Chapter 8

ChapterEight

Sadie

Nick makes us a gourmet meal. Steak, mashed potatoes covered in fresh mushroom sauce, and sauteed vegetables. He poured two glasses of red wine and set the table. It felt romantic. It felt good.

I ate my dinner and drained my glass of wine, which Nick refilled. It made my skin feel flushed and hot, and my head light. Because I’m not much of a drinker, before the wine could also make my tongue loose, I excused myself to the bathtub. I’m not sure if it’s the dinner we shared or the thought of me in a tub—his tub—but a hot look settled in Nick’s eyes. There was a hunger in that look.

The man is starving.

I’m not entirely sure what he’s starving for, though. Still, that look follows me all the way to my bedroom, and then across the hall into the bathroom. It follows me as I pour the luxurious lavender and vanilla bubble bath into the tub. It follows me as I sink into warm water, and it follows me still when I get myself dressed again, this time in adorable jammies. They’re rustic and everything I imagine one would wear on Christmas holiday in this house.

I’ve been dreaming of this house for six weeks.

Lucy talked this house up. The wood, the stone, the fireplace, and the Mountain view. So, my jammies are flannel and plaid. The pants are loose, and the top is buttoned, under which I wear a black tank top. I leave my hair down and damp.

When I rejoin Nick in the living room, he’s still wearing the same clothes he wore all day. A black sweater and dark jeans, but his hair is wet.

Frowning at him, I point at his hair. “Did you have a shower and then get dressed in the same clothes you were in before?”

He runs his fingers through his hair. “No. I went outside. I figured you were in the bath, why not? Take a look at what kind of damage the storm has done so far.”

Worry blooms in my belly and my eyes dart to the window. “Is there damage?”

“There’s always damage in a storm like this.”

“Oh.” I wince. “Is it bad?”

He moves to the wood stove, adding another log. “It’s not good. A few fallen trees, thankfully none have hit the house, the garage, or the shed out back. Still, we’re only a day in. No knowing what tomorrow will bring, or tonight for that matter.”

“Do you think it’s going to get worse?” I frown at the window, not that I can see anything but blowing white.

“Don’t know. Probably.”

“Oh.” I hug myself. “Will you lose power?”

“If I do, I’ve got a backup generator.” That’s a surprise. I don’t know anybody with a generator.

“I thought only stores had those.”

He gives me a crooked grin. “Up here in the mountains, it’s smart to have a generator. Storms hit, and they can hit hard. When it’s cold, it can get really cold. The stove will go a long way to protecting the pipes from freezing, but the generator is an added comfort,” he explains, assuring, “We’ll be fine.”

I nod but I hug myself tighter as I mutter, “I’ll take your word for it.”

“That sounds an awful lot like trust,” he muses.

“Should I not trust you?”

“I am a stranger,” he teases, and I half expect another lecture about trusting people I meet online.

“A stranger who has made me dinner and opened his home to me,” I add, giving him a cheeky wink. “You don’t seem so bad to me, strange man.”

His eyes drop, moving slowly over my jammies as a grin hitches his lips. “You’re one to talk, calling me strange. What are you wearing?”

“Jammies. Think I’m cute?”

“I think you’re—" he waves his finger at my outfit, “Is cute. You, though…”

I gasp. “I’m in my outfit.” I wave my own finger at myself. “Therefore, I am cute.”

“Sure,” he relents, laughing. It’s softer this time. Not quite as hard. Not ragged, or deep, or dark. It’s almost thoughtful. It doesn’t mean that it doesn’t start a whole mess of tingles where tingles shouldn’t be.

He turns away from me to walk into the kitchen, leaving my insides in havoc.

“Do you want wine?”

“Sure. Why not?”

He raises a brow. “Not much of a drinker?”

“Nope.” I settle on his couch, pulling a blanket into my lap. It wasn’t here before, so I think he must have brought it from wherever it was—for me.

He sees me snuggle in, and I watch his broad chest expand with a deep breath before he dips his head to hide a smile. Yes, I think, he brought the blanket out for me.

He’s sweet. He pretends not to be, but he is.

“You don’t have to join me. If you don’t want to drink, just say.”

“I want a glass,” I start, and add, “Just don’t blame me for my loose tongue.”

“You think you’ll talk more?” he asks, faux horror in his voice. “More than you already do, I mean?”

“Oh, whatever!” I huff in mock outrage, my nose scrunching. “I don’t talk that much.”

“You do.” I watch as he moves from the kitchen into the living room, stopping close to hand me my wine. I catch his scent then, woodsy, spicy, and entirely man. It surrounds me, going straight to my head, and I think it’s more intoxicating than the wine in my glass.

Because I need a distraction, I sip my wine. It’s delicious, full and rich. It settles warm in my belly, and I sigh as Nick moves away to lower his big body into the chair across from the couch I’ve snuggled into. I’m a little disappointed he didn’t sit next to me. But that would have been weird, right?