Page 3 of Shelter Me, Sawyer

"Sit," he says, nodding toward a leather sofa positioned near the fire.

I do, biting back a wince as I lower myself down. My leg throbs where the cut is, and now that the adrenaline's starting to fade, I'm realizing exactly how cold and exhausted I am.

He kneels in front of me without ceremony, takes my muddy boot in his big, calloused hands, and starts unlacing it with surprising gentleness. I freeze, suddenly hyperaware of every point of contact between us.

"Relax," he mutters without looking up. "I'm not going to bite."

God help me, I kind of wish you would.

The thought comes out of nowhere, inappropriate and unwelcome. I blame it on exhaustion. On the surreal nature of this entire situation. On the way his hands move with such careful precision, like he's done this before.

He peels off my boot with the same methodical care, sets it aside, then does the same with the other. His hands are warm despite the chill in the air, rough with calluses but gentle in their touch. The kind of hands that know how to fix things. Build things. Protect things.

Break things, if they have to.

I'm not sure what that says about me, but I don't want him to stop touching me.

He sets my boots aside and opens the first-aid kit, pulling out gauze and a brown bottle of antiseptic that looks older than I am.

"This might sting," he says, finally glancing up at me.

His eyes are the color of storm clouds. Not angry but intense. Watchful. Like he sees more than I want him to. More than I know how to hide.

"Go for it," I say, trying for a smile. "Pain builds character, right?"

Something shifts in his expression. Not quite a smile, but close. The corners of his mouth twitch upward for just a second. I count it as a personal victory.

He dabs at the cut, and I flinch anyway despite my bravado. He doesn't apologize, just works in steady silence until the bleeding's stopped and a clean bandage is securely in place. When he's done, he leans back on his heels and looks at me again.

"You're lucky," he says.

I snort, surprising myself with the sound. "I got caught in a storm and nearly fell off a cliff avoiding that rockslide.”

And now I’m alone with a stranger who looks like he might be hiding from federal authorities.

His brow lifts just slightly. "Could've been worse."

"You're not going to murder me and bury me in the woods, are you?"

His head tilts, considering this with what appears to be complete seriousness. "Wouldn't be very hospitable, would it?"

Something about the way he says it—completely deadpan, like he's actually weighing the social implications of hypothetical murder—makes me laugh harder than I have in weeks. And once I start, I can't stop. Exhaustion and relief and the sheer absurdity of the situation bubble up and out of me in waves.

Sawyer just watches, expression unreadable, until the laughter fades and I wipe my eyes with the corner of the towel.

"I'm sorry," I murmur, suddenly embarrassed. "It's been an interesting day."

He stands and moves to the fireplace, stoking it with an iron poker and adding another log. The flames jump higher, casting his face in golden light and shadow.God, he’s beautiful.

"You hungry?" he asks.

I hesitate. I don't want to impose more than I already have. "Is it too much trouble?"

He glances over his shoulder at me. "If it was, I wouldn't have asked."

Right. Of course. He's not the type to do anything he doesn't want to do. Everything about him suggests a man who's stripped his life down to essentials, who doesn't waste time or energy on politeness for its own sake.

I think I kind of admire that.

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