Sherry knew he was lying. She couldn’t have said why she knew it, but she was certain he had written that song for someone who mattered a great deal to him. She respected his right to privacy, but she felt oddly disappointed that he hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her who it was.

And then she mentally kicked herself. Who was she, after all, to demand he bare his soul? They’d only just met. Of course, their meeting had been a bit unusual, and in a way, she felt strangely drawn to this taciturn man with so many layers. But in a few days, she would be on her way back to her old life far away, so why should she expect him to tell her anything that mattered as much as the woman he’d written such a beautiful song for?

The air in the room seemed charged with secrets, and it made her uncomfortable. Yawning, she decided it was time for her to go to bed.

“Um . . . where shall I sleep?” she asked, not sure he wanted her in his bed, but not seeing any other options in the small cabin. She supposed she could sleep in one of the chairs. They were big and comfortable, and she was fairly small. She hated the thought of Rusty, with his long legs and body, having to try to sleep in the chair, when it was her unexpected arrival that would put him out of his bed.

“Oh, you can have the bed,” he assured her. “Let me just change the sheets. I’m afraid I wasn’t comfortable changing you out of your clothes when you arrived, and there’s some mud on the sheets.”

Sherry blushed at the idea of this man removing her clothes and was relieved he had remained a gentleman. Then she remembered she’d accused him of intending her harm when she’d awoken and blushed even deeper.

Her eyes met his, and she saw a twinkle in their brown depths and a dimple in his cheek from a barely suppressed smile, letting her know he’d read her thoughts. Turning away, she said, “I can do that.”

“It’s no trouble, but we can get it done in no time if you help.”

Nodding, Sherry followed him into the bedroom. He removed a set of sheets from the chest at the foot of the bed and set them aside as he began removing the quilts. Sherry took the top quilt from him and folded it, setting it on top of the chest. She did the same with the second quilt. Running her hand over them, she admired the tight stitching and beautiful patterns on each of them. She could tell they’d been hand-stitched by someone who took pride in their work, and she remarked on it in a voice full of admiration.

“These are beautiful. Who made them?”

Rusty hesitated, then finally said, “A friend from town. She was worried I might be cold out here all on my own.”

“She did a wonderful job on these. I would love to get one. Does she sell them?”

Rusty paused again before answering. “She passed away.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”

“It’s okay. You couldn’t have known. She was a dear friend. The wife of a dear friend. She had cancer.”

“Oh, sorry.” Sherry hated repeating herself, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say. It was obvious this person had been someone dear to him, and she wanted to console Rusty.

Without realizing she was doing it, Sherry reached out and touched Rusty on the arm. His muscle tightened under her hand, sending tingles under her skin. What was it about him that excited her so? Sherry was confused, removing her hand almost immediately, and she stepped away. There was something deep in his eyes, something that drew her back to him.

Standing next to him, she looked up, reaching out to touch his arm again. Ignoring the tingling, she watched her hand slide up his arm as if her hand wasn’t attached to her body. She felt him tense up. She looked at him as she moved closer until her body was almost pressed against his.

She saw a muscle twitch in his jaw, and her fingers touched the spot, warmth traveling up her body as his heat enveloped her. He smelled of musk and wood smoke, and she was suddenly aware of how little space separated them.

“I’m sorry . . .” She cursed herself again for saying that over and over. What did she have to be sorry about? She kept apologizing, not knowing why.

“Can you move slightly to the left so I can get the old sheets off?” His voice sounded so calm, but she had a feeling he was anything but. She smiled nervously and stepped away to give him more room, moving to the right instead of the left in her nervousness, bringing her up against his rock hard chest.

“Sorry . . .” she started to say again and then bit back the words.

He didn’t move.

She didn’t move.

They stared at each other, and she felt herself leaning into him even more, craving the warmth of his body. There was something primal in this need, something she didn’t understand. Something she needed, wanted, and yet feared was about to happen. She knew she should step away, leave that room—that cabin—or she would never leave.

She couldn’t move, though. Her feet felt rooted to the floor. She waited.

Finally, he groaned, and leaning down, he took her mouth with his, pushing into her with his tongue in a way she’d never been kissed before. She slipped her arms up around his neck, welcoming him into her embrace.

He ended the kiss after a blissful minute that she wanted to go on forever.

Looking at her, his eyes boring into hers, he said in a strangled voice filled with repressed emotion, “Are you sure this is what you want? You don’t know what you are asking of me.”

Sherry, eyes locked with his, nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

He lowered his head to hers, pushing her back onto the bed as he did so, his long form hot against her own.

Before she lost herself in his kisses, Sherry felt they had rather satisfactorily solved the dilemma of who would be sleeping in the bed.