Page 8 of Mountain Daddy
And that’s when the lights flicker.
The storm roars louder.
Celia’s breath catches.
And the question hangs suspended between us:
Where is she going to sleep?
THREE
CELIA
“I’m not going to steal your bed.”
The words come out firmer than I intend, but I can’t help it.
Wells is standing in the narrow hallway, arms folded across his chest, still dusted with snow from the blizzard outside, and the idea of climbing into his bed. His warm sheets, his scent in the pillows.
It feels like stepping into a fantasy I have no business entertaining.
Not when the air practically sizzles every time we’re in the same space.
His jaw flexes. “You’re not stealing anything.”
“I can sleep on the couch,” I insist. “It folds out.”
“It’s a glorified potato sack.”
There’s a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. It could almost pass as a smile, if he ever let himself. “You’re taking the bed.”
I shake my head, but my pulse is hammering. “Wells?—”
“Celia.” His voice deepens, gently commanding in a way that makes my breath stutter. “You’re exhausted. You’ve been wrangling my kid nonstop for the past week. Let me be a gentleman for once.”
He’s always a gentleman.
I swallow. He’s too close. Too warm. Too damn tempting.
“Fine,” I say. “But I’m not taking your clothes. I have an extra shirt I can wear for pajamas.”
His brows lift like that’s cute. “Your extra shirt is basically paper. If the power goes out, you’ll freeze.”
Before I can argue, he moves past me. His body brushes mine in a way that turns my knees to warm pudding.
I hover in the hallway, trying not to peek inside his bedroom and fail.
His room is all warm wood and flannel and the faint scent of pine soap and cedar. Cozy. Masculine. Intimate.
He rummages in his dresser and returns with a pair of soft gray joggers and a blue-and-black flannel shirt that looks twice my size.
He holds them out. “Here.”
I blink. “Wells…”
“They’re clean,” he says, almost defensively.
Like he thinksthat’smy reason for hesitating.
