Jonah is standing a foot away.

“Call you later,” I mumble, and hit End.

As handsome as he was last night, freshly groomed and peaceful in slumber, the sight of him towering over me now, the muscles in his cut jaw clenching as he pins me down with steely blue eyes, is as awe-inspiring as it is intimidating. His beard remains unruffled, and his hair, though somewhat disheveled, holds its volume like I intended.

He doesn’t appear to be at all amused.

How long has he been listening to my conversation?

My face is burning. I attempt to regain my composure while I reach down to pick up the water bottle that slipped from my grasp in my shock. “You’re supposed to be at home, resting,” I say, trying to sound casual.

“I felt a compelling need to visit.” His light voice is a stark contrast to his icy gaze.

My eyes flicker toward the stitches on his forehead. They should heal nicely, but even if they don’t, something tells me Jonah can don an unsightly scar and still be attractive.

There’s a tidily folded piece of paper in Jonah’s giant paw, which he calmly unfolds. “ ‘Dear Jonah. This is for the toy plane that wouldn’t fit my luggage, for stealing my luggage, for not helping me get beer for my dad . . .’ ” He reads off his list of misdemeanors from the note I left, and I get caught up in watching his shapely lips move. How do they look soft, when so many of the words that come out of them are coarse? “ ‘. . . for defacing my father’s duck wallpaper, if that was you . . .’ ”

I keep forgetting to ask my dad about that, but something tells me it has Jonah’s signature all over it.

Those lips finally curl into a smile. My eyes flit up to find his—crap, he caught me admiring his mouth—as he recites the last line from memory: “ ‘Lastly, for crashing Betty and scaring me to death.’ ”

My heart pounds in my chest. I don’t know why I added that last line. It certainly wasn’t his fault that Betty went down.

Just as calmly and methodically, he folds the page up and tucks it into his back pocket, the move stretching his gray T-shirt across his chest, highlighting hard curves that I try—and fail miserably—not to stare at.

I struggle to twist off the cap on my water bottle, unable to find my strength for a grip.

Jonah wordlessly slips it from my hands. The sound of snapping plastic fills the room.

“So, how long did it take for you to work up the nerve to do it?”

I push aside my worries about what he might have overheard to level him with a flat, accusatory look. “No time at all, after I found my luggage hidden on your porch next to your raccoon.”

“Yeah, thanks for feeding Bandit, by the way.” He hands me back my water bottle, our fingers sliding over each other’s in the exchange.

“How long have you had my things?”

“Since I flew back to Anchorage the next night to get them,” he admits casually, without hesitation or a hint of remorse.

“But that’s . . . You mean you’ve had my clothes sitting on your porch since Monday?” I punctuate the word with a smack against his arm.

He flinches and then reaches for his sore shoulder.

“Sorry,” I wince, my anger dampened a touch. “And what, you got Billy to lie for you?”

“Nah. He had no idea I took ’em. He’s been shitting himself and finding excuses, hoping they’d turn up.”

I shake my head. “You’re such an asshole.”

Jonah’s gaze skitters over my bare collarbone, stalling at the decorative lace strap of my bra. “You survived, didn’t you?”

“So, what, you were trying to prove a point?”

“Didn’t I?”

I sigh. “Just when I was starting to like you . . .”

A deep bellow of laughter sails from his lips and knowing eyes search my face. “Oh, I think you like me just fine today.”

My cheeks flame again. Seriously, how much did he hear!

I move to get around him, to distance myself, but he smoothly steps forward, into my space, thwarting my escape. Making my pulse begin to race.

“You know it’ll just grow back.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

He smirks. “Unfortunate for whom?”

“For the people of Alaska. Thankfully I’ll be long gone by then.”

Jonah reaches up. I stiffen at the first sensation of his fingers fumbling with strands of my hair.

“What are you doing?” I ask warily, even as my body reacts to his subtle touch, shivers running down my arms and along my collarbone, skittering over my chest.

“I was just curious what your hair felt like. It’s soft.” He frowns thoughtfully. “And so long. It must have taken years to grow.”

“Not really. I’ve never had it short.”

“Never?”

Unease slips down my spine. “Never.”

“Hmm . . . I think it would look good short.” He coils his fist around it to form a ponytail at the back, his fingertips grazing the nape of my neck ever so gently. “Short like Aggie’s.”

“I don’t have the right shape of face.” I clear my throat against the wobble in my voice.

His intense gaze searches my forehead, my cheekbones, my jawline, as if evaluating my claim. “I’m sure you have enough makeup to fix that.”