“I think you should stay, at least until the snow clears. It’s not safe to drive in this.”
He puffs out a frustrated breath. “Fine. I’ll go get my bags from the car and make sure the water and everything is working. Can you make a fire?”
I cast my gaze over the massive stone fireplace, the stack of logs and the box of kindling. I’ve never made a fire before, but I watched Dad do it a lot as a kid. How hard can it be? Besides, the last thing I want to do is make Michael any grumpier than he is. And I don’t want him to think I’m some useless woman who’s worried about chipping her nail polish, or something.
“Absolutely,” I say, striding towards the fireplace with confidence. He disappears out the door and I start stacking kindling like I’ve seen Dad do in the past. I find a box of matches on the mantle-piece and light the pile, waiting expectantly. Not much happens, so I heap on some more twigs and thin branches from the basket beside the fireplace. But all that does is make smoke pour into the living room.
Fuck.
This isn’t like the fireplace we had back home, which was a box where you could close the front door. This is wide open and the smoke is billowing into the room, up to the ceiling. Where are the damn flames?
I stand, glancing around in panic. I know putting logs on it won’t help, but if I try to put it out we might not get another one going.
Gah! Why did I tell him I could do this?
“What the hell are you doing?” Michael appears back inside, slamming the front door and yanking off his coat. He waves his arms through the air as he strides over.
I shrivel. “I’m sorry, I was trying to—”
“Forget it.” He nudges me aside and kneels in front of the fireplace, fussing about with the kindling.
I stand rigid, my arms folded as I watch him, not daring to move. Eventually, once he has coaxed flames onto the wood, he stands and turns to me.
“I’ll show you your room.” He takes my bags through one of the doors, into a tiny bedroom with a single bed. “Leave the door open so it heats up,” he instructs. Then he shows me the bathroom and the kitchen, before unpacking my groceries into the pantry.
I perch on the sofa in front of the fire, slowly warming up. Even though it’s only early afternoon, it’s almost dark with the storm. Michael turns on a couple of lamps, and a warm yellow glow falls over the room.
“You want some lunch?” he asks, rooting about in the pantry. He pulls out some dried pasta and canned sauce, holding them up.
I smile gratefully. “Sure, if you don’t mind.”
While he cooks and I sit in front of the fire, it dawns on me that we are going to be staying here, in this house together, tonight. This is exactly the sort of situation I should be avoiding, but we don’t have a choice now. At least he’s back to being Grumpy Michael, for whatever reason. He’s a lot less appealing as Grumpy Michael.
Although, that brooding look is sexy…
No. Being trapped alone with him here is not a good excuse to throw caution to the wind and jump him. I need to be vigilant.
After we eat, I do the dishes, hoping it might improve his mood. But when I come back into the living room, there’s a scowl gathered around Michael’s eyes as he stokes the fire.
“I’ll have to sleep out here tonight so I can keep this going,” he says as I ease myself back onto the sofa.
“You don’t have a fireplace in your room?”
“Yes, but you’ll need this one to keep warm.”
I picture sliding into bed with him in front of a blazing fire and shiver with longing. That is, until I glance at his thunderous face. He must be irritated that he has to give up sleeping in his own bed to keep the fire going for me.
“Um, I can do it.”
He snorts. And as I watch the yellow firelight lick over his glowering features, I suddenly snap.
“Jesus, Michael! What the fuck is your problem?”
He glances at me, eyes wide with shock.
“Okay, look. I know I messed up the fire and I shouldn’t have told you I knew what I was doing. But that doesn’t explain why you’ve been angry with me all morning.”
He turns to stare into the flames, stroking a hand over his beard in thought. “I’m annoyed about what happened on New Year’s, Alex.”
“Oh God.” Shame slaps my cheeks and I raise a hand to hide. “I know, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you like that.”
“What?” He gives me an odd look. “No, I wanted you to kiss me. That’s… that’s not it.”
“Then what?”
“I—” He hesitates. “It was what you said, before I left.”
Shit. Who knows what I said, blind drunk?
And then a horrible thought occurs to me. What if I was a total bitch to him? I don’t even want to consider it, but sometimes when I drink… That would certainly explain why he’s so mad. Or, fuck, maybe he stopped the kissing and I got angry, which is quite possible. And mortifying.
I rub my forehead vigorously, as if that might dislodge a memory, and Michael frowns at my bemused expression.
“How much of New Year’s do you remember?”
I grimace. “Not much. I’d had a lot to drink.”
“So had I, and I still remember it.”
“Well excuse me, Mr. Perfect Memory.” I make a face.
His eyes track over me for another moment, then he exhales. “I guess it’s not fair to be mad at you if you don’t remember.”
“What… happened?”
“You said something…” He lets his gaze slide from mine. “Something I really wanted to hear.”
My heart jumps. What does that mean?
“Then why were you angry?”
“Because the next day you texted me and told me to forget it.”
“Oh.” I want to ask him what I
