And it’s incredibly effective.
By page fifty, the hero pins the heroine against a wall in a rainstorm. The description hits vividly: rough hands, wet clothes, the smell of danger and desire.
My throat tightens.
I look up, staring out the window. Boyd hacks at a fallen branch near the tree line. His back is to me; he’s stripped off his jacket, working in a sweater clinging to his shoulders.
The fantasy overlaps with reality.
I imagine him coming in, wet from the snow. I imagine him finding me in this chair. I imagine him not stopping at the door.
The book describes the hero’s hand sliding into the heroine’s hair, pulling her head back.
I touch my own neck. A soft, involuntary shudder moves from my throat straight to my spine.
I imagine Boyd doing it.
Silent. Intense.
His calloused palm rough against my skin. His gaze dark and demanding. The way he would look at me: like he looks at a problem he’s finally decided to solve.
Heat pools low in my belly.
The door opens.
I jump, slamming the book shut.
Boyd walks in. A gust of freezing air follows him, swirling through the warm room. He stomps the snow off his boots. Windblown, cheeks red, snowflakes caught in his dark hair.
He stops when he sees me. His attention drops to the book in my lap.
Something crosses his face. Amusement? Embarrassment? Or the quiet calculation of a man connecting dots.
“Lunch.” He moves to the kitchen and pulls a plate.
I follow, leaving the book on the chair.
Lunch is a masterclass in tension.
He makes sandwiches. Turkey and cheese on stale bread. He puts a plate in front of me and props himself against the counter to eat his, staring out the window.
“Grid’s holding.” He chews. “Storm’s peaking. Winds hit sixty knots.”
“Great.” I pick at the bread.
The silence hangs thick, heavy. The air before a lightning strike. Every time he moves, I track him. Every time he swallows, I follow the motion of his throat.
He knows I’m watching.
He finishes his sandwich in four bites, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I need to check the roof vents. Ice buildup.” He sets the plate down.
“You just came in.”
“And now I’m going out.” He grabs his jacket.
He pauses at the door, looking back at me. His gaze drifts to the den, where the book lies on the chair, then back to my face.
