Page 93 of Blindly Yours

“You don’t like me in heels?” I whisper against his mouth.

His teeth find my lip before his warm tongue replaces them. “You’reirresistiblein heels. Why do you think I fell for you in the first place?”

I kiss along the edge of his bearded jaw. “I thought you fell for ASingleRose? Not the girl with the too-expensive shoes?”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” He cups my face and turns my gaze to his. “I was torn because I wantedbothof you.”

I blink into his eyes, which are burning with hunger. “Well, here we both are.”

He smirks and presses his lips into mine again for a long beat. Then he retreats and pulls me up from the bed. “C’mon, I want to take you out in the canoe before it gets dark.”

I raise a brow while he chuckles, because I’d much rather stay here in bed with him than canoe around the lake, but I’ll play his game.

There is an evening chill growing in the air, but my thick shirt and boots keep me warm enough while we paddle the boat far out enough that the cabin is small in the distance. The lake is so calm; a smoothly rippling expanse around us. And just past the tiny line of trees on the other side, the sun hangs low in the sky, starting to cast an orange glow across the few sparse clouds.

We’ve pulled our oars in so we can sit and enjoy our surroundings for a while. Nate’s on the other end of the canoe, admiring the sunset, and the light touches the edges of his hair, forming almost a halo around his head.

“What if I don’t ever fit perfectly into this life you’ve created for yourself?” I ask quietly.

He turns to me. “You won’t.” It’s a troubling response, yet his expression is gentle. “But that’s a good thing. No two people fit together perfectly. I think we should both try to push each other out of our comfort zones.”

I tap my boots lightly on the floor of the canoe and cross my arms to hold in the little warmth my shirt is retaining. “Before me, did you want to be pushed out of your comfort zone?”

He adjusts the oar next to him. “I think, on some level, yes.” He looks out across the water. “But especially in the last few years, I’ve realized change is what it’s going to take to completely move on from the past.”

I rub my palms slowly up and down my legs. “Do you think you’ll stay in that house in Silver Creek?”

The warm glow of the sun touches his eyes as he shakes his head. “No, I’d actually love to build someday. Once I have enough saved up.”

“What kind of home would you build?”

He shrugs. “Probably a farmhouse on at least three acres?”

“Amodernfarmhouse?” I sit up taller and grin. “With white plank siding, black framed windows, and wooden columns by the front door? I’ve seen those in magazines and they’regorgeous.”

Nate chuckles, but his eyes twinkle as he watches me. “Yeah, sure. A modern farmhouse.”

“You’d build it yourself?” I ask as a breeze rolls across the lake and I shiver slightly.

“You’re cold,” Nate says, picking up his oar. “Let’s head back, warm up by the fire, and have dinner. I have a pizza in the freezer.”

I nod as I pick up my own oar and we both start to paddle.

“About the house: I’ll have to contract out quite a bit of it. I’m notthatgood,” he chuckles. “But yeah, I’ll do as much as I can.”

“I like that.” I smile. “You can really make it your own.”

A few moments later, when he pulls the canoe up onto the shore, he takes my hand to help me step out. “Let me just split a few logs for the stove inside.”

I follow him to a pile of thick logs near a small shed. He reaches inside and retrieves an axe, then he picks one up and positions it on a worn tree stump, but I catch sight of a cache of split wood already neatly stacked nearby. “You can’t use those?”

He turns the log around until it is stable on the stump. “Freshly split burns better.”

I nod. I suppose it makes sense, but that doesn’t explain why he has a stockpile of the stuff that doesn’t burn well. I don’t have much time to think on it, though, because he shrugs his flannel shirt off his shoulders, leaving him in just a white t-shirt. Then he grasps the axe with both hands, widens his stance, one leg in front of the other, and lifts it over his head. He swings it down cleanly through the log with a crack.

It's…oh God, it’s even better than I imagined. His biceps flex and his shoulders strain against the cotton of his shirt, and I’m swallowing the accumulated saliva in my mouth as he repositions another. He lifts his axe again and swings it down into the next log.

And again.

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