Page 52

Frasier

I was mid-wood-chopping—because apparently I am that guy now—when Hank barked and trotted off toward the ridge.

“Not a bear again,” I muttered, tossing the axe aside and wiping sweat off my forehead.

But it wasn’t a bear.

It was Marley.

Dragging two duffel bags, sunglasses crooked on her nose, and muttering something about murdering Lark with a pinecone.

She stopped when she saw me. Straightened. Scowled.

I smirked. “You lost?”

“I’m trespassing.”

“That’s the spirit.”

She rolled her eyes and stalked past me like I was made of fog.

I followed. “So… this is cozy.”

“Don’t.”

“You sure you’re not here to apologize?”

“Apologize? For what? For having taste?”

“Ouch.” I smiled. “You’re still mean when you’re mad. Still cute too.”

She turned, slow, deliberate, fire in her eyes. “Don’t you dare flirt with me, Huck Fraiser. Not after Tunisia.”

I stepped closer. “What about Tunisia?”

“That was a mistake. ”

“Didn’t feel like one at the time.”

Her breath hitched. Just a flicker. But I saw it. Felt it. I was hard instantly.

We were toe to toe now, the woods quiet around us, the only sound the soft jingle of Hank’s collar somewhere behind us.

“I’m not doing this with you,” she said, voice sharp.

I tilted my head. “Doing what?”

She glared. “This thing where you smirk and say one-word sentences like you’re a sexy monk and I’m supposed to fall over from sheer testosterone exposure.”

I grinned. “You think I’m sexy?”

“Shut up,” she snapped and spun toward the cabin.

I let her go.

But she didn’t slam the door.

She didn’t have to.

I was already burning, my cock hard as hell.