a while.” He lifted the mug he was holding. “Want some coffee?”
Even though she had her own pot brewing, she very nearly nodded. She pushed her fists deeper into her pockets, hoping to stretch the sweatshirt a little lower over her stupid pajama pants. “No, thanks. I was just going to grab some more wood. Dillon’s still sleeping.”
He straightened away from the post he’d been leaning against, set his mug on the rail and came down the steps toward her.
Her ability to breathe normally evaporated entirely.
All she could think of was the way he’d kissed her.
And the way he’d bolted.
Admittedly, he had been headed for a family dinner, but it still had felt as if he couldn’t wait to escape.
He kept going when he reached her, though, angling toward the back of the house. “Half expected to see another snowman keeping Frosty company in your front yard.”
She skipped to catch up with him and wished again that she’d taken the time to change into jeans. “If we get more snow out of those clouds, I expect he’ll have company soon enough.” She pulled one hand out of her pocket to tuck her hair behind her ear, only to realize she hadn’t taken the time to brush her hair yet, either.
Lovely. Plaid pajamas, morning breath and a rat’s nest of hair.
She ducked her chin into the collar of her sweatshirt and twitched the hood up over her hair.
“Cold?”
She smiled and shrugged, even though she was sure he was the cause of her shivering rather than the cold morning.
When they reached the back of the house, she quickly gathered several pieces of firewood. When he started to help her, she protested. “You’re going to get your shirt dirty.”
“Sweetheart, I’ve gotten worse things on my uniform before than a few wood slivers.”
Sweetheart.
She shivered again and headed back around the side of the house, crossing diagonally to her front door.
Sloan followed her inside, and they stacked the wood next to the fireplace. “Looks like you did some more unpacking. Are they your grandparents?”
She glanced at the framed photographs he’d noticed on the mantel. “Yes.”
“This you?” He tapped one in particular of Abby and her grandparents.
“We were pheasant hunting.” She added a split log to the fire and jabbed the embers before adjusting the screen.
“How old were you?”
She didn’t have to look at the photo to remind herself. “Seventeen.” She and her grandfather had gone out hunting only one more time after that. It hadn’t been the same without her grandmother coming along, but she hadn’t been healthy enough at that point to accompany them.
“You look about thirteen.”
And even more wet behind the ears, no doubt.
She pressed her hands against her flannel-covered thighs and straightened. “Maybe so,” she said, “but he taught me to shoot almost as well as he could.” She headed into the kitchen.
“You like hunting?”
“I liked going out with my grandparents. Without them?” She shrugged and filled a coffee cup. “I can’t really see myself going out again. I don’t think I have the heart for it.” She took a sip, watching him over the brim of the cup. Not even the width of the living room was enough to dim the sheer wattage of him. “I’ll get enough wood today to replace what I’ve used.”
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