Page 16 of Savage Ranger Daddy

"Tomorrow. Get some sleep."

"I can't sleep."

"Try."

"I've been trying for two hours. My brain won't stop running. It's doing that thing where it cycles between the case and the kiss and the case and the kiss and I can't find the off switch."

Silence. Then a sound that might be a quiet laugh, low and surprised. "The case and the kiss."

"Not in that order. Honestly the kiss is winning by a significant margin. Which is embarrassing because there are men with radios looking for me and I should probably be focused on survival but instead I'm lying here thinking about how you tastelike coffee and how your hand felt on my jaw and I'm fully aware that this is not a productive use of my time."

More silence. The fire pops. The wind presses against the cabin in a long, low moan.

"Come here," he says.

My heart does something complicated. "What?"

"The couch is closer to the fire. Come sit with me. If neither of us is sleeping we might as well be awake in the same place."

I throw back the quilts, grab the top blanket to wrap around my shoulders, and cross the dark room in my socks. The wood floor is cold. The fire is warm. Brock sits up as I approach and makes space. The couch is too small for both of us to sit comfortably, so I end up tucked against his side with the blanket pulled over my legs and his arm settling around my shoulders like it belongs there.

For a few minutes we just sit. The fire flickers. Snow ticks against the glass. His thumb traces an absent pattern on my shoulder through the blanket.

"Can I tell you something?" I keep my voice quiet even though there's no one to hear.

"Yeah."

"I've never done this before. Any of this. Not the being hunted part, although that's also new. I mean the part where someone looks at me the way you do and I actually believe they mean it. I've had one almost-boyfriend in college who treated kissing me like a homework assignment he wanted to finish quickly. That's it. My whole romantic history fits on a Post-it note with room left over for a grocery list."

His arm tightens around me. Not dramatically. Just a fraction more pressure, like he's absorbing what I said and holding on a little harder.

"You're not missing much," he says. "Most people are bad at this."

"Are you bad at this?"

"Terrible. I spent twenty-four hours making lists and chopping firewood to avoid feeling what I feel about you. That's not exactly smooth."

I laugh. Quiet and real. His chest rumbles beneath my ear.

"For what it's worth," I say, "the list was adorable. Especially number six. 'Definitely not whipped cream.'"

His whole body stiffens. "You read the list."

"I told you I would. You left it sticking out of your jacket pocket while you were checking the generator. I have very fast hands and zero shame."

"I'm adding a number eleven. Hide all evidence from the journalist with no boundaries."

"Too late. The journalist already memorized it. Number four was my personal favorite. 'Go outside and roll in the snow like an idiot until my dick freezes off.' Very poetic. Very you."

He groans and drops his head back against the couch. "You're going to use this against me for the rest of this assignment."

"Absolutely. It's leverage. Journalists love leverage." I tilt my head up to look at him. His eyes are closed. He's fighting a smile. The firelight catches the edge of his jaw and the curve of his mouth and something about seeing him like this, unguarded,almost laughing, no walls up, makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

"Brock."

He opens his eyes and looks down at me.

I don't say anything else. I just lean up and kiss him.