I wake up pinned under something heavy. I twist around in the blankets until I realize that my fortress of safety--every spare pillow I could find in the cabin--has all slid to the floor. The long, muscled, tattooed leg of Thatcher Stag is slung over my hip.

I roll over to look at him, trying to move his leg without waking him up. He's half on his side, sleeping in just a pair of shorts, and holy shit. I had forgotten the glorious sight that is his chest. His tattoos stop ...