“Easy.”
The deep voice rolls through the cabin like distant thunder.
I whip toward the sound so fast the blanket tangles around my legs, and for one horrifying second, I nearly face plant onto the wooden floor.
A large hand shoots out and catches my elbow before gravity can finish the job.
Warm fingers curl around my arm. Steady. Careful.
“Easy,” Troy repeats, quieter this time.
I stare up at him.
The storm gear from last night is gone, replaced by worn jeans and a charcoal henley stretched across broad shoulders. Damp dark hair curls slightly at the ends like he recently showered, and there’s enough scruff along his jaw to make my fingers itch with deeply inappropriate curiosity.
No man rumored to have ties to international crime syndicates should smell this good before eight in the morning.
“You fainted,” he says.
Heat immediately floods my cheeks. “I don’t usually make a habit of that.”
One corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly. “Good to know.”
I blink at him. Did Terrible Troy Taylor make a joke?
Honestly, that might be more shocking than the possibility that he’s secretly involved with the Russian mob.
“Sit,” he says, releasing my arm only once he’s sure I’m steady.
It shouldn’t annoy me. And yet somehow it does.
Not because he’s bossy exactly. More because my ex used to bark orders at me constantly, and my body still instinctively stiffens anytime a man uses that tone.
Unlike my ex, Troy notices. His expression shifts almost immediately.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to sound so short.”
The apology catches me so off guard I just stare at him for a second. Most men don’t notice things like that.
Caleb definitely never did. If anything, my discomfort usually irritated him.
“You hungry?” Troy asks.
The question feels strangely gentle coming from a man built like he wrestles bears recreationally.
My stomach betrays me with a loud growl. “Maybe a little.”
Another flicker of amusement crosses his face before he turns back toward the stove.
“Table’s over there.”
I slowly hobble toward the small wooden table tucked beside the window, blanket still wrapped tightly around my shoulders. My ankle protests immediately, though not nearly as badly as last night.
The cabin is unexpected. That’s honestly the only word for it. Nothing about this place matches the stories I’ve heard.
For starters, it’s clean. But in a warm, lived-in way. Stacks of books line nearly every available shelf, logs are neatly piled beside the fireplace, and an old record player sits in the corner beside a collection of vinyl records.
I squint. “Is that Fleetwood Mac?”