Dahlia lies on the bed on the far side of the room. Hunter’s cabin is small with an open floor concept. The only place you’d get any privacy is the bathroom. He sits in his chair beside his wood-burning stove and runs a tired hand over his face. Zip sits at his feet and raises his head every time Dahlia makes a sound in her sleep.
He can’t believe she actually passed out on him. He barely acted quick enough to catch her and carry her inside. His leg aches and he massages his thigh, feeling the rough scars through his jeans.
Why didn’t she listen when he said to wait until tomorrow? Or at least text him back she was coming regardless, and he’d been at the main house. At least that explains where Zip went and why he couldn’t find him earlier.
She hums and rolls to her stomach, inhaling deeply. He stills, waiting for her to pop up and freak out. Zip jumps to his feet and trots across the room to the edge of the bed.
“Zip,” Hunter whisper shouts, but the dog ignores him and jumps into the bed.
Dahlia squeals and jumps up, her eyes wide and cheeks flushed as she frantically looks around. Sensing her anxiety, Zip pushes her against her chest and whines, licking at her hands to calm her. Her curly hair stands in all directions and her blue doll-sized eyes lock onto Hunter, who hasn’t moved.
“Are you going to kill me?” she says with a steady calm, like she’s already assessed every way this could go and it’s not good.
“Am I going to kill—? Why are earth would you think that?”
“I heard the screams. There was a woman, then a gunshot. Someone died out there,” she points at the door. “Which means someone killed her.” She carefully slips out of the bed onto her socked feet and spots her boots setting by the door. “I won’t say anything, just let me go. Please. You know me. We’re friends.” Her voice is low and quiet. She walks on her toes, like she’s worried she’ll scare him—or more likely scared he’ll grab the rifle by his chair and use it.
“Dahlia,” he says, with his palms up. “How long have you lived in South Dakota?”
She’s almost to the door. She’ll grab her boots and then take her chances running for it. “All my life,” she admits.
“And you’ve never heard a mountain lion before?”
Dahlia doesn’t know what that has to do with committing murder. Hunter still hasn’t moved from his seat and she grabs her boots and retches the door open—or tries. The knob doesn’t turn and she yanks on the wooden barrier, but it’s no use.
“Please, please,” she sputters and backs into the kitchen table big enough for four people. Hunter pushes to his feet and winces as he steps toward her. “Just let me leave. Nobody has to know.”
“I’m not going to hurt you, little flower. And I’m not a killer. What you heard was a mountain lion scream. I didn’t even know you were out there. I was looking for Zip, who probably saved your life as a matter of fact. The only woman in those woods in danger was you.” He internally scolds himself for using his secret nickname for her out loud. And in this situation of all times.
She sides steps until the table is positioned between them and reaches for the butcher knife laying on the counter.
Did he just call me, little flower? Dahlia’s stomach somersaults and she wets her bottom lip. Why did it sound so intimate and why is it doing so many different things to her body? He could be a killer, unless he’s telling the truth. Picturing him feeling her up is the last thing she should be doing, but, little flower, has her mind racing.
Hunter’s eyes remained locked on her as he braces himself on the chair. “If you come at me with that, I’ll have you disarmed in three seconds and pinned to the ground.”
He drops his chin and the brim of his cowboy hat hides his darkening eyes.
“Put it down, Dahlia,” he demands. “Unless you want to be underneath me.”
Her breath catches and her fingertips graze over the sharpened metal. That threat shouldn’t heat her skin and cause her to squeeze her thighs together.
This is Hunter she’s having a stand-off with. She knows him, has worked with him for a year. But what does she really know about him? Her eyes wonder to the dog with its ears perked from the bed. It whines softly and tilts its head to the size, the large white ears and snout trained on her.
“A mountain lion?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“You’re not a murderer or killer?”
Hunter can’t meet her gaze and he sighs. He stalks around the table and she’s not sure what her next move is. He bypasses the knife and lays his hand atop hers instead. One deep breath and her breasts would graze his chest. “You’re safe.”
Her lips part as she searches his honey iris’ for any sign of deception. She pulls her hand from under his and prays he can’t see the reaction her body is having to his touch, his closeness, and this entire situation. She leans against the counter and pushes her hair behind her ears. “What happened? Where are we?”
Hunter mimics her stance and Zip hops down from the bed and licks at Hunter’s hands.
“I found you in the woods and then you passed out. This is my cabin…where I live.”
She takes a moment to study the small space. A wood stove sits in the far corner with one recliner. There’s a bed across from the stove with the wall as a headboard. A closed door, she assumes, leads to the bathroom and then the kitchen they’re in. This is more like a hunting shack than a permanent living space. “What about the cabin? The one I decorated?”
“It was too big. To many—” he pauses, searching for the right words. “It’s too exposed. I prefer this.”
She arches a brow and angles her body to face him, waiting to see if he’ll elaborate what that means.
“Why didn’t you call me? Or at least text me back and I would have made sure I was there. Saved you from,” he waves his hand around. “This.”
She waves him off and her stomach grumbles loudly. Hunter chuckles and her cheeks flush.
“Take a seat, Dahlia. I’ll fix something to eat.”