Page 63 of Made for Wilde

I laugh as his mouth finds my neck. “We’ve already done that part pretty thoroughly.”

“You know what they say,” he murmurs against my skin, his hands sliding down my sides to grip my hips. “Practice makes perfect.”

THIRTEEN

KODA

I elbowthe bedroom door open and shift the box in my arm.

“Where should I put this one, baby?”

Charlotte glances over her shoulder.

“Bedroom is fine. Top shelf.” Then she grins. “That is, if you can reach.”

I grunt as I shake my head. I set the box down and turn in time to catch her sneaking another stack of books onto the nightstand, right next to my dog-eared paperback and old fight medals.

The room looks different now. Her boots lined up next to mine, a photo of her mom on the dresser, her lotions taking over the shelf in the bathroom. It feels like her. It feels like us.

“All right,” Charlotte says when she’s done. “I think that’s the last of it.”

“You sure there’s no more mugs hiding in the back of my truck?” I say, dusting off my hands.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Charlotte pokes me in the side. “And stop complaining. It could be worse. I could’ve brought a rescue dog and six plants.”

“No dogs. And if I see a cactus in my shower, I’m tossing it off the porch.”

She grins and slips past me. “Don’t tempt me.”

I follow her into the hall, watching as she shivers and rubs her arms.

“You cold?”

She nods. “Your cabin’s always freezing in the morning.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s because you’re always walking around barefoot.”

I head for the stove, crouch down, and add kindling on top of the fading embers. Charlotte hovers nearby, rubbing her arms, her hair falling over her face. I strike a match and watch the flames catch, heat beginning to leak into the room. I close the door and lean against the wall.

Her stuff is everywhere now—blankets, mugs, her scent in the air.

Four weeks, and somehow she fits here better than I do.

I like the sound of her in the kitchen, the mess she makes of the couch cushions, the way she laughs at my bad jokes and always wants music playing when she cooks. The cabin is different. Warmer. Fuller.

Charlotte grabs my old Worthington Sports t-shirt from the dresser and slips it on. It hangs nearly to her knees, swallowing her up. I watch her pad to the living room, settling in my chair with her mug clutched in both hands, legs tucked up.

“We’re running low on firewood,” I say, pulling on my boots. “I need to chop more.”

She settles deeper into the chair, mug cradled in both hands. “Don’t work too hard out there.”

I glance back at her and chuckle. “I’ll try to restrain myself.”

Her smile turns lazy, knowing. “I doubt that very much.”

I step outside, the cold biting my skin. The sun is bright, sky cloudless. I grab the axe from the porch and head for the chopping block, feeling my muscles loosen with every swing.Sweat beads down my back, the rhythm of chopping grounding me. I stack the split logs, building the pile for the wood stove.

I think about the last four weeks. Waking up to coffee for two. Her feet sneaking over to my side of the bed. Her laughter in the mornings, her head on my chest at night. The place feels alive for the first time in years.