Under the Northern Lights(19)
I was halfway through a book about a group of reformed outlaws trying to save a town from a gang of thugs when Michael finally returned. He smiled when he saw me reading one of his books, and I was again struck with how soothing his grin was. “How was work?” I jokingly asked, setting the book down.
A brief laugh escaped him. “Good and bad.”
“Oh, how so?” I asked, amused that he was playing along.
Scratching his beard of frost, he said, “Good because I shot a moose. Bad because I had to cut it up and drag the pieces back to camp. Then I had to prep it, store it . . . I’m a mess. I think it’s a bath night. But on the bright side, we’re having moose steaks for dinner.”
That was when I noticed that his clothes and hands were stained red. Having hunted with my father before, I knew what a mess dissecting a meal was. It was easy to sympathize with wanting to feel clean after an ordeal like that. And man, a bath sounded amazing. I’d combed out my hair as best I could with my fingers, but it was greasy and dirty. Me too. But I had to wonder . . . how did one bathe in a cabin with no running water? And where exactly could he bathe here? I’d only ever taken a bath in a bathtub, and I didn’t see one of those in the cabin. “And how does that work exactly?” I asked.
He pointed at the large basin he’d used as a sink this morning. “I heat up water, one pot at a time, until that’s full. It takes a while, but it’s just about the best thing on earth. Totally worth it.” His grin suddenly turned massive, and my breath caught in my throat; he had such an amazing smile. His face still bright, he indicated my leg. “Once your stitches are healed enough to be removed, I can make one for you.”
His smile infectious, I grinned too. “I’d love that. I feel disgusting.”
He laughed at my comment. “I’ve seen worse,” he said, then he winked at me. Immediately afterward, his smile fell, like he’d just realized what he’d done and felt weird about it. Before I could react, he grabbed a pot and headed to the corner of the room, where a few five-gallon buckets with lids were waiting. Water. Removing the lid from one of the buckets, he filled the pot, then returned to the stove and set the pot on the top.
While the water was warming, he dragged the large metal basin closer to the stove. My face felt flushed, and I wasn’t sure if it was because of his mild flirting earlier . . . or because I’d suddenly realized that he was going to take a bath right in front of me. “Are you going to do that . . . here?”
A bit of his humor returned as he looked over at me. “You want me to freeze to death outside? It’s easier and safer to do it in here. And so long as I don’t dump the basin, it won’t make too much of a mess.”
Yep. He was going to strip and bathe in the middle of the room . . . with me watching him. “Do you have a curtain or anything?”
Clearly trying to keep a straight face, he shook his head. “No. I’ll just have to trust you not to look.”
Right. I could do that. I was a responsible, thoughtful, considerate, mature adult. And besides, if the tables were turned, he’d probably do the same for me. Because if he didn’t, I’d toss him out into the snow.
I tried to return to my book as he began filling the tub with pots of steaming water, but it was getting darker outside, and the words were getting harder to make out. Michael lit a few candles for us, but the flickering light didn’t help my eyes much. It just made everything in the room intimate, romantic, which didn’t help the situation at all. Book now lying in my lap, my eyes were firmly glued on Michael when he put the final pot of near-boiling water into the basin.
He smirked at me as he set the empty pot down. “I’m gonna strip now, so you might want to look somewhere else.”
It was hard to be respectful when curiosity was pounding on the door, but I forced myself to avert my eyes. I could do this. No problem. I heard rustling sounds as Michael removed his clothes and then a dull thump as he dropped the thick, heavy material onto the floor. My mind started picturing what I couldn’t see—a sculpted chest lightly speckled with dark hair; hard, flat abs; biceps to die for . . .
It had been a while since I’d been in a room with a naked man. Just the thought of being engulfed in his masculinity was enough to start bringing dormant parts of my body back to life. This was not good. It was so difficult to resist sneaking a peek that I had to slap my hands over my eyes, especially when I heard the sound of water splashing against the sides of the tub. I pictured his lean, hard body slipping into the soothing heat, imagined the droplets clinging to his skin. Shock went through me when I realized my heart was beating faster. Why was this affecting me so much?
I tried focusing on something else—anything else—but right at that point, Michael let out a satisfied sound that was way too erotic for my mind’s current state of revved-up hyperawareness. Shifting my body so my legs dangled over the side of the couch, touching the ground, I prepared to stand up. My eyes drifted to Michael as I moved. Fully in the tub now, the bulk of him was hidden. His head was lying back on the rim while his arms rested along the sides; his biceps were just as spectacular as I’d imagined.
Lifting his head, he frowned; his pale eyes seemed amused, though. “What are you doing?” he asked. The humor instantly shifted to caution, like he thought I might try to join him in that tiny tub, and he wasn’t entirely thrilled about the idea. Given my brief fantasy about him, the mild rejection kind of stung.