His brows knit, the stern line of his mouth softening. “Why didn’t you wake me up when it went out?”
“You haven’t exactly rolled out the welcome mat.” He listens, keeping his hands firmly at his side. “I didn’t want to chance making you angry and end up booted out into the snow for asking for another blanket.”
He purses his lips, shifting his gaze between me and the couch. Without a word, he turns and disappears into his room.
“Right then,” I mutter. “Guess I’m on my own.”
I’m torn between attempting to start the fire again and retreating to the couch to wait for morning. Before I can decide, the sound of sliding drawers coming from Shep’s room catches my ear. I stay put, remembering his warning that his room is off-limits.
It isn’t long before he returns, carrying a stack of clothes: gray sweatpants, a fleece-lined flannel shirt, and a pair of socks.
He extends them toward me. “Here.”
I nod to the pile. “Um… what’s all this for?”
“For you to wear. Since you’re cold?”
“Oh. Right. Thank you.” I take the clothes and hold them close.
Despite the chill in the air, warmth blooms in my chest. Shep’s unexpected kindness leaves me with a mix of gratitude and disbelief. After our first encounter, he made it clear hedoesn’t want me here, so I didn’t think he’d care about my comfort. Yet here he is, proving otherwise.
“Well, aren’t you going to change?” he asks.
I nod, hurrying to the bathroom and closing the door behind me. Once I’m alone, I set the clothes on the counter and look in the mirror.
“Get yourself together, Noelle,” I whisper to my reflection.
My cheeks glow crimson, my hair is disheveled, and my lips are tinted blue. I turn on the faucet, letting the warm water run over my hands before splashing some on my face. Next, I slip on Shep’s flannel, the scent of his musk and laundry detergent filling my senses. The shirt engulfs me, hitting mid-thigh, making me grateful I have the sweats to wear. I ignore the fact that moments ago, he saw me in barely-there booty shorts.
He probably thought I was trying to seduce him, given how I was openly ogling him. It’s not every day a woman comes that close to a shirtless man with abs. That’s a view worth appreciating, so it’s a good thing I’m only here for one night.
I quickly tug on the sweats and roll up the waistband twice so they don’t fall off. When I’m done, I collect my tank and shorts and take a deep breath before opening the door.
Shep is bent over the fireplace, the lamp illuminating his back muscles as they shift with each movement. My pulse speeds up, struck by how distracting he is without even trying. Before he catches me gawking again, I force my attention to where he’s rearranged the logs over a small pile of kindling set in the center. He touches it with a match, and the flames take hold quickly, licking the base of the wood as the fire springs to life.
I pad across the room, eager to feel the first hint of heat against my skin. As I draw closer, Shep turns his head in my direction.
His eyes sweep over me, lingering on the oversized flannel hanging loose on my frame. He braces his palms on his thighsand straightens to his feet. Each step he takes is deliberate, and I gulp as he closes the distance between us.
I stay rooted in place, doing my best to look anywhere but at his bare chest. His hair is slightly mussed, and the warm scent of leather and musk grows stronger as he approaches.
He slowly assesses me from head to toe, and my curiosity wins out over caution, wondering what’s going through his mind. Could it be that he likes seeing me in his clothes? It’s a silly notion, considering we just met, and he’s been irritated since the second I stepped foot on his property.
“Are you warmer now?” he asks, standing so close his breath ghosts against my cheek.
I draw the flannel tighter around me. “Yeah, thanks for this and for the fire. You make it look easy.”
“It’s only because I’ve had years of practice.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“A long time,” he answers vaguely.
“How old are you?” I blurt out.
The question’s been on my mind since yesterday. He must be at least a decade older, but it’s hard to say for sure.
Shep strokes the sides of his mustache. “How old do you think I am?”
