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"Dumb guy," she muttered, and almost meant it as an insult, and didn't quite manage it.
She dressed in the robe — enormous on her, swallowing her entirely, the hem pooling on the floor and the sleeves past her fingertips — and gathered her dirty clothes from the corner where she'd piled them. The smell of them was significant. She held them at arm's length and considered. Then she folded them with the automatic neatness she'd developed on the road, when everything she owned had to fit in one bag and take up exactly its designated space and no more.
She set them near the bed. She'd deal with them later. She didn't know how, but later.
She stood at the door for a moment. Then she unlocked it — this time without turning back — and stepped into the hallway.
8
SAGE
The smell reached her halfway down the stairs.
Bacon. Eggs. Coffee. And something richer underneath—maple and butter and warm vanilla, the scent of food made with obvious care. It wrapped around her like arms she didn’t quite trust yet. Her stomach answered with a loud, embarrassing growl.
She descended slowly, one hand sliding along the smooth bannister, the thick white robe dragging behind her like a queen’s train that didn’t belong on someone like her. The lavish fabric brushed soft and heavy against her bare calves and thighs, the tie snug under the full weight of her breasts. Every step made her newly-warmed skin tingle.
She stopped at the bottom.
The great room opened up in front of her like something out of a dream—cathedral ceilings crisscrossed with massive honey-colored beams, a towering stone fireplace that looked like it could swallow a small car, floor-to-ceiling windows framing a world gone soft and white after the storm. Snow-heavy pines and jagged peaks stretched out forever under a pale gray sky. To the left, through a wide door, and what seemed to be an equally large kitchen.
He was at the stove.
She watched him for a moment before he knew she was there. He moved around the kitchen with a kind of careful, almost dangerous grace.
He looks like…a bear. Ha. Clever Sage. Not.
Faded jeans hugged his powerful thighs. A simple white shirt stretched tight across shoulders so broad they looked carved from the same timber as the beams overhead. And his feet… bare on the heated stone floor.
The bare feet did something strange to her chest. They made him look almost boyish, which was ridiculous—he was enormous and clearly years older than her.
“Morning,” he said without turning around, voice low and warm as the fire still crackled in the hearth. “Hope you slept well.”
She shifted on the bottom step, wondering how the hell he’d known she was there. Then she gathered the robe tighter around herself and padded into the kitchen.
She stopped dead.
“Oh, come on,” she breathed.
The kitchen was ridiculous. Professional-grade everything—ovens that looked like they belonged in a restaurant, dark wood cabinets, granite counters that probably cost more than Felicity ever made in her life. Built with intention. Built for someone who actually cooked.
He didn’t turn, but she caught the slight shift in his shoulders and thought she saw the suggestion of a smile.
Her stomach answered again, louder this time. She pressed her arm against it and said nothing. He had the grace not to comment.
He brought a plate to the heavy wooden table and set it down in front of her. Three thick, golden pancakes, crisp bacon, perfectly scrambled eggs, and a glass of orange juice so fresh it still had pulp floating lazily near the top. The steam rose in soft curls, carrying that buttery-sweet scent straight into her nose. Beside it, he set a smaller bowl of clear broth.
She sat. Arranged the robe carefully around her thighs. Stared at the food.
Her eyes started doing that stupid thing again.
Stop it you weakling. Get it together. So he’s nice. So what?
She wiped them quickly with the back of her hand, irritated.
“Thank you,” she said, abruptly, like the words had to be shoved out.
He nodded. Settled onto the stool at the end of the island with his mug — a big one, dark with what she was fairly certain was hot chocolate (what is with this guy and hot chocolate?) — and looked out the window at the snow. Not at her. Just... out the window, comfortable with the silence in a way that seemed completely natural for him.
