Page 27 of Challenged By the Mountain Man

"I told you to keep it going," I say, softer now.

"You said don't let it die completely. You didn't say I had to wake up in the middle of the night to feed it."

She's right. I didn't. I assumed she'd figure it out, but that's not fair. She's not used to this. She's used to thermostats, central heating and homes that don't require constant attention.

"Yeah," I say. "My bad. I should have been clearer."

She blinks, surprised. "Did you just apologize?"

"Don't make a thing out of it."

"I'm not. I'm just surprised. You don't seem like the apologizing type."

"I'm not. But I also don't let people freeze because I didn't explain something properly."

She pulls the quilts tighter around herself and watches me for a moment. "Thank you. For checking on me."

"Don't mention it."

"And for fixing the fire."

"Hannah—"

"I know, I know. Stop thanking you." She stands, shuffling toward the kitchen with the quilts still wrapped around her like a cape. "I'm making coffee. You want some?"

I should say no. Should head back to my cabin and let her have her morning. But the fire's just getting started, and she's still shivering, and I find myself saying, "Yeah. Coffee sounds good."

She moves around the small kitchen, and I make the mistake of actually looking at her instead of keeping my eyes on the fire as any smart person would.

The pajamas are flannel, dark blue with some kind of pattern I can't make out in the dim light. The pants are loose, pooling around her bare feet. But the top... the top has buttons, and the first one is undone. Maybe she sleeps that way. Maybe it came undone during the night. Either way, when she reaches up to grab the coffee from the cabinet, the fabric shifts and I can see...

The curve of her breasts. The shadow between them. The soft skin disappearing beneath flannel. The fact that she's not wearing a bra, which shouldn't matter but somehow does.

"You okay?" she asks, and I realize I've been staring at the wood stove like it holds the secrets of the universe.

"Fine."

"You sure? You look tense."

Because you're half-dressed and I'm trying very hard not to notice.

"Just tired."

She hums like she doesn't quite believe me but isn't going to push it and starts the coffee maker. The generator kicks on with a low hum, and soon the smell of brewing coffee fills the cabin. I keep my eyes on the fire. On Bear. On the worn floorboards. Anywhere but on Hannah moving around in those pajamas with that unbuttoned top and her hair all messy from sleep.

This was a mistake. Coming here was a mistake. I should have stayed at my cabin and let her figure out the fire herself.

"So," she says, leaning against the counter while the coffee brews. The quilts have slipped off one shoulder, and I can see the line of her collarbone, the hollow of her throat. "You broke into my cabin."

"Already established that."

"Which means you were worried about me."

"Already established that too."

"Which means you care. At least a little."

I don't answer. Don't know how to answer that without it sounding like more than it is.