Page 8 of Sugar & Snowflakes
I lift my jeans from the rack and pause. “What?”
“My name,” he says after a beat. “West Mercer.”
“Oh.” I glance over my shoulder, lips quirking. “Nice to meet you, West. I’m Emme. Lark. Emme Lark.” It hits me then. He’s the first man to ever see me naked before I knew his name. “Usually, I’m better at things like this. You know, introductions first, pants off second.” I turn back to the fireplace and work on wiggling into my stiff jeans.
“So, things like this happen to you often?”
My cheeks warm as I bark out a laugh. Nothing close to this exciting has happened to me in almost a year. No dates, no sex, no reason to wear real pants most days. Just working from home, baking to suppress the crushing loneliness, and a lot of takeout containers.
I pull my sweater over my head and shake out my hair. Desperate to redirect, I toss over my shoulder, “Your coffee smells good.”
“I’ll, uh”—the leather chair creaks as he pushes to his feet—“I’ll get you some.”
When I turn around, he’s already at the kitchen counter, using every ounce of his attention to refill the pot like the fate of the world depends on it. Without the silver in his eyes and that barely leashed hunger aimed at me, he almost looks…harmless.
My fox stirs under my skin, curious and restless. She wants to test the limits of his control. She wants to tease and play and see what else she can do besides strip to bring him to the edge of losing it again.
I wander over and grab my phone from where he’s plugged it in beside the sink. Still no bars. I let out a groan.
“The storm’ll let up later today,” he says, not looking up from the coffeepot. “Then I’ll give you a ride wherever you want to go.”
I lean a hip against the counter, the corner of my mouth lifting with a teasing grin. “You’ll give me a ride, old man?”
His hand slips. Coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim of the mug. Color creeps up his neck into that silver-threaded beard. “In my truck,” he adds. “To wherever you want.”
He offers me the mug. Steam curls between us, fragrant with coffee and cinnamon and a bite of something sharper underneath. I breathe it in and tilt my head. “Do you put whiskey in all the drinks around here, or just the ones for the small woodland creatures you find on your doorstep?”
“It’s Scotch, and I didn’t put any in this one,” he says, glancing down at my mug. “I’m saving that for me. Something tells me I’ll need it.”
“Wouldn’t a gentleman share?”
He hesitates for half a beat, then reaches for the bottle on the counter. He pours a splash of Glenlivet into my mug and hands it to me, careful not to let our fingers brush.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “For the whole not-letting-me-die thing. And also, I’m sorry I punched you.”
He rubs his jaw, lips twitching. “You swing fast for someone nearly frozen.”
“In my defense, you popped up behind me in the dark with an axe.”
“You were on my porch.”
“Details.” I lift the mug between us. “Truce?”
His gaze lingers, then he nods. “Truce.”
I take a sip and immediately choke, coughing as the liquor scorches my throat. My eyes water. “Oh my god,” I croak. “That is…aggressively bad.”
“Yeah, it’s strong.” He hides a laugh behind his mug. “Guess I’m used to it.”
“How could you get used to this? It tastes like an old sock buried in the backyard.”
“You’ll understand when your palate has a chance to mature.”
I gasp, pressing my hand to my chest in mock offense. “Did you just call me young?”
“Just sayin,’ Scotch is an acquired taste.”
“Like silver haired wolves?”
