“How?”
“Because there are a lot of stories about you.”
“And you believed them.”
“I didn’t know you.”
Something sharp twists unexpectedly in my chest. Didn’t. Past tense.
Like she’s already reconsidering. London shifts beneath my stare.
“For the record,” she says quietly, “I don’t think you’re scary anymore.”
That should make me feel better. Instead, every muscle in my body tightens. Because she says it softly.
Like she means it.
And I realize very suddenly that this woman has no idea what she’s doing to me.
“You should,” I say roughly.
Her breath catches slightly. “But I don’t.”
We spend most of the day in solitary pursuits. She reads my copy ofPride and Prejudice, and I work on a fishing line that I’ll use after winter makes it’s last stand.
The cabin plunges into darkness so suddenly London yelps.
A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “Storm probably took the lines down.”
The fire still crackles warmly in the living room, throwing enough light across the cabin that I can see her relaxing slightly.
Still wrapped in my blanket. Still wearing one of my flannels rolled several times at the sleeves.
Hell. I should not enjoy that sight as much as I do.
“You nervous again?” I ask.
She narrows her eyes. “Maybe.”
The fire pops loudly behind us. Neither of us moves. Neither of us looks away.
Then London does the absolute worst thing she possibly could.
She steps closer. Just one step.
“You keep taking care of me,” she says softly. “Even when you pretend you don’t want to.”
The air around us burns hotter than the fire blazing. I should walk away. Instead, I reach for her.
Slowly enough to give her time to stop me. She doesn’t.
My hand settles against her jaw, thumb brushing softly across her cheek.
Mine.
No. Not mine. London’s lashes flutter slightly as I lean down.
“You should stop looking at me like that,” I murmur.