Page 9 of Craved By the Mountain Man

Whatever he sees kills it.

His eyes sharpen.

He reaches for me again, but this time his hand closes carefully around my forearm.

The touch is warm and steady, completely different from the grip he used when he thought I was an intruder.

My throat tightens, and I glance away.

That is when I notice my hand trembling.

Damn it.

I curl my fingers into my palm.

“I’m fine.”

Gavin says nothing.

I have always hated silence when I am the person expected to fill it.

Usually, I can.

Right now, every available sentence sounds suspiciously like a confession.

His gaze moves over me, taking in my soaked curls, the open coat over my damp sweater, the mud splashed across my jeans, and the backpack lying on the floor. He glances toward the dark window, then at the door I picked before looking at me again.

Something in his expression closes down.

“You drove here alone?”

I hesitate.

His jaw tightens.

“Yes.”

“From where?”

“Home.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s geographically accurate.”

His eyes narrow.

I should stop.

Fear has been crawling under my skin for two days, and sarcasm is the only thing keeping it from eating through.

His thumb shifts once against my forearm.

“Why are you here?”

The question is quiet.

I look at his chest because somehow that feels easier to deal with than the truth.