Page 20 of Craved By the Mountain Man

A lock I definitely did not have permission to pick.

Gavin.

Very wet Gavin.

Very nearly naked Gavin.

My heart continues pounding, although its motivation changes somewhere around the towel memory.

That image is going to be imprinted on my brain until death. Possibly longer. If there is an afterlife, I fully expect to arrive carrying a detailed mental picture of Gavin Mercer in one dangerously optimistic piece of white cotton.

I press both hands over my face.

“Great.”

After dinner last night, Gavin gave me a clean towel and pointed me toward the bathroom with the same clipped authority he might use to direct military aircraft.

I showered, changed into the sleep shorts and oversized T-shirt I had shoved into my backpack before leaving home, then crawled into the guest bed and stared at the ceiling for what felt like three years.

My backpack contains one change of clothes, sleep clothes, my laptop, chargers, toiletries, and the remains of several terrible decisions.

I packed for approximately forty-eight hours of hiding.

Very optimistic of me.

I tossed and turned for a while, listening to the rain and every unfamiliar sound the cabin made. At some point, exhaustion won.

I slept.

Actually slept.

That feels strange considering the last two days.

I sit up and listen.

Nothing.

No voices.

No footsteps.

No threatening strangers demanding money I never borrowed.

The cabin is quiet.

Too quiet.

My stomach tightens.

“Gavin?”

No answer.

I climb out of bed, drag my curls into something resembling order with my fingers, and step into the hallway.

Still nothing.

The bedroom door across from mine is open.