Page 22 of Gunnar

I try to open the bathroom door quietly, but it groans, wood rasping against the floorboards. I cringe as the sound carries down the hall, announcing my arrival.

The air in the hallway is even colder, but when I open the kitchen door, a rush of warmth greets me. There’s a fire in the hearth now, and a lamp perched on a battered crate gives out a weak glow.

The men are all fully dressed. Denim, leather boots, faded shirts stretched over rippling muscles. Orson crouches by the hearth, shoulders broad and steady as he arranges a log with what looks like intense concentration.

Torin leans against the counter, a knife flashing in his hand as he slices into a gigantic hunk of meat on a cutting board.

And Gunnar.

He stands in the center of the room, arms loose at his sides, as if he’s been waiting.

When I shut the door and come into the light, his gaze locks onto me.

I feel his awareness sliding over me—my dripping hair, my tight workout gear. His hand flexes at his side.

“Better?” he asks.

His voice is low, roughened around the edges.

“Yes.”

The word comes out steady.

“Human survived the wilderness spa,” Torin says, glancing between us. “Guess the boiler’s holding.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Orson mutters from the fire without turning around.

For a moment, the only sound is the crackle and pop of burning wood.

My gaze drifts back to Gunnar, despite myself. He’s still watching me.

My pulse kicks harder. I don’t look away.

“We’ve been cooking,” he says, and turns toward the kitchen.

“That’s what he calls it, anyway,” Torin says. He turns back to the counter and continues chopping up the meat. It looks dark and gamey.

A pan waits on the stove. When he drops the first pieces in, fat sizzles against hot iron.

The smell spreads through the room almost immediately—rich, savory, delicious.

My stomach growls.

Great. Apparently, now is the moment my body remembers I haven’t eaten since yesterday.

Torin glances up, smirking.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“Nothing wrong with an appetite.” Gunnar scowls at Torin.

More pieces go into the pan, along with some chopped onions and carrots.

Orson straightens from the hearth, disappears out the back and returns with a beer. He pops the cap off with his teeth and lets it lie where it falls. Then he tips his head back and swigs most of it straight down, the muscles in his throat working.

“Yeah, I’d love one, bro,” Gunnar says. “Thanks for asking.”

I blink, caught off guard. And he looks different with those little crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes.