In relative silence, I’d stripped off my outerwear, hanging my jacket and snow pants on the back of one of the dining chairs and dragging it over by the fire to dry.
If I would’ve known this was going to happen, I wouldn’t have left the house in nothing but thick black long johns and an old T-shirt.
Meanwhile, Ryan disappeared into the bathroom to change out of his soaked clothes and my momentary disappointment that he didn’t return to the living room in a towel quickly evaporated when he emerged wearing nothing but a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants.
Gray sweatpants.
Why was my mouth watering at the way his gray sweats clung to all the right—Wrong. Very wrong, Winna.
Pick up your jaw. Turn off your spigot of drool. Be appropriate and neighborly.
Before I could make the decision on my own, the power flickered and then died completely, leaving us bathed in nothing but firelight.
Ryan glanced around. “Well, then.”
The light from the fire, reflected in all of the front windows, was sufficient to keep most of the space illuminated to some degree, so I couldn’t claim that we’d been left in the dark. But the light from the fire was different than from a bulb. It came with an inherent warmth that strengthened the embers of attraction that refused to die out; the shadows moved like sultry spirits dancing around the space, weaving magic into the air.
“Welcome to Michigan,” I offered weakly, beelining back to the kitchen and any task to take my mind off the fact that I was about to have dinner with my hot neighbor. In relative darkness.
“How did you know to come look for me?” Ryan asked as we unpacked the bags of groceries.
“I didn’t,” I said, pulling out the venison burgers I’d packaged yesterday, my chest first swelling with pride, and then deflating at the thought that a woman who hunted and butchered her own meat probably wasn’t attractive to a guy like him. “I was preparing to hunker down for the rest of the night when Kurt called and said he didn’t think you were going to make it back here in your truck.”
I hazarded a glance in his direction, catching his slight laugh and shake of his head.
“Who knew an SUV wouldn’t be big enough to handle the snow up here?”
“My dad used to say that bigger cars just meant you got stuck in deeper snow,” I informed him, seasoning the burgers with a house blend I always left stocked in the cabinet.
I heard the fridge open but didn’t let my focus stray, instead shooing Chewie away from the kitchen and the food.
“I see where he gets his name from. Chewie.” His low laugh rolled over my skin.
“He definitely deserves it,” I replied wryly.
I picked up the plate with the burgers and, turning, came face-to-face with Ryan—and his outstretched arm offering me a beer.
My breath caught, my gaze sticking in his. I licked my lips, watching his eyes darken in color and the hard angles of his jaw sharpen as they flexed.
“Thanks.” I took the beer and padded back over to the open fire.
Crouching down, it only took another minute before I had the cooking grate set over the fire and a cast iron pan heating against the flame. I heard Ryan come up behind me, but I didn’t acknowledge him. I couldn’t. This was already in a different hemisphere than my comfort zone.
Once the pan was hot, I dropped the burgers onto it, hearing the sizzle of the beef fat I mixed in with the meat to make them juicy.
“So, are you responsible for all the fresh meat at Hurd’s?” he asked, taking a seat behind me.
I cracked open my beer, hearing him follow suit, and took a swig before answering, “Some of it. Most of it.”
“And the jerky?”
“That’s my main business,” I replied, surprised he remembered my offhand comment from the argument in the woods.
“It’s excellent.”
My head snapped back, stunned by the compliment, the butterflies in my stomach greedily eating up his approbation.
“How did you get started with that?”
“My dad… and my uncles.” I shot him a quirked smile.
“Uncles?”
I nodded. “None of them really my uncle, but my mother died when I was a baby, so my dad’s three best friends helped him raise me; Kurt is one of them.” Ryan nodded like several things made a lot more sense to him now. “They taught me, collectively, how to hunt and make jerky. My uncle Marshall was big into cooking, so he encouraged me to make my own spice blends and marinades. And Kurt helped me start the business; he let me sell what I made at the store, and it grew from there.”
He hummed, watching me like my answer had just filled in so many pieces of me that he was just now able to see.
“Well, they did a great job. Really.” My chest expanded with the heavy, proud beats of my heart, his appreciation making my blood pump just a little harder. “Have you thought about selling it online and shipping it?”
I turned and blinked at him, brushing a stray hair back from my face that escaped the braid down the back of my scalp. He asked with seriousness, taking this conversation out of the polite ‘so what do you do?’ Realm and into something more… personal.
I shivered. “I’ve thought about it, but it’s just me. And, not only do I not have internet, I wouldn’t know the first thing about setting up a system like that or running that scale of a business,” I said and then, without thinking about it, added, “I think I’d like to. It’s just a big step, and it’s just me.”
“I could—” He broke off, stopping his train of thought and swallowing it back down with a long drink of beer.
Deciding I should step away before I asked him to finish what he was about to say, I rose and went to grab a spatula from the kitchen. When I returned, Ryan was bent forward, his arms resting on his knees, his stare captured by the fire.
“What do you do?” I flipped the burgers over to quickly sear the other side.
“Nothing.” His reply was bitter and acidified by his chuckle.
“Were you fired? Is that why you’re here?” I asked. “I’ve never been fired, but I think spending winter in the woods would be a good way to figure out what you want to do.” The fire popped loudly like a warning shot. Don’t push too hard, Winna.
“I didn’t get fired,” he said, and I felt his eyes on me as I placed the burgers onto our plates.
Before I could grab it, he wrapped a towel around the hot handle of the frypan and removed it from the fire, carrying it to the kitchen and setting it on the stove to cool. Peeking around the chair he’d been sitting in, I caught the refrigerator opening and, when it closed, the sound of crinkling plastic.
He returned with two fresh beers and the package of Oreos.
Instead of reclaiming his seat in the chair, he sank down onto the hardwood floor next to me, both of us partially angled toward the fire.
Trading me a fresh beer for his plate, the can clattered to the floor when his fingers brushed mine. My skin tingled like it was coming in from the cold and being brought back to life. It heated. It burned. And then it was gone.
“A real gourmet feast,” he said lightly, dumping a few Oreos onto both our plates.
“It’s good enough for me,” I said simply, without thinking, twisting an Oreo open and sticking my tongue to the filling.