At least I was going to miss my wedding.
The rumbleof my stomach woke me up. The smell of cooking food had triggered it.
Bo must’ve shifted back to his human form.
I was going to have to talk to him.
Fantastic.
“Food will be ready in five,” he said from the kitchen. His voice was low and gravelly.
I refused to acknowledge the goosebumps that broke out on my arms in response to it.
Nope, I wasnotgoing to be attracted to Ambrose Stevenson.
Not even a little.
Never had been, never would be.
Even if my body had refused to get that message since I was a teenager.
“You don’t need to cook for me,” I mumbled, as I slipped off the couch and padded to the bathroom. Suddenly, I regretted not throwing my wet clothes in the dryer. I was confident enoughabout my body, but the last thing I wanted was to make Bo think I was trying to catch his attention.
“We both know you’re going to starve if I don’t, Madi.”
I threw him a scowl before shutting the bathroom door behind myself.
Ididneed to pee, but more than that, I needed a door between us. A large, thick door.
Because I’d gotten a glimpse of Bo on my way there. And somehow, the man was even more attractive than I remembered.
He was tall. His hair was a mess of ringlets and waves in a color between brown and blond. His light skin was stretched over muscles that were much bigger than they had been the last time I saw him.
Guess the bear genes meant he kept growing longer than most people. Or maybe he’d started working out or something.
My stomach growled again at the smell of bacon cooking. I hoped he had noticed that we were snowed in, because we’d probably need to ration food. There was no way the road to his cabin would be plowed soon, so it would likely be at least a day or two until he could get more groceries. Maybe longer.
Whatever the case,I would definitely enjoy the bacon.
And whatever else he had. I wasn’t picky. Food was food.
I finished up in the bathroom and washed my hands for at least two minutes before I finally let out a harsh breath and forced myself to face the music.
Bo was standing in front of the stove, shirtless. There was a spatula in one of his hands, and a strip of cooked bacon in the other. His hair was messier than I remembered, his muscles were thicker, and his body was more relaxed.
My stomach squeezed.
Fuck.
He wasn’t supposed to look that good.
I was supposed to be on the run from my awful fiancé, not lusting after my brother’s best friend who was sort of my arch nemesis.
“Want to take a picture?” Bo drawled, obviously catching me staring at him.
“Sure. I owe you a mustache for that time you and Artie defaced my yearbook.”
He flipped an egg. “I distinctly remember you getting back at us by drawing on our faces with a Sharpie a few weeks later.”
