“You should.” His gaze drifts outward again. “For Wren. The next few weeks . . . months . . . are gonna be hard. It’d be better if you were in Alaska for them. With him.”

“Is he even going to be around much, though? Sounds like he’ll be in Anchorage most of the time.”

Jonah’s quiet for a long moment. “He won’t ask you to put your life on hold for him, but he really likes having you around. I can tell.”

That’s basically what I’d be doing. Hitting “pause” on restarting my career at another bank, to wardrobe changes in Diana’s Tahoe and fashion shots, to Simon’s lattes and sage advice, to stilettos and clubs on Friday nights.

Back to a long-distance phone relationship with my dad.

And likely no relationship at all with Jonah.

My stomach tightens with the thought.

“Maybe you’re right. I don’t know what to do, though. I can’t just keep rebooking every week. They charged me two hundred bucks—”

“See if you can cancel your return ticket and rebook it when you’re ready.”

I actually might be able to do that. Simon did say it was flexible. As usual, Jonah makes it sound so simple.

“Your life will be waiting for you when you go back, and it won’t matter if it’s next week, or next month, or next year—”

“Next year!”

“Maybe not that long,” he mutters. “My point is, you won’t lose anything by staying. That life will still be there to go back to.”

My eyes drift over his perfect body again. I just spent two hours tangled up with this guy. “And what about this? If I did stay that long, don’t you think we just complicated things?” Because I’m definitely feeling something for Jonah, and it’s not just physical.

What will weeks, or months, of doing this do to us?

“Maybe, but I don’t ever let that shit stop me from doing what I need to do. I live my life by the day. And today, you’re here.” He pulls the door shut and turns to face me. My eyes can’t help but flicker downward. He certainly hasn’t had an adverse reaction to the cold air. “But we can stop this right now, if you want, if that’s going to be a deciding factor for you staying.”

An unexpectedly strong wave of disappointment hits me at the suggestion, at the thought that I won’t get to feel his mouth or his touch or his weight or his heat anymore. No, I do not want that. “Let’s not get hasty.”

He smirks. “I had a feeling you’d say that.” He strolls forward to drop to his knees at the end of the foam mat and yanks the sleeping bag off me. Gooseflesh springs over my skin instantly. Jonah’s eyes are like lasers drawing over my skin, taking everything in, deciding where to attack first.

I help him decide by stretching my body out for him, even as my stomach does a nervous flip.

His strong, rough-skinned hands seize my ankles and begin their slide upward, pushing my legs apart as they go, and all my worries about tomorrow are instantly forgotten.

Chapter 22

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

My eyes crack open to a dull, repetitive sound coming from outside. Dim daylight filters through the tiny portals, illuminating just enough so that I can make out the medley of frying pans dangling from nails against the wall.

I’m alone in our makeshift bed and the air is cold. I tug the sleeping bag tight under my chin and curl into a ball, instantly feeling the pull of sore muscles. I can’t tell how much of that is from sleeping on this thin foam mattress, and how much is because of my night with Jonah.

The rain has stopped, at least, I note. That constant drum against the roof was a soothing white noise for me to finally drift off to in the wee hours, but now the ensuing silence is all the more deafening.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Curiosity finally wins me over. Throwing off the sleeping bag, I step into my rain boots and grab Jonah’s flannel jacket from the clothesline, knowing it’ll cover enough of me. Hugging it tightly, I step outside. A thick, gloomy fog has settled over the soaked forest, shrouding the tall spruce trees and the narrow pathway to the plane. Even the outhouse has disappeared. It’s almost ghostly in mood, this morning.

Jonah is off to the left, his back to me, bent over a sizeable tree stump to position a log on its end. An axe sits nearby, next to a small pile of freshly split wood. He’s wearing nothing but his baggy jeans and unlaced boots. I settle against the door frame and quietly admire the stretch and strain of the muscles in his naked back as he reaches for the axe.

“How’d you sleep?” Jonah calls out suddenly, his voice especially gravelly with the morning.

“Pretty good.” I clear the scratch from my throat. “A bit thirsty.”

“Well, that’s a huge surprise,” he mutters wryly. “That water we had should have lasted us a week.”

“Yeah, if you’re a camel.” And you’re not used to polishing off a two-liter bottle every day, like I do back home.

He glances over his shoulder, his gaze stalling on my bare thighs for a brief moment, before returning his focus to his task. He swings the axe, bringing it down on the chunk of wood. It splits in two.

If there’s such a thing as beautiful form while chopping wood, Jonah has it. Or maybe it’s just him that’s beautiful, because I could watch that broad chest and tapered waist all day long. A flash of his powerful shoulders and arms tensing over me last night comes to mind and my lower belly instantly stirs with the memory.