She’d expected a cabin in the woods, with a borderline serial killer vibe. Following Easton along a narrow gravel lane through his family’s property had done nothing to dissuade her of the notion. But when they arrived, she’d found a nice—okay, adorable—house, complete with flower boxes on the windows and a rocking chair on the porch. Inside, everything was clean and organized, from the books in alphabetical order on hand-carved cedar bookshelves to the dishes angled perfectly so on the drying rack.

It wasn’t even extra weirdly overorganized. He’d left a sweatshirt draped on the back of a chair, and he had a loose change jar next to his keys, with several pens and a couple of wadded up receipts along with the quarters and dimes.

“You’re disappointingly normal.” Bree sighed. “I was hoping for the heads of baby dolls lining the walls.”

“I was thinking the same thing.” River shared a grin with her friend. “Not even a meat hook in sight.”

“The meat hooks are in the barn.”

They both went still, heads swiveling to the man closing the door behind them. Easton winked at them.

Jessie flopped down on the closest recliner. “Well, meat hooks or not, I’m glad we’re not sleeping in the car again. I’m too old for that. I should’ve stopped at half the Growly Bear like you did. The ceiling is spinning. What was in that thing?”

“Graham’s sense of humor,” Easton informed them.

While Jessie made himself comfortable and Bree began fiddling with the handheld camera, Easton gave River a tour of the place. Fridge, check. Living room complete with spare pillows and blankets, check. Tiny bathroom with the white fluffy towels. Yep. Check, check, check.

Unfortunately, the towel situation was going to be a problem.

Not the number of towels available for use in Easton’s home or the quality of said towels. They were nice, bright white, and very fluffy. The problem was River kept imagining those towels wrapped around him, her mind nosediving straight to the gutter. Standing in Easton’s bathroom, River tried not to look directly at the towels in his muscled arms, all fluffy and soft and contrasting to his warm, tan skin.

“Here,” Easton told her, offering one. “There’s more in the cabinet for the others.”

“I don’t want it.” The words slipped out before River could keep them in. “I mean, it’s a towel. Nothing to see here. Move along.”

“How many of those Growly Bears did you drink again?” Easton’s eyes sparkled in the bathroom’s low lighting.

Sparkly eyes weren’t fair either. Neither was the proximity of this tiny bathroom, where a good breath could have her parts accidentally squished into his. And after watching him out of the corner of her eye all night at the Tourist Trap, squishing and squashing weren’t too far from her mind.

Especially if towels were involved.