs on the wall. A pull-up bar was wedged on the door above my head. A formidable-looking rifle hung on an improvised rack by the window.
I approached the window cautiously. “What’s this?”
“That’s my personal MK11 Sniper rifle,” he said, coming to a stop and resting his elbows on his knees. “I had it locked
I was almost afraid to get out from under the covers. Exhausted from working at the bar until late last night, the notion of staying in bed a little longer tempted me; but my animals would start the breakfast ruckus anytime and I had a lot to do, including following up on Gunny Watkins’s list.
With a groan, I dragged my butt out of bed, slipped into a pair of yoga pants and piled an extra layer on top of my tank top before I shuffled to the bathroom. God, I looked worn-out. Dark smudges underscored my eyes. Not that it helped much, but I washed my face, brushed my teeth and combed my shoulder-length bob into a semblance of order. My artificially blackened hair struck a harsh contrast against my skin, making me look sickly, gothic or both. My pale roots were showing.
I went to stoke the fire in Ash’s room, but when I tiptoed to the door, I found it ajar. I peeked in. A robust fire already burned in the hearth. Ash looked very different from the drifter who’d showed up at my door. Not only had his health and pallor improved, but he’d shaved, transforming his features from shabby chic to contemporary elegant. He had a wide face, a straight nose and a nicely defined mouth. His grandmother had always said he was a handsome kid. She hadn’t been boasting.
Metallica blared from his earphones. Wearing only a pair of sweats, he did sit-ups on the braided carpet, crisp, fast, picture-perfect sit-ups that might have split me in half or killed me on the spot. His wide shoulders and his abs revealed little need for such rigorous exercise, even though he didn’t look like a bodybuilder or a punk on steroids. His body came across as balanced, flexible and resilient, despite the scars and even after several months in the hospital.
Dear God. Men like him shouldn’t be allowed to go shirtless. Or maybe they should be required to go shirtless all the time?
“Good morning,” he said, startling me.
“Oh, hi,” I said, blushing like a tween.
Standing there, enduring Ash’s scrutiny as he continued to exercise, my skin flushed, my pulse raced and my belly fluttered. And I don’t mean fluttered as if I had a couple of butterflies in there—no—nothing like that, nothing soft, benign or pure. I mean fluttered , as if a rabble of migratory butterflies numbering in the millions had overtaken my body with lust all the way to the cellular level.
What the heck was wrong with me?
I disguised my reaction by petting Neil, who greeted me with a doggy smile and a wagging tail. I avoided Ash’s stare, afraid of partial brain failure. My eyes wandered the room as I tried to focus my attention on anything that wasn’t a physical part of Ashton Hunter, like the IV bag. He’d rigged it on the bedpost so that he could exercise with the needle in his arm.
“Do you think that’s such a hot idea?” I said.
“What?” he said, without missing a beat.
“Exercising so hard when you’re still hooked up to an IV?”
“I can’t stand the bed anymore,” he said. “I’ve got to move.”
“You’re supposed to be resting.”
“Only a few more to go.”
I tore my eyes away from the human sit-up machine and took in the room. He’d settled in for sure, organizing his belongings with military precision. His backpack and gear hung from the pegs on the wall. A pull-up bar was wedged on the door above my head. A formidable-looking rifle hung on an improvised rack by the window.
I approached the window cautiously. “What’s this?”
“That’s my personal MK11 Sniper rifle,” he said, coming to a stop and resting his elbows on his knees. “I had it locked
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