Page 110 of Stealing Embers

“Ash! I’m going to flush your tea collection!”

Throwing the covers off, I come up swinging, only to wave my arms through empty air.

My breath catches as I soak in my surroundings. The stacked log wall beyond the foot of the bed is utterly unfamiliar. My eyes trace the line of the rounded planks of timber to a small gray stone fireplace. The bare mantel is a lacquered slice of tree. A red-framed print of llamas in a field hangs above it.

Weird.

Four split logs are set in a tee-pee against each other in the hearth, fire licking up and down the crackling kindling. A mound of firewood sits in a neat pile on the worn red-stained hardwood to the left of the fireplace.

“Finally.” Steel’s deep voice sounding over my left shoulder gives me a start.

Not Ash after all.

He drops a white-cased pillow on my lap and walks to the kitchenette on the opposite side of the one-room cabin. Steam spits out of the spout of a teapot resting on the stove.

Taking a rag, he grabs the handle and pours the boiling water into two mugs. The tag of a teabag flops over each rim.

“What happened?”

I cringe when the words leave my mouth. I sound like a damsel in distress, prone to fainting spells—but my mind is a foggy mess.

“Found you lying in the snow, half-buried and mostly frozen.” His head inclines toward me so I can see his profile. A shadow of a smile curls the corner of his lips. “I guess this means we’re even.”

I remember sloshing through the knee-deep snow in the tree-rich valley as I followed a pair of footprints I hoped were his. I also remembered the cold that burrowed through my clothes and latched onto my bones. The last frost-laced memory of the journey is me laying on the ground and thinking a nap was a phenomenal idea.

I moan, pressing my palms against my eye sockets.

“I must have had hypothermia. Sleeping seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Gosh, sometimes I’m really stupid.

I slide my legs out from under the covers and drape them over the side of the single bed, only to yelp and shove the lower half of myself back under the blankets.

“Where are my pants?” I squeak.

“Oh yeah.” He’s turned away from me, but even an idiot can hear the humor laced in his words. “We’re even about that as well.”

Seeing my jeans folded over a crooked wooden chair not far from the foot of my bed, I throw an angry look in Steel’s direction. Too bad he’s not looking.

Since he’s busy in the kitchenette, I take the opportunity to make a grab for the discarded garment and then dive back under the sheets.

Squirming under the covers, I punch each leg into the appropriate holes in the fabric. When I’m done I peek out to find Steel standing in front of me, holding out a steaming cup of tea.

Grasping the warm mug between my hands, I breathe in. It smells like Christmas. Cinnamon, nutmeg, and a hint of orange. My favorite.

“I found some honey to sweeten it, but there isn’t much else here.”

Scrunching my nose, I bare my teeth at him. This doesn’t mean he’s forgiven for the pants trick. Unimpressed, he settles into a high-backed chair behind a two-seater wood table several feet away. There is definitely a lumber theme going on in this place.

He stretches his legs to the side of the table. His oversized form dwarfs the cabin that only holds the one twin bed I’m sitting on, a bistro table and two chairs, and a loveseat situated in front of the fireplace.

Steel sips his drink, his body angled toward the fire instead of me. I take a moment to trace his profile with my eyes. A chunk of his blue-black hair rests against his forehead and brushes his brow. The straight line of his nose is only broken by the smallest of bumps at the bridge. His full lips create a double ridge, the bottom bump slightly larger than the top. The cut of his jaw is an almost-perfect ninety-degree angle from his chin to the lobe of his ear.

He really is beautiful. That is, when he’s not talking.

Turning my attention back to my hands, I blow over the surface of the spicy drink before taking a tentative sip. The liquid slides down my throat, heating a path to my stomach.

Despite the fire, the cabin air is still chilled with winter’s bite. Wrapping my free arm around myself, I watch the butterscotch-colored tea swirl.