“Bye, Birdie.” I end the call, shoving my phone in my back pocket.
One of the horses whinnies from a nearby stall, impatient for their nightly carrots. Usually, I’m quick to make the rounds, but it’s hard to focus with so much on my mind—mainly the five-foot-nothing, blue-eyed whirlwind who’s taken over my cabin.
Caution: A Man in Wranglers Might Cause Spontaneous Orgasms
Iroll over for what feels like the hundredth time, burrowing deeper into the couch, but the icy air still nips at my cheeks. The fire went out hours ago, and the thin blanket I found might as well be tissue paper. My satin tank top and shorts aren’t doing much to shield me from the draft. What I wouldn’t give for a pair of fuzzy socks or a wool cardigan right now.
I should’ve asked Shep for another blanket while I had the chance, but the scowl he gave me when he came back late kept me from pushing my luck. Before I could work up the courage, he disappeared into his room and shut the door. No way am I disturbing him, no matter how cold it gets. Not when asking for one more favor could convince him I’m not worth the hassle. Far better to endure the cold inside than become an icicle in the convertible. I wouldn’t last five minutes out there.
When a gust of wind rattles the windows, I jolt from the couch. It’s pitch-black, so I blindly search the coffee table untilI find my phone and switch on the flashlight to navigate to the fireplace. I don’t turn on the overhead light, afraid it’ll wake up Shep.
I crouch by the hearth, staring at the blackened logs and powdery ash. How I wish I’d been a Girl Scout or taken a survival course. Unfortunately, the closest I’ve come to starting a fire was when I accidentally microwaved a plate wrapped in aluminum foil, which ended with the fire department showing up at my apartment to extinguish the flames.
I sweep the mantel for matches or a lighter but come up empty. At this point, I’d take flint, though let’s be real, mySurvivorskills start and end with the TV show’s theme song.
Hoping for guidance, I search “how to start a fire,” my fingers stiff as I type. However, I’m let down when seconds later, the dreadedNo Internet Connectionnotification pops up.
Fantastic.
I shouldn’t be surprised, given everything that’s gone wrong since I left for my trip. I can practically feel the universe smirking at me. It’s probably payback for forgetting to tip the barista at the coffee shop on the way to the airport yesterday. Still, I refuse to let it get the better of me. I guess I’ll have to improvise.
How hard can it be to start a fire anyway?
With a renewed determination, I set my phone down, its glow illuminating the room. My eyes dart around until they settle on Shep’s pile of firewood. I look closer and spot a box of matches and a bag of small sticks.
I carry several logs over and toss them in, figuring the placement doesn’t matter. I strike a match and drop it on the pile, only to watch it sputter out the second it hits the ashes.
Not willing to give up, I grab the bag of kindling and scatter it over the logs. I light another match and touch it to a pieceof wood, watching the flames dance briefly, giving me hope that I’ve actually done it, until it fizzles out in a puff of smoke.
I run a hand across my face, letting out a humorless laugh. “Okay, so maybe starting a fire is harder than I thought,” I mutter.
“Are youtryingto set the cabin on fire?”
I leap to my feet when the lamp beside the couch flicks on, spinning around to find a frowning Shep standing in the living room.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to—” The rest of my apology catches in my throat when I notice the Wranglers hanging low on his hips.
Correction: He’s onlywearing Wranglers.
The man is shirtless and barefoot, his frame rugged and his muscles honed. Heat rises to my cheeks as I take in every ripple and curvature of his bare chest, a light dusting of hair trailing over the firm planes of his torso. When my gaze flickers back to his face, he’s watching me with an unreadable expression.
“Is there a reason you’re rummaging around my living room in the middle of the night?”
“The fire went out, and it was freezing. I didn’t want to wake you, so I tried to start it again,” I rush to explain.
He moves closer, his eyes narrowed on the haphazard pile of logs as if they’ve personally insulted him.
“I’ve never started one before,” I admit.
“No kidding,” he says dryly. “No wonder you’re cold. Why aren’t you wearing more clothes?” He gestures at my pajamas.
“I could ask you the same question,” I retort.
“I’m not the one shaking like a leaf. Put on a sweater before you turn into an icicle. I’m not spending the night worrying you’re going to catch hypothermia because you care more about fashion than basic survival.”
Is he serious?
I put my hands on my hips. “I would if I’d brought one. My suitcase is full of shorts and tank tops since I was under the impression I was going somewhere warm.” I don’t mention what other things I have shoved in my luggage—it’s irrelevant. “But I wouldn’t expect you to be concerned about my predicament. Maybe if you’d warned me that I’d have to maintain the fire before disappearing into your room, I wouldn’t be in this situation.”
