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Tiff lets out a frustrated huff behind me as I trudge toward the wood pile, but I don’t cave to the desire to turn around. I can’t. My willpower just isn’t that strong.
All night I stared at the ceiling, alternately berating myself and replaying every last detail in my mind. I’m not nearly as remorseful as I should be, which is why I’m trying so hard to keep my distance. That was hard enough to do before whatever it is we did last night. Now, I’m afraid it’ll be impossible. And if I flirt with the line again, I don’t think I can keep myself from crossing it.
What have I done?
I’ve asked myself that question at least a hundred times in the last eight hours, and I still don’t have an answer. Not one that people will forgive me for anyway.
That’s why it makes no sense for me to be pissed off at hearing Tiff tell her mom she stayed in a hotel. We both agreed to keep quiet about last night, so she was only doing what I told her to. Which will protect both of us from a major fallout. Yet the idea of her being a dirty little secret feels just as wrong—no worse—as what I did to corrupt her.
Dirty. There’s no other way to describe what we did. And even though she deserves better, even though she means more than the label would imply, she has to remain my secret. This has to remain a one-time-only thing. I know that. I hate it, but I know it.
A hand that isn’t mine reaches for the log on top of the wood pile, and I twist to find Tiff angrily grabbing it.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting wood, same as you.”
As I fight the urge to roll my eyes I catch a glimpse of her feet, clad in the same boots she had on yesterday. The ones that clearly aren’t meant for clomping through snow.
“What in the hell are you wearing?”
She follows my gaze and looks at her feet. “Boots.”
“Those are not boots.” I shake my head firmly, trying to determine if they’re made of suede or something that resembles it. Either way, there’s no insulation in them, which means they aren’t doing jack shit to keep her warm. Or dry. “Boots are waterproof and lined to keep out the cold. You might as well be wearing flip flops right now.”
Arms full of wood, she spins away from me and stomps toward the cabin, blonde hair swaying as haughtily as her hips. “What do you care if my feet get cold?”
“Not just cold, frostbite.” I chase after her. “And I care because the hospital is miles away, and probably understaffed and overwhelmed because of the weather.”
“I’m sure I can muscle through a few trips to the woodpile.” The logs hit the floor with a resounding crack as she dumps them on the porch.
“And I’m sure I can muscle you inside if I have to.”
“Nowyou’ll touch me?” She puts her hands on her hips.
Damn she can be a stubborn brat if the mood strikes. And damn my traitorous cock for enjoying that.
“Get in the fucking cabin.”
“And if I don’t?”
I’m about ready to haul her over my shoulder when it occurs to me that the more I tell her what to do, the saucier she gets. I always thought she hated being told what to do… Hell, I know for a fact she does. I’ve seen the discreet eye rolls, heard the frustrated puff of air leave her lips. She fucking loathes when anyone but her actual boss bosses her around. Except when it comes to me, apparently. She either pushes back, or in the case of what happened last night, does exactly what I say. Both of which get my blood pumping.
Holy shit.Me taking control is as much a turn on for her as her feistiness is for me. And since one leads to the other…Okay new plan.No more telling her what to do. It’ll only result in her pushing buttons that part of mewantsher to push, and that has disaster written all over it. From here on out, the only way to stay on my side of the line is to stop anything that resembles telling her what to do.
“Look.” I scrub a hand down my face, trying to hide the fact that I think I’ve cracked her code. “We need to warm the cabin up and we need to make breakfast. Which do you want to do?”
Her mouth bobs up and down, clearly surprised it doesn’t need to make a smart-ass retort. My cock takes notice—greedy fucker—but I’m determined not to let him get the best of me.
“I can’t cook,” she finally admits.
“You work in a restaurant,” I say without thinking.
“Taking orders or making drinks.”
“Alright.” I hold my hand up in surrender. “I’ll make breakfast if you get the wood. Deal?”
I can’t tell if she’s relieved or disappointed that I’m letting her make the call, but either way, she gives me a curt nod and shoves off the porch to get more logs.
