I wave an arm around. “Random is practically my middle name, and we’re basically in a Disney bridal suite, so it’s notthatunexpected.”
He grimaces in agreement, beginning the process of wrapping my ankle. “So, what about her?”
I’m not sure if he really wants to know or he’s just distracting me. “Not her so much as the story in general. The ending is completely unrealistic. No one else in the entire village had the same shoe size? Really? And the prince was willing to base the future prosperity of his kingdom on that statistical improbability? What a horrible way to pick a partner. Think about it. He could have ended up with Sal the grocer instead of Cinderella. A big hairy guy with a bad temper and a booze problem but unexpectedly dainty feet could have been his new princess. Make it make sense.”
“Fairytales aren’t known for their realism.” He sounds amused and relaxed, which is nice for him since I’m about the climb the walls as his deliciously rough fingers caress my leg. “Not that it ever stopped my mother from believing in them. She’s an artist,” he explains when I don’t respond right away. “She’s been painting fairies and magical creatures for as long as I can remember. No bunny weddings, though.”
“She sounds fun.” And she does. An artist with a wild imagination certainly tops what I grew up with. It might explain why mother discussions make me so uncomfortable. Meeting the parents is something I’m only willing to do for my students, and even that gives me knots in my stomach.
In case you were wondering? My mother was…not fun.
I tangle my fingers together to keep myself from touching him as he adjusts the wrap. “Can I ask what you were doing outside in that weather today? You never told me.”
“I was checking on the generator and chopping more wood for the fireplace. The wind had really started picking up when I heard you singing. I thought I might be imagining it, but I decided to check it out, just in case.”
If he hadn’t, I’m not sure I would have made it to him. “Have I said thank you yet?”
“You have.” His hands are on my knees now as he stares at me. “And you’re welcome. I’m glad I was there.”
This close, I can see the crow’s feet around thickly-lashed eyes. The lightest sprinkle of freckles on his skin. His beard isn’t bushy, but trimmed to perfectly frame his lips and draw attention to his strong jaw. Still a GQ dragon, in spite of his claims of chopping wood in the wilderness.
“You cut your hair and grew out a beard. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
He runs a hand over his short haircut self-consciously. “It was time for a change. This is easier to manage.” The look hesends me is somehow both bashful and carnal. “And you’re the one who told me not to shave.”
Is he kidding? “I meant that night, not ever again.”
“You don’t like my beard?”
“I didn’t say that.”
We’re flirting. In a bedroom. That’s dangerous on so many levels. “Didn’t you mention something about feeding me?”
He knows I like his beautiful beard. I can see it in his eyes. “I made some soup this morning. I can warm it on the stove.”
“You made soup?” I eye him dubiously. “As in, you opened a can?”
Michael shakes his head, staring at my lips. “No cans involved.”
“You can cook?” I reward him with a suitably shocked expression. “You’re telling me you chopped wood and rescued a stray lodge guest after slaving over a pot of homemade soup? Because that sounds like a fairytale to me.”
He grins. “Let me carry you downstairs and prove that it’s not.”
My stomach rumbles again and I refuse to blush, even when he chuckles. “Fine. You have my permission to carry me down the stairs. But only for food. And this is the last time. We’re not making this a habit.”
“Whatever you say, Win.”
The most dangerous sentence in the history of mankind, and this fool keeps repeating it.
Whatever you say.
I could say so many things right now. Kiss me. Take me. Keep me in this cabin forever.
“I’m saying carry me to my soup, Michael. And don’t forget, you promised to satisfy my curiosity as well as my appetite.”
So much flirting. Why do I never listen to my own advice?
CHAPTER EIGHT
