Instead, I blow out a puff of breath, shivering in the biting cold. “Weare not doing anything. You’re going and I’m staying. Simple as that.”
With a toss of my hair, I turn away.There. That should do it.
I’ve only taken two steps before Hank’s boots crunch leaves and gravel beside me. Zelda trots ahead, lunging for snowflakes, snapping and biting.
He scoffs, breath a white cloud in front of him. “You can’t just show up here and tell me to go.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.” I look around for his vintage Bronco. Why didn’t I see it before?
All I find is a junky rusted truck nestled in a grove of trees.
I chance a glance at him in my periphery and see it. That jaw set in stone. The little line between his eyes that he gets when he does the crossword or fixes a saddle.
It makes me move faster. “You live just over the ridge. It’ll take you minutes to get home. I spent eight hours on a plane, then three more in a rental car. I can’t just pack up and leave.” Not to mention I have a bed and a bottle of wine calling my name.
Key out, I reach for my bags, but before I can grasp a handle, Hank hauls them into his arms. Without a word, he stomps past me up the stairs and throws open the door.
“You don’t have to do that.” I follow him, watching grudgingly as he carries my bags into the cabin.
Zelda bounds behind us frantically, as if she doesn’t know what to think of my appearance.
“Already done.” Hank drops my bags onto the floor without flourish.
I cross fast over the threshold, refusing to look up at the silver star-shaped mistletoe hook hanging above. Even so, I tense at the visceral reaction, at the memories that careen through me.
Waiting for Hank on Christmas Day for our mistletoe kiss. The tree farm was closed, and cider simmered on the stove. The scent was strong in the air, though suddenly, it was joined by the harsh tang of blood.
Breath hitching painfully, I look down at my stomach.
“Bell?”
Hank watches me, his brow knitted in concern.
It’s then that I catch my reflection in the mirror hanging near the entryway and understand why. The bags under my eyes are heavier than those he just lugged inside for me. My dark windswept hair could host a family of rats, and my sweater hangs off my body courtesy of the fantastic combination of stress and depression.
I look like a winter crone.
“I’m fine,” I say before he can ask.
My attention drifts. To the cabin. Picture-perfect charm.
Unlike the cowboy glowering beside me.
A dusty mahogany-colored leather couch faces the rock-wall fireplace. Above the mantel, an oil-painting of the ranch during winter. Nestled in a corner, two mismatched chairs and a small table meant for games and cozying up with books on aneighboring bookshelf. The kitchen’s tiny, tucked away between exposed wood beams. A butcher block island, hunter-green cabinets, shelves and hooks make the most of the space. Across from the kitchen, a ladder that leads up to a loft.
The place is moody and rustic, making me want to hole myself up for the holidays.
The joy of seeing the cabin evaporates in an instant, and I frown, watching as Hank sets his hat on the coffee table, watching as he shakes the chill from his lean frame and wanders to the wood burning stove for warmth.
My stomach drops when I see his bags strewn around the house. His things are everywhere. A crossword puzzle book. A nonfiction paperback about Wyatt Earp. A bottle of whiskey. Coffee cups everywhere because Hank’s MO has always been pouring five cups of coffee a day and never finishing any of them. Zelda’s tattered dog bed propped in a corner.
Shit. He’s unpacked. Made himself at home.
This absolutely cannot happen.
Standing beneath the warm glow of the cabin light, it’s hard not to take him in. I’ve always been attracted to the man. A divorce won’t change that fact. His golden-brown hair’s tousled and messy, curled at the nape. Longer than I’m used to. Those long legs, that ass are stacked with muscle. The corded veins in his thick forearms run down to big, tan working man’s hands.
Hands.
