Page 49 of No More Billionaires

“You could put it on top of the stove and heat some water for the tub. It’ll take a while to get enough water, but it would be better than an ice bath.”

As it turned out, there were three large pots under the lower cabinet—someone obviously believed in boiling game meat—and I filled each one.

Larson carried them to the stovetop and then to the bathtub after they were heated. I added the boiling water to the cold water I’d drawn into the stoppered tub.

It took another round of filling and heating, but eventually, a hot bath by candlelight awaited me, and I was aching to get in.

Larson stood at the bathroom door, his hand on the doorknob.

“Do you need to get in here before I take a bath?” I asked.

“No, I’ll just brush my teeth over the kitchen sink,” he answered rather distractedly. “I was just thinking… would you like for me to hang your clothes up by the woodstove, so they can dry?”

“Oh.” Right. What was I going to put on when I got out of the bath?

If the camo pants were big on Larson, they’d swim on my much shorter and smaller frame. And that still didn’t help me in the top department.

“You could hand them out to me,” Larson offered.

“My sweater and pants are still going to be all dusty.”

My underwear would probably dry quickly next to the hot stove, but there was no way in h-e-double-l I was going to hand my hot pink panties and bra through the door to Larson.

“You know what? I’ll take care of it. Just go on to bed.”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded behind the door. “Absolutely.”

“Okay, then. I’ll see you in bed—I mean—see you later.”

I stripped off my wet clothing, and since I planned to dry them anyway, washed my panties and bra in the sink with shampoo. Then I wrapped a towel around myself and peeked out into the dark living room.

Only the glow from the wood stove’s glass door lit the room.

Hearing no evidence of Larson in the room, I tiptoed across the hardwood floor and draped my underthings on the stove’s side door handle and hoped the heat didn’t melt whatever artificial fibers they were made of. The fire looked like it was burning lower now, anyway.

Then I snuck back across the room toward the bathroom.

The loft above was completely dark—Larson must have fallen asleep already. I couldn’t blame him. I was exhausted, too.

But I stayed in the bathtub until the water was tepid, making sure he’d be conked out by the time I slipped into bed beside him.

Once I’d dried off and wrapped a towel around myself again, I opened the bathroom door to go fetch my underthings.

The deer quilt was waiting there in the hallway, neatly folded across one of the ladder’s middle rungs.

I froze for a moment. He hadn’t been sleeping earlier. Was he sleeping now? He must be cold up there in only a sheet and an ill-fitting pair of pants.

I grabbed the quilt and wrapped myself completely in it then crossed the room to the wood stove. The fire inside was roaring, stoked with fresh logs.

My panties and bra were dry and toasty… and hanging next to a very attractive pair of wet boxers. Larson must have washed them in the kitchen sink.

Snatching my own underwear, I raced back to the bathroom to slip it on.

As I opened the door to leave, I hesitated, suddenly terrified to climb the ladder. I looked back at the tub—maybe I could towel it off and curl up in there to sleep?

My aching head and exhausted body immediately objected. There was a dry and relatively soft bed right upstairs.

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