Page 59 of The Unlikely Pair

I am definitely supportive of the idea of finding human habitation.

“At this point, I’d settle for finding a particularly civilized bear. One that’s learned the art of food delivery, preferably,” I say.

“Shall we get moving then?” Harry asks.

And so we are back to what we do best, trudging through the Scandinavian forest.

But somehow, as we walk, my gaze can’t stop snaring on Harry. Now that I’ve seen him naked, I know the lines of his body under his coat. His slender torso, the indentation below his ribcage along to his waist, the curve to his arse, the long leanness of his legs.

He catches my gaze, and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

Fuck. Being caught checking Harry out definitely won’t help this weird tension between us.

This whole thing makes me question my sanity. Is this what food deprivation and a near-death experience does to someone? Turns you into a person with very questionable taste in men?

I need to get a grip, and not on Harry’s arse, no matter how much that might appeal to part of me right now.

There’s another weird moment as Harry’s ice-cold gaze remains locked on mine before he swivels and continues to stalk through the forest.

I stumble after him, trying to avoid looking at him.

But after a few minutes, I can’t help my gaze drifting back to him because, let’s face it, there’s only so much interest I canpretend to have in pine trees. It’s only when I notice something off about his stride that I suddenly remember his blisters from yesterday.

I clear my throat. “How are your feet today?”

“They are fine.” Harry’s trying for dismissive, but I’m not buying what he’s selling.

I put on a burst of speed so I catch up with him.

“Let me see,” I demand.

Harry pauses to look at me.

“Toby,” he says.

“Harry,” I mimic back in the same tone.

He stops, and I close the distance between us, kneeling at his feet.

“Do you mind?” Harry asks, but I ignore him. I lift his foot like he’s a horse being shod.

Harry obligingly stands there on one foot as I pull off his shoe and examine his heel.

Harry seizes up the moment I touch him, like I’m brandishing a red-hot poker instead of a gentle hand.

Sure enough, there’s blood soaking through the gauze bandages I put on his feet yesterday.

Thought so,” I say.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “It’s not that bad.”

“We’re not going anywhere with your feet like that,” I say.

Harry bends to put his shoe back on, and without thinking, I reach out to steady him, my hand resting on his waist. He glances up at me, surprise, along with something else, flickering in his eyes, and I quickly pull my hand away.

“They are my feet, and I’m telling you I’m fine to continue.” His voice is steely.

“And I’m voting we stay put. Because you might want to be the stoic, uncomplaining man, but if you shred your feet, it puts us both in a bad position long-term.”