Page 36 of Made for Wilde

**Sarah:** WAIT. Koda? Your dad's hot best friend Koda???

**Me:** He's the only Koda I know.

**Sarah:** Charlotte Marie Palmer. You are snowed in. At his cabin. Alone.

**Me:** It's not like that.

**Sarah:** Uh huh. Sure. And I'm the Queen of England.

**Me:** He's just being nice. Making sure I don't freeze to death.

**Sarah:** Girl. The man drove through an ice storm to rescue you. That's not "just being nice." That's romance novel behavior.

**Me:** Stop.

**Sarah:** I'm just saying... convenient timing

**Me:** You're ridiculous. Nothing is happening.

**Sarah:** But do you WANT something to happen?

I stare at the message, my heart hammering.

**Me:** I need to sleep. Talk tomorrow?

**Sarah:** Fine, avoid the question. But I expect DETAILS when I get back. Stay safe. And maybe have a little fun? You deserve it

**Me:** Goodnight, Sarah.

**Sarah:** Night! Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Which leaves you with a LOT of options

I set the phone down, my cheeks burning. Sarah knows me too well. She can probably sense my conflicted feelings through the phone.

When pale morning light finally filters through the curtains, I've maybe gotten two hours of broken sleep.

My eyes feel gritty, and my muscles ache from tension. I lie there for another thirty minutes, listening as the cabin comes to life. Then I hear the sound of a door closing and the clink of something in the kitchen.

Koda's awake.

I sit up, suddenly nervous. What do I say to him in the harsh light of day? How do I act normal when I spent the entire night thinking about him?

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, tugging Koda's shirt down over my thighs. At least I have the sweatpants now. I slipped them on sometime around 3 AM when I got cold.

I splash water on my face in the bathroom, finger-comb my hair, and try to make myself look somewhat presentable.

It's a losing battle.

With a deep breath, I step out into the hallway and follow the scent of coffee to the kitchen.

Koda stands at the counter with his back to me, the muscles in his shoulders shifting under a faded gray t-shirt as he reaches for a mug. His hair is pulled back in a messy knot at the nape of his neck, a few strands escaping to brush his collar. The morning light catches on the silver streaks, making them shine against the darker brown.

"Morning," I say, my voice coming out raspier than intended.

He turns, coffee pot in hand, and for a split second, something flickers across his face. Something warm and unguarded.

Then it's gone, replaced by his usual careful expression.

"Morning," he replies. "Coffee?"