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“Hmmm, this is sooo good,” I say as I take another bite of Sawyer’s homemade stew.
He quickly averts his eyes when I let out a satisfied moan. I try not to take it personally. Maybe he’s one of those guys who doesn’t know how to accept a compliment.
I put my fork down and take a sip of water. “You’re not a talker, are you?”
Sawyer shrugs. “I like peace and quiet. Does that bother you?”
“I thought it would be nice to get to know each other a bit. Just the basics. I mean, we are going to spend some time together the next few weeks.”
He shakes his head. “There’s not a lot to know about me.”
“Come on, you’ve got to tell me something. Like, what do you do for a living? Did you grow up in Montana? How long have you been living in this cabin? That kind of stuff.”
He hesitates for a moment. “That’s a lot of questions.”
I laugh. “I’m a writer. I tend to ask a lot of questions.”
“Why?”
“People intrigue me. You know, like...” I tap my finger on my chin. “What drives them? What makes them do A instead of B? How do their choices influence their lives?”
A grin plays on his lips. I think I’ve finally gotten him to defrost a bit.
“Fine. I’ll play. I’ve lived here for five years. Born and raised in Montana. And I’m a hiking guide during the tourist season, together with my best friend, Knox.”
He folds his hands and leans toward me. I look straight into his mesmerizing eyes. For a split second, I forget to breathe. It’s not every day that a hot guy like him looks at me with interest. Then again, I spend most of my days hidden away in my tiny studio, writing books, which makes it hard for me to meet someone.
“What about your books, Maxine? Tell me about them.”
I bite my lip. Do I want him to know about my sexy stories? What if he Googles me and buys one of my books? I’d be mortified! Then again, I doubt he’s the kind of guy who would voluntarily read romance novels, let alone go out to find a WiFi connection strong enough to order some ebooks.
“Oh, I write romance books. Nothing special,” I say as I wave his question away like it doesn’t matter. Like writing isn’t my sole passion in life.
He frowns. “Nothing special? You’re one of those, huh.”
“What do you mean?”
“The kind of person who doesn’t value herself and her choices.”
My cheeks flush. “I do value myself.”
“Then show some pride. Tell me you’re such a great author that you can afford to spend weeks in a remote cabin without needing another job.”
I cringe. He couldn’t be further from the truth. “It’s more complicated than that. If I don’t nail this next release, I might need another job.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
Sawyer doesn’t push the topic, and I appreciate it. The last thing I need is for him to think I’m a loser.
We finish our dinner in silence and clear the table. Sawyer runs hot water in the sink, ready to start the dishes.
“I’ll help.” Before he can protest, I grab a kitchen towel and position myself next to him.
I watch his hands travel over the plates, scrubbing and rinsing until they’re spotless. Gosh, I wonder what it would feel like to have those experienced hands run over my body. I bet he’s one of those men who do everything in their power to please a woman. Not that it matters. A guy like Sawyer would never be interested in a girl like me, but it doesn’t hurt to dream, right?
He hands me a clean plate. Our hands touch for only a second, but it’s enough to feel a jolt of heat run through me. He quickly pulls away and clears his throat. Did he feel it too? I shake my head. Keep on dreaming, Max. The guy is eager to get the dishes done so he can enjoy the rest of his evening. Alone.
I keep stealing glances at him while he rubs a sponge over the dirty pots and pans. He’s so tall and muscular. How many hours a day does he work out? My eyes travel to the tattoo on his neck. I’d love to see the entire thing, but I can’t exactly ask him to lose his shirt for me, can I?
“These romance books you write, what kind are they?”
His question interrupts the silence between us, jolting me out of my daydream about his tattooed body. I didn’t take him for the kind of guy who would know there are subgenres in romance.
“They are steamy historical romance novels.”
“Steamy?”
I focus my attention on the already dry plate in my hand and keep wiping it. “You know, with... bedroom scenes.”
Jeez, why is this so hard to talk about? No wonder some of my reviews are less than stellar. I can’t even pronounce the word sex in front of a guy.
“Bedroom scenes?” he asks with a playful smile. “What do you mean? You write about couples changing the sheets or something?”
Fuck. He’s going to make me say it. Out loud. I’m trying to find the words, but none are forthcoming.
He dries his hands and puts them on my shoulders, softly turning my body toward him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I was teasing you.”
I swallow and pull my big girl panties on. “Sex. My books have sex in them. There, now you know. Please don’t read any of them.”
He lets out a laugh. “Why not?”
I wince. “They aren’t that great. That’s why I’m here. I need to up my game. Do more research. A lot of research.”
“Research?” His brow is furrowed. “And that involves spending time in a cabin with a stranger?”
“Not research about the... um... steamy bits,” I lie. “I’m talking plot and characterization.”
“For a moment there, I thought you were going to ask me to help you with your research.” His voice is low when he says, “I wouldn’t mind.”
My eyes grow wide.
“What I mean is read your work and give you some pointers, not... you know, act out your scenes.”
“That’s great, thanks. In fact, an idea just came to me. If you don’t mind, I’m going to head back to my room and write.”
I throw the towel on the counter and run to my bedroom. My heart is about to beat out of my chest. I make my way to the sink, open the faucet, and splash cold water on my face. It doesn’t work. The throbbing between my legs doesn’t go away. Even when I close my eyes, I can still see Sawyer’s broad shoulders and tattooed skin. His words about helping me with my research keep ringing in my ears. What a dream that would be, having an experienced mountain man teach me the ropes and me writing all about it in my novels.
I open my laptop and pull up my manuscript. Channeling these feelings into a story seems like the best idea, even though I realize writing about sex isn’t the same as experiencing it firsthand. I also know that writing about something you’ve never done in real life is even more challenging. Still, I proceed like the disciplined author I am. What other option do I have?