The walls are rough-hewn logs, the floor is wide planks worn smooth with age. There's a table, a couple of chairs, shelves lined with supplies. Windows on two walls, showing darkness outside: night has fallen.
And behind me, wrapped around me like a human furnace, is Rhett.
I can feel every inch of him pressed against my back. His chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. His arm heavy across my waist. His breath warm against my hair.
He's asleep.
And I'm—
Fuck. I'm in my underwear. Just my sports bra and my panties, nothing else, wrapped in blankets but definitely, unmistakably not dressed.
Oh God.
The memories start filtering back in fragments, disjointed and hazy.
Rain. So much rain. Being lost. Being so cold I couldn't think, couldn't move. The shelter… I found a shelter.
And then... warmth. Sudden and overwhelming. Being lifted, carried. But the arms that held me weren't quite right, were they? Too big, covered in—
No. That doesn't make sense. I was delirious. Hypothermic. My brain was shutting down. But I remember feeling safe. Protected. Like nothing in the world could hurt me as long as those arms held on.
I shift slightly, trying to orient myself without waking him, and that's when I notice my clothes. They're hanging on a line strung near the fireplace, steam still rising from them gently.
He stripped me. He had to. I know that logically. Wet clothes and hypothermia are a death sentence. He was saving my life.
But the reality of it sits heavy in my chest… This man, this massive, scarred, hostile hermit, saw me. All of me. Well, mostly all of me. He saw my thick thighs, my belly rolls, my arms that have never been toned no matter how much hiking I do. He saw every curve and imperfection that I've made peace with but that doesn't mean I wanted him to see.
Not him. Not the first man in years who's made my pulse race, made me curious, made me feel something beyond friendly interest.
The small, pathetic crush I was developing, because yes, fine, I'll admit it, there was something starting there, shrivels up and dies.
There was maybe a 0.01% chance he'd ever look at me as anything other than an annoyance before this. Now? Zero. Absolutely zero.
He's probably disgusted. Probably regretting saving me at all. Probably can't wait for me to leave so he can forget this whole nightmare.
Behind me, his breathing changes. Deepens, then stops for a moment.
He's awake.
I freeze, not sure what to do. Pretend I'm still asleep? Acknowledge the awkwardness? Thank him for saving my life while simultaneously dying of embarrassment?
His arm moves first, slowly withdrawing from around my waist. The bed shifts as he extracts himself, trying not to jostle me. I keep my eyes closed, my breathing even, giving him the courtesy of thinking I'm still unconscious.
I hear his feet hit the floor, bare feet, I realize. Quiet footsteps moving away from the bed. The rustle of fabric, like he's pulling on clothes.
Then silence.
I risk cracking one eye open just slightly.
He's standing by the fireplace, facing away from me, wearing jeans and nothing else. His back is a landscape of muscle and scars, broad enough to block out half the fireplace. His hair is messed up, standing in different directions.
He's staring at my clothes on the line like they hold the answers to questions he hasn't asked.
"You can stop pretending," he says without turning around. His voice is rough, deeper than usual. "Your breathing changed five minutes ago."
Busted.
I sit up slowly, keeping the blankets clutched to my chest. "How did you know?"
