Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 127484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
I stood, dusting dirt from my jeans, reasoning that he’d had sufficient time to do all the things he needed to do, without the help of a woman who would endanger his masculinity.
Plus, I was hungry, masculinity be damned. My stomach rumbled as I entered the cabin, and the delicious scent of whatever he was cooking invaded my senses. Mushrooms, onions, herbs. His cooking talents continued to impress and enchant me. Not once had he accepted my offer to cook. He hadn’t even responded to my offers, actually. He just gave me a withering glare then turned back to the stove.
Maybe it was a control thing. That’s what made the most sense given what I’d learned. But I had secretly liked to think of it being him wanting to take care of me in a way he was capable.
And my secret might’ve proved to be correct when I saw why he’d been so cagey about letting me help with anything from the supply run.
He’d been planning something. For me.
The bed had fresh sheets on it, crisp and dark-colored, inviting. Nothing like the old, threadbare sheets I’d been sharing with him the past week.
My intestines dropped to my feet, looking at that bed. At the singular meaning those sheets could’ve communicated. That something was going to happen between them.
My womb clenched at the very thought, nerves, fear and desire a fiery cocktail.
He could’ve just been sick of the sheets from before. He was a man who liked the finer things, if the quality of his clothing was anything to go by. But my intuition told me that wasn’t the reason. Not when combined with what he’d done to the rest of the cabin.
My eyes swept over the table, the vase of wildflowers in the middle of it, the food steaming on plates. Two glasses were full of red liquid, an expensive looking wine bottle sitting between them.
"You did this?” I asked, my voice breathy.
I felt as if I’d walked into a fever dream, a fantasy that was too impossible to be real. Could this be Knox … wooing me?
“Woodland fairies sure as fuck didn’t,” he replied gruffly, puncturing through my soft thoughts like a serrated blade.
I chuckled at the hostile tone, directly at odds with the romantic gesture.
One I had never thought in a million years that Knox would be capable of. It might’ve been a simple, human, romantic gesture, cooking dinner for someone you were dating in the normal world. But I understood it was something pivotal for Knox. It was him wrestling against all his instincts, his coldness, his brutality, to do something nice for me. To show that he could do this. To show both me, and probably more importantly himself, that he was capable of this.
I fought very hard to keep the tears out of my eyes.
My feet carried themselves forward as I surveyed the plates, the glasses, biting my lip.
“I can’t drink that.” I nodded to the glass. I didn’t want to ruin the moment, but I also needed to share the one piece of myself I’d been hiding. Not exactly on purpose, but I’d been holding back. Was it because I still considered it a weakness and didn’t want to show that to Knox? Was it because I was embarrassed? Or was it simply because we’d kind of had a lot going on, and there hadn’t been the right moment for it?
A mix of the three, most likely.
His expression didn’t change, but I could’ve sworn I saw something resembling ‘male panic’ in his eyes—my term for a kind of panic that was reserved for the man who inadvertently said his girlfriend looked fat, accidently admitted he thought another woman was attractive or forgot an anniversary.
That was the kind of flash I saw in Knox’s usually inexpressive eyes.
I found it incredibly endearing, and a sign that this man actually cared about me.
That even the villain was not immune to something as simple as male panic. Even brutes feared a woman insulted.
“If it’s the wrong kind of vintage—”
“It’s the perfect vintage, I’m sure,” I told him, cutting him off before he could spiral. Though an evil part of me wanted to watch that. Revel in something as human as rambling from him. But putting him out of his misery was kinder. And despite his penchant for cruelty to me, all I wanted to give him was kindness. To show him he couldn’t scare me off. “I’m just unable to enjoy it, since I’m sober. In recovery. Ten years.”
Knox stared at me. Clearly, I had managed to catch him by surprise. It was vaguely satisfying.
That satisfaction helped with the nerves I felt while exposing this last soft, vulnerable part of myself.
I tucked my hair behind my ears. “Something I should’ve shared before now, to be fair, since it’s something I like to drop on the first date, but we didn’t exactly date, did we? Unless you count dragging me out of Central Park against my will our first date.”