Page 71 of The Fix

Anna

“Jesus Christ, Jeffers. Are you trying to catch hypothermia?”

I can tell his fingers are numb from the way he fumbles with the zipper of his jacket that he’s zipped for the first time ever, and his lips are a serious shade of almost blue.

It concerns me.

Almost as much as the ice currently melting from the ends of his hair.

“How long were you out there?”

He shrugs, his gaze unfocused as his jacket slides off his shoulders. “Dunno. What time is it?”

I draw in a deep breath with a shaking head. “Well past noon. You were gone when I woke up. I would have never guessed to check outside. Where it’s freaking freezing.” I walk to the stove, fetch the kettle, and fill it in the sink.

“Didn’t wanna wake you.” His jacket lands with a thwap against the back of the recliner. “You were out cold.”

Toby doesn’t look at me as he drags the little cart to the fireplace with a protesting creak under the weight stacked on top.

“Shit,” he grumbles. From my spot at the stove near the heating kettle, I watch him kneel at the hearth, jabbing the poker into the nearly spent logs. “You didn’t put any on this whole time?”

I shrug. “I didn’t know I was supposed to.”

He growls, and I swear I see his jaw tick through his beard from across the room, his eyes going to the ceiling. “You have to keep something on the fire, Anna. There’s no other heat in this place,” he says through gritted teeth and jams two logs into the fireplace.

That would be why it got so cold in here …

I’m so used to him taking care of it that I didn’t even think to check it.

Toby pokes, waits, and when the logs don’t do what he’s expecting, he curses some more. “Would you like a lighter?”

“Matches,” he growls, and I roll my eyes. “Top drawer between the sink and fridge.”

“Okay.” Popping open the kettle so that it doesn’t scream at me—because the noise is terrible but the water is the best from a kettle—I rummage through the drawer that’s in desperate need of organization and come up with a pack of super long matches.

Toby’s holding out his hand when I turn around, but he’s not looking at me.

So, in an attempt at levity, I throw them at his head.

The box pings off his shoulder instead and falls at his feet, explodes open, and the sticks all fly around the stone surrounding him.

I snort, my hand coming up to cover the noise and the grin when he looks up at me, completely unamused. In fact, he almost looks angry, those deep brown eyes landing on me for the first time since he stepped back in the cabin.

My stomach flips in response.

“The fuck?”

“You’re being weird. So, I thought …” My grin slips. God, he’s so confusing. “I was trying to be funny.”

Stone-faced, he stands from his crouch, and crooks a finger in my direction. “Come here.”

A chill races down my spine, my fuzzy-socked feet walking me straight to him.

“What?” I half snap, hands to my hips.

His brow raises as his arm does, his rough fingers curling around the back of my neck and yanking me forward. So close that my chest meets his, and his eyes darken.

“Do not ever let the fire go out again.” His breath caresses my lips as he speaks and desire pools low in my belly.

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