Claws & Crochet

Part 30

WARNER

Zoey slips around me, into the bathroom and shuts the door.

While she takes a moment to herself, I move to the main room, pulling back a curtain to check on the storm.

Still raging away. Fine by me. I'll take any excuse to hole up in a cabin with Zoey. Maybe the rain will go on all night, and she'll invite me for a sleepover.

A guy can dream.

Even with my hair wet and my body only covered by a towel, I'm not uncomfortable. But I noticed the thick flannel Zoey cloaked herself in.

I head to the fireplace and spend the next few minutes arranging wood and working to get my lit match to catch the tinder. By time I hear the bathroom door open, there's a decent blaze going.

"Oh. Fire. That's a good idea." Zoey walks up beside me, holding her hands out to the flames, humming happily as the heat plays over her skin.

She's beautiful, standing above me, firelight bringing out the gold in her chestnut hair.

"I'm going to feed Bruce. Are you hungry?"

I'm on the verge of making a joke about werewolves and dog food when I catch myself, choking on the words and coughing as I do.

Can't believe I almost let my secret slip. Just because I'm comfortable around Zoey, does not mean she's ready for that. For all of me.

As I clear my throat, she pats my back, firmly at first, all business, but then she slows. Her hand lingers on the bare skin between my shoulder blades. As if she likes how I feel. I stifle a groan and stop myself from leaning over to bury my face in her stomach. Her scent, which only teases my nose at the moment, would be strong there. One of her warm spots.

Zoey snatches her hand away and retreats to the kitchen. A second later, the clatter of kibble hitting a metal bowl sounds, followed quickly by the heavy padding of Bruce's feet on the hardwood.

"I'm going to make myself a grilled cheese. Do you want one?" she asks.

I straighten from my crouch, making sure to clutch my towel as I do. "Yes, please." My heart pounds faster, but I command it to calm down. It's just a grilled cheese. She has no idea what other meanings I might find in her offer.

Zoey wields a large cast iron skillet, arranging it on the stove top. "What is your preferred cheese?"

My brain stutters over the question. "My preferred cheese?"

"Yes. Your preferred cheese. The cheese that you prefer." She opens the fridge, bending at the waist in a distracting display of her round bottom.

"I don't know. You mean, like my favorite cheese?"

"If you want to play around with synonyms, sure. What's your favorite cheese?"

Shit, I don't think that I have a favorite cheese either.

Then she stands, turning to stare at me like this question means something.

I panic. "Um . . . yellow?"

Zoey's eyebrows pull down, disbelief staining her face. "Yellow?" Her bare feet are silent on the wood floor as she steps toward me. "Did you just tell me your favorite cheese is yellow cheese?"

"Yes?" I offer my most hopeful smile and pray that she moves on to a topic I'm more familiar with. Want to know my favorite meat? Pulled pork. Favorite beer? Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA. Favorite dessert? Roderick's rhubarb pie. Favorite smell? Wet Zoey.

Mmmm...wet Zoey.

As my mind threatens to go dirty places, the sexy human can't get past my mental block on dairy products.

"Warner. Can you name five different types of cheeses?"

"Sure." I'm a liar who likes to dig himself into deep holes to impress a woman.

"Okay. Go." Said woman waits, arms crossed over her chest, delicious, sweet scent amplified by her damp hair.

"Right now?"

"Yes."

I'm screwed.

"Okay. Well, there's the obvious"—I speak with false confidence—"yellow cheese."

She pinches her bottom lip as if in deep thought. "Of course."

"And, you know . . . white cheese."

"Sure," she responds, deadpan.

"Plus"—I flounder—"nacho cheese."

Zoey presses her fingers to her mouth, as if concerned. "Uh huh."

"And can't forget"—I talk slowly as my brain scrambles to fill in the blanks—"string."

"Who would forget that?" Her voice is tight with some kind of emotion.

"Not me. And there you go. Five cheeses." My relief is short-lived because she shakes her head.

"Nope. That was four. Yellow cheese, white cheese, nacho cheese, and string cheese." Her slim fingers tick each off. "What's one more type of cheese, Warner? Any type. Any at all."

My eyes search the room, as if Zoey will have put up a poster listing all the different kinds of cheeses she expects me to know. I have to know the name of some kind of cheese, right? But my mind is a mess, and finally I mumble the only other cheese-related thing I'm able to pull out of my panicked ass.

"Sorry, what was that? I didn't catch it." Zoey leans forward, her eyes sparkling.

I clear my throat and commit to my answer. "Goldfish crackers."

Silence descends over the cabin, and I try to look confident even as I worry that I failed a test.

After long seconds tick by, Zoey crosses the few feet separating us, and suddenly her arms are around my waist, her forehead pressed into my bare chest. And she's shaking. While I want to bask in the touch of her against my skin, the shaking worries me.

Is she cold again?

"Goldfish—" she chokes on the word, finally tilting her head up to look at me, tears streaming down her cheeks, her mouth hanging open in a disbelieving grin. "Crackers?"

She's laughing. I don't care that it's at my expense. Because Zoey's laughter has recently become my favorite sound in the world.

I affect my most earnest expression. "Aren't they made of cheese?"

Zoey gasps in delight, then hugs me tight as the hilarity rolls through her. She doesn't bother to stifle it, and I love that. The wild abandon. She's glorious and adorable.

Eventually she pulls away, using a flat hand on my chest to push me toward the couch.

I like where this is going.

But then she backs away.

"Stop looking at me like that," Zoey scolds, even as her lips fight a smile.

"Like what?" Now I'm grinning.

"Like that." Zoey waves at me, all of me, like my entire body is taking part in the expression she claims she wants me to stop.

I am shirtless, so maybe she's not wrong.

"All right." I move my hands, bringing them up to cover my exposed nipples. "Better?"

"No!" But she's giggling again. "You're terrible."

"Sorry. Do you want to punish me?" My voice goes low, a touch suggestive. Flirting with Zoey is as easy as breathing.

"Yes," she says, the conviction in her voice has my cock twitching, and I consider if I need to move my hands lower. "Your punishment is that you have to eat whatever I make you even if you don't know what it is." She turns back to the stove, as if that'll keep me from hearing her chuckles.

My stomach has no objections. As she preps the mystery food, I return to the fire.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, during which delicious smells begin to waft from the kitchen, Zoey asks another question.

"How do you keep finding me in the middle of the woods?"