Page 16 of Challenged By the Ex-Military Lumberjack
"I'll get you something dry," I say.
"You don't have to—"
"You're shivering."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're freezing and soaked through." I move past her toward the bedroom, keeping my eyes straight ahead. "Stay by the fire."
I can feel her watching me as I go.
The bedroom is dark and quiet, the bed made with military precision because some habits die hard. I open the dresser and pull out a flannel shirt and a pair of sweatpants. They're going to be way too big for her. Everything I own is going to be way too big for her, but it's better than standing around in wet clothes.
When I come back, she's crouched down by the fire, holding her hands out toward the flames. Ridge is pressed against her side, and she's petting him with one hand.
She looks up when I approach.
"Here," I say, holding out the clothes.
She takes them, her fingers brushing mine for just a second. They're ice cold.
"Thank you," she says.
"Bathroom's down the hall. Second door."
She nods and stands, water still dripping from her clothes, and heads in the direction I pointed. I hear the bathroom door close, and then it's just me and Ridge and the sound of rain hammering against the roof.
I sit down on the couch, the same couch that came with the cabin, worn and faded but comfortable enough, and drop my head into my hands.
What the hell am I doing?
I should've let her drive home. Should've told her to be careful and sent her on her way. The rain's bad, sure, but she's an adult. She could've handled it.
Except she couldn't have.
That road turns into a mudslide when it rains like this. I've seen trucks get stuck out there, and her little sedan wouldn't have stood a chance. She would've slid off into the ditch or worse, and then what? She'd be stranded out there in the middle of nowhere, alone, waiting for help that might not come for hours.
I couldn't let that happen.
But now she's here. In my house. Wearing my clothes.
And I don't know what to do with any of it.
Ridge pads over and puts his head on my knee, looking up at me with those big brown eyes that somehow always manage to make me feel like he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
"Don't start," I mutter.
He huffs and settles at my feet.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door opens and she comes back out.
I look up, and—
Christ.
The clothes are exactly as big on her as I thought they'd be. The sweatpants are bunched up around her ankles, and she's had to roll the waistband several times just to keep them up. The flannel shirt hangs off her shoulders, the sleeves covering her hands completely.
She looks beautiful.
