"Oh." I fall silent, suddenly aware of how intimately I'm pressed against him. He's radiating heat like a furnace, and despite the circumstances, I instinctively curl closer.
"Don't get comfortable," he says, catching the movement. "As soon as this rain lets up and your ankle can handle it, you're out of here."
"Wow, your hospitality is overwhelming."
"I don't do hospitality." His voice is flat. "I do survival."
We emerge from the trees into a small clearing. In the center stands a cabin—not the rustic luxury of a vacation rental, buta true woodsman's dwelling. Solid logs, a metal roof, a porch wrapping around two sides. Smoke curls from the chimney, and a warm light glows from the windows.
"Home sweet home," I murmur.
Caleb shoots me a look I can't quite decipher. "It's not much. But it's dry."
He carries me up the porch steps and manages to open the door without putting me down. As we cross the threshold into warmth and light, I have the strangest feeling—like I'm leaving something behind and entering something new.
Something I wasn't looking for but might have found anyway.
2
CALEB
Idon't bring people to my cabin.
That's rule number one. The whole point of living this far up the mountain is to avoid exactly this—strangers invading my space, asking questions, expecting things.
Yet here I am, a soaking wet woman in my arms, dripping all over my floor.
"You can put me down now," she says, those bright eyes fixed on my face.
I realize I've been standing in the middle of the room, still holding her. Like an idiot.
"Right." I set her down carefully on the worn leather couch, stepping back quickly. "Stay put."
"Not a problem," she says, gesturing to her ankle. "I'm not exactly marathon-ready."
I grunt in response and move to stoke the fire. It gives me something to do besides look at her—this Delilah Monroe who crashed into my carefully constructed solitude.
She's too pretty for someone who nearly died in the woods—all curves and chaos, with dark hair plastered to her face and mud streaking her cheek. City girl, written all over her. From the expensive hiking boots she probably bought last week to the manicured nails now chipped and dirty.
What the hell was she thinking, wandering off the main trail? These mountains kill tourists like her every season.
"Nice place," she says, looking around my cabin. "Very... rustic."
I add another log to the fire. "It's a roof and walls."
"And a surprisingly good collection of books." She nods toward my shelves. "Hemingway fan?"
I don't answer. Don't encourage the small talk. Instead, I grab a towel from the bathroom and toss it her way.
"Dry off. I'll look at that ankle."
She catches the towel with surprisingly good reflexes. "Thank you. For all of this. I know I'm an inconvenience."
"Yep."
Her eyebrows shoot up at my bluntness, but then—unexpectedly—she laughs. The sound bounces off the cabin walls, bright and out of place.
"Well, at least you're honest."
