Page 6 of Frosty Mountain Man

After undressing I stood in the bathroom wearing nothing but my underwear, staring at my reflection. Something I didn’t do very often. There was no getting around the fact that I was curvy. Curvy in a way that had gotten me called solid. My bra kept my breasts high and perky. And my hips were in direct proportion to my breasts.

Did Harrison think that too? I shivered at the thought. At the thought of him wanting me.

That didn’t prevent me from lifting his clothes to my nose and taking a deep breath. They smelled like laundry detergent. Of course, he wouldn’t have handed me previously worn clothing. More’s the pity.

I had to admit I felt warmer than I had in hours. The heater in my car had only managed to drive off the edge of cold as I’d traveled further into the mountains.

He was in the kitchen when I came back out, the light catching the wide line of his shoulders as he moved, like a man who’d never once burned toast in his life.

“Sit,” he said, nodding at one of the stools at the island.

I sat.

He set a plate in front of me. Scrambled eggs, toast, and a thick slice of ham. Simple. Hot. The smell made my stomach twist.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re hungry.” He didn’t raise his voice. He just stood there, arms crossed, waiting.

“Bossy,” I muttered, mostly to myself.

“Observant,” he corrected. “Eat.”

I stared at the plate, trying to remember when someone had cooked for me. I couldn’t. “I don’t need you to feed me.”

“I didn’t ask what you needed. Eat.” A pause, and something almost gentler underneath the flat delivery. “Eat, Elle.”

He hadn’t called me by name once since I’d arrived. It shouldn’t have worked on me as well as it did. I picked up the fork mostly out of spite and took a bite. Then another. Damn him, it was good.

He came back with a cup of coffee and set it in front of me. When he reached past me for the sugar, his arm brushed my shoulder.

It was nothing. A second of contact. Barely there.

But I felt it.

He froze for half a heartbeat too.

His eyes met mine, closer than they’d been since he’d shoved me through the door earlier. Dark and steady and suddenly very aware. I could smell the soap on his skin. My pulse kicked hard against my throat.

I should have looked away. I didn’t.

Neither did he.

He straightened, putting a careful foot of space back between us as he leaned against the counter a few feet away, drinking coffee and watching the snow pile up outside.

“So how long have you worked for my grandfather?”

“Just under a year.”

“Long enough to have opinions about me, then.”

I glanced up the fork halfway to my mouth. “A few. Want to hear them, or would that bruise something?”

That grim mouth of his tugged, almost, at one corner. “Go ahead. I don’t bruise easy.”

“Fine. You’re rude. You’re arrogant. And you’re used to people backing off the second you give them that stern look. Which — for the record — I’m not going to do.”

“Noted.” He didn’t look remotely bothered. If anything, he looked pleased, which annoyed me more than if he’d argued. “Anything else?”