Page 136 of Mountain Boss

I take the water from her hands and set it down on the bunk above the top of the hard mattress.

I have a space heater in one of my closets, but I’ll get it later.

For now, I’ll be her heater.

I strip down until I’m in nothing but my boxers and socks, then I climb into bed behind her.

Courtney makes a disgruntled sound when I bump into her. But when I get under the blankets and wrap my arm around her middle, pulling her back against me, she lets out a contented sigh.

She’s still tense. Still curled on her side.

I wiggle one arm under her pillow, pressing as much of her back to my front as I can manage.

It’d be better if she was wearing fewer layers, but it took enough of her energy to drink some water. I won’t try to make her strip.

Searching for any skin-on-skin contact, I use my top hand to feel for hers.

They’re clasped together under the blankets, palm to palm, but her fingers still feel cold.

I wedge my fingers between her palm, then use my hand to push hers apart until her hand is clasping mine. Her other hand resting on top of mine.

She surprises me when she squeezes our entwined fingers.

“This okay?” I ask, with no intention of moving.

She nods. Her breath hitches once. And then she exhales, relaxing against me.

I close my eyes and focus on keeping my tone calm. “Honey, what have you been eating?”

The endearment feels right. And I’m done fighting my feelings for the person in my arms.

“It’s not my stomach,” she replies sleepily.

“No, I mean, what have you been eating for your meals?” I keep my voice quiet to match hers.

“I eat lunch in the Food Hall. Like you said.”

“That’s only lunch.” It’s getting harder to keep my tone even.

“But I can have the guest’s food still, right?” Exhausted confusion laces her question.

“Yeah, you can always eat the guest meals.” I flex my arm to hold her tighter. “But what do you have for breakfast? Or dinner when guests aren’t here?”

And why am I only asking this now?

Why didn’t I wonder?

Why didn’t I fuckingthink?

“I have food.” She says it like she means it. And that makes it worse. I open my mouth, but she keeps going. “Sometimes I make toast in the Food Hall.” She sounds almost drunk, clearly on the verge of falling back asleep. But it’s making her honest. And I don’t care if it’s unethical to talk to her like this. I have a feeling it’s the only way I’ll get a real answer. “But I’ve kept track.”

“Kept track?” The question sounds broken. “Of the toast?”

She hums. “So I can pay you back.”

“Courtney…”

You don’t have to pay me back for toast.

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