Strained muscles and bruises and scratches from her escape set up a painful clamor all over her body. She whimpered, wanting only to burrow back under the covers.

Someone was here. Who?

Up, up, up. The room was still dark—only due to the blackout curtains covering the windows. Because the sun rose crazy early around 5:30 in the morning and didn’t set until after 10.

The wood floor was cold against her feet. She stopped. Naked. Right. Maybe sleeping in the buff in this wilderness wasn’t smart, but nightgowns and pajamas hated her. Tried to strangle her or wrapped around her waist or breasts.

She yanked on a pair of jeans, then donned a flannel shirt as she slid on fluffy slippers.

There, she was dressed. Sort of. Her shirt was buttoned crooked; she was commando and braless. Whoever it was should’ve called first if they wanted a put-together appearance from her.

She opened the front door a crack.

No one was in sight.

A big red pickup had been backed into her gravel drive far enough the truck bed was out of sight around the side of her cabin.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Oh, it was Dante. Her landlord had said he’d be over to fill the lean-to with firewood. He was so sweet.

She started to head around the side, then paused. Her flannel shirt didn’t hide her braless state. Perhaps she should change.

But Dante had mentioned his back was acting up—and he was moving a bunch of wood? Really bad idea. She could handle unloading the stuff.

She hurried around the side of the cabin. “Dante, you shouldn’t be lifting—”

It wasn’t Dante.

Clad in a tight black T-shirt, Bull was stacking firewood neatly in the shed—and her breath seized in her throat.

Whoa. Shoulders shouldn’t be that wide, and his biceps and triceps were so pumped up the man could be a model for an anatomy class.

She sure would’ve enjoyed the subject a lot more.

Aaand, he noticed she was staring. Cazzo, she was probably drooling.

Framed by his black goatee, his lips quirked up. “Haven’t had your coffee, yet?”

Lovely. Her hair probably resembled a rat’s nest. Hopefully, she didn’t have drool marks down her cheek. “Not even close. Your truck woke me up.”

Even to her own ears, she sounded grumpy.

His gaze swept over her, and there was no way he’d miss that she was braless—and that the cold had her nipples jutting against the flannel shirt.

When she crossed her arms over her chest, a dimple appeared in his cheek. “It’s good when you can sleep late,” he said mildly.

His gaze lingered on her face, reminding her of the vivid red scratches across her cheek and chin. The bruise on the left where she’d bounced off a tree trunk probably showed, too.