It makes shameful regret burn through me again. I should never have kissed him.
“Axel.”
He glances my way. “Yes?”
“Thank you for your hospitality. You didn’t have to offer it to me, but you did. Even after I made things so awkward with charades last time. With the kiss.”
Axel fumbles with his plate and nearly drops it, catching it right before it hits the ground. The dog looks sorely disappointed. He clears his throat. “It’s fine. It was nothing.”
Nothing. I should be relieved that he’s not more upset by a kiss I didn’t ask his permission for, but just like his indifference when he looks at me, this stings, too. “Well…good. That’s good. We just need your family to get the memo that meddling is an exercise in futility.”
“You think they interfered with the game?”
“I think they pretended to slip the clue right into the basket before it was my turn. I bet it was Willa.” I gasp as I remember. “It was. She handed me the clue.”
“I hadn’t considered that,” he says, “but now what Ryder said is even more incriminating.”
“What did he say?”
Pink floods Axel’s cheeks again. He glances my way, his gaze landing on my mouth. “That he was tossing ‘make out’ as a clue in the basket when we’re there for Thanksgiving.”
The unbidden image of Axel—his hands frantic down my waist, cupping my ass, as his mouth meets mine, as that beard scrapes along my cheek—bursts through my mind. I grip my plate so tight, my hands hurt. “What a…ridiculous idea.”
Axel nods, swallowing roughly. “Absolutely. Ridiculous.”
Heavy, thick silence stretches between us. Then Axel shoots upright, startling the dog. He nearly drops his plate again, but steadies it, then reaches my way. “I’ll take yours, if you’re done.”
I reach for his plate instead. “No. You cooked, I’ll do the dishes.”
He flicks it out of reach, frowning at me. “That’s not necessary.”
I stand, which places me very close to him. “I’m. Doing. The. Dishes.”
The frown becomes a scowl. I smile. Then I gather everything he used to cook and stack the dishes on the tray. Tray in hand, I stroll inside.
I’ve just added soap to the water in the sink when Axel shuts the door behind him and strides into the kitchen after me, plate in hand. “Rooney—”
“Please, Axel. Please just let me wash the dishes.” When I turn to face him, we nearly collide, making me intimately aware of the scent of campfire smoke and woodsy soap mingling in his clothes, the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
I reach for his plate, and our fingertips inadvertently brush as I take it from his hands. Axel exhales roughly, and I glance up, then freeze. His green eyes flicker like dying embers, locked on my mouth. Heat flies through me, and my body sways toward him. His head bends, the world melting away as my heart thunders. It’s like The Charades Kiss all over again, those beautiful eyes locked on my mouth, air rushing from his lungs, our mouths close, closer—
The dog’s loud bark outside the door shatters the moment, wrenching us apart. Axel’s gaze drops to his boots, pink high on his cheeks. I am burning head to toe with lust, flushed, dazed, heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Holy shit. Were we about to kiss? Is he attracted to me?
Axel clears his throat and glances up as far as my mouth, then to the ground again. “I should go.”
I nod, uncharacteristically speechless for a moment. Finally, I find my words and say, “Thanks for dinner.”
“You, too.” He grimaces. “Uh. Wait. I meant—” He sighs. “Never mind. Goodnight.”
“Wait.” I’m so worked up from whatever that was just a minute ago, I’m processing on a delay, but I’m finally caught up. “If I’m in your place, where are you staying? Not the A-frame. You said it’s not safe.”
“I’ve got a tent.”
“A tent? Are you serious?”
He scratches the back of his neck and shrugs. “Yes.”
“Axel, no. Please at least sleep on the couch. Just one night. Then I’ll leave tomorrow. I promise. Bright and early I’ll be out of your hair.”
“I’m not… You’re not—” He clenches his jaw. “You don’t have to, Rooney. It’s not a problem.”
“Then if it’s not a problem, sleep on the couch.”
He scowls as the wind picks up outside, howling around us. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I…snore. Loudly.”
“So? I sleep like a rock. Won’t wake me.”
His mouth presses into a thin line. He shoves his hands into his pocket. “No.”
“Axel Bergman, if you don’t sleep on the couch, I’m sleeping in that tent of yours and you’re taking the bed.”
“You’re not sleeping in a tent,” he says. “Especially when a storm is coming.” He crosses his arms, shoulders filling the doorway. I think he’s trying to intimidate me, but all it does is make him look annoyingly attractive. Grumpiness should not be this hot.
“Then neither are you,” I argue. “I’m not kicking you out of your house.” I try an old, reliable tactic, widening my eyes as I pout. “Please, Ax. Just sleep on the couch—”
“No,” he says firmly, opening the door behind him. “You sleep here. I’ll sleep—” He throws a thumb over his shoulder, where wind whips the nearby trees into ominous dark slants. “Out there.”
I sigh hopelessly. “You have a disturbingly deep sense of chivalry.”
Axel takes another step back, hands braced on the doorframe. “An unfortunate symptom of being a Bergman. Goodnight, Rooney.”
“Goodni—”
The door slams shut.
Groaning, I plop down on the bed as rain starts pelting the windows. This is going to be a very long night.
6
Axel
Playlist: “To Be So Lonely,” Harry Styles
Sunlight seeps through the tent, warming my eyelids, but I don’t wake up. I don’t want to. Not when I’m in this dream. A dream where Rooney is soft and warm beneath me.
A groan rumbles in my throat, dream world and reality coalescing as I shift on my stomach and every aching inch of me rubs into the soft give of my sleeping bag. I’m so hard, so close I can barely catch my breath, when in my dream her body arches into mine and—
“Rise and shine!” she says.
I thrash awake, flipping onto my back and gasping for air. Thinking better of that exposing position, I curl onto my side, just as Rooney peers inside the tent, thermos of coffee in hand, flashing a smile brighter than the sun behind her. She’s wearing an outrageously fuzzy highlighter-yellow hat that clashes with her hair. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold air.
She’s so beautiful, it hurts.
“You okay?” she asks. “Sounded like a bad dream.”
I groan as I sit up. “Something like that.”
“I come bearing coffee.” She extends a stainless-steel tumbler that smells like heaven.