Making his way over to the fireplace, he grabbed a couple of logs and put them on the fire, using the poker to push them in place so the blaze would continue through the night. Waking up in an icebox wasn’t something he wanted to deal with. Of course, he’d have to fall asleep first. That wouldn’t be an easy task even if Shelby wasn’t here.

He was a man with a sleeping routine and without it, he was a man without sleep. He needed mostly quiet, total darkness, his white-noise app, and a solid hour of staring at his ceiling.

“Robber baron moose on a train,” Shelby said. “Look out.”

Ian jerked around. “What?”

Shelby’s eyes were still closed and she was half in a ball like before. She was talking, but there was no way she was awake.

“Orgasms give you endorphins; that’s what I told the conductor.” She shoved her comforter down to her waist. “I love to dance, don’t you?” She sat up, her eyes open but her face blank. “The moose is waiting for you.”

He knew she was just talking in her sleep, but Ian still looked over his shoulder at the huge kitchen window. Just a few months ago, there’d been a story in the Harbor City Post about a seven-hundred-pound moose (a small one, the article had noted) that had busted into a cabin to get out of a snowstorm. It had taken a massive tranquilizer to knock it out so it could be treated for injuries from going through the glass and relocated back out in the wild. Luckily there wasn’t a moose out on the porch that he could see, but still it was one more thing that his brain would be directing as he tried to get it to shut up long enough for him to go to sleep.

“This is my song.” Shelby shoved more at the comforter, as if she was going to get up. “I’ve never slow danced with a moose before. Don’t step on my feet.”

Worried she’d hurt herself, Ian rushed over to the couch and gently pushed her back down, adjusting the covers so they were back up at her chin. Then, pulling a move from his mom’s playbook when he was a kid and couldn’t sleep, he ran his fingers over Shelby’s hair. Brushing over the prickly buzz of the close-cropped side to the silky smooth waves over and over slowed the spinning of his thoughts, and relaxing back into the couch cushions, he closed his eyes.

Suddenly, she jolted into a sitting position, completely awake, and scooted away from him, her eyes wide and not even a little bit sleepy. “Why are you petting me?”

He held up his hands, palms forward. “It’s not what you think.”

“You weren’t petting me while I slept?”