It’s closed, of course. And locked. I’m not an idiot. I’m a twenty-two-year-old female alone in an isolated—albeit luxuriously rustic—mountainside cabin. Archie can’t get out. But he can injure himself. He’s a big dog. A strong dog. I don’t want him breaking his head ramming into the door. “Archie! Sit!”
Archie doesn’t sit. Archie disappears around the corner.
“Sit!” I shout, breaking into a sprint. “Sit!”
The world outside turns white with a flash of lightning. A deafening crack of thunder follows straightaway. I slap my hands to my ears—holy shit, is the storm attacking the house?—and then groan as the lights die without even a flicker.
“Shit!” I ground out, squinting into the blackness enveloping me. “Shit.”
A dull whacking sound floats from the back of the house. No whimper or yelp though, just that dull thump. “Archie?” What did he hit?
The only response I get is the thunder, wind, and rain lashing the world outside.
I burst forward, waving my hands in front of me in the dark. “Damn it, Archie. You better be?—”
I slam into the door. Thankfully, my hands hit first, breaking my momentum just enough to stop my head striking the solid wood with all the force of my panic.
“Archie?” I call, rubbing my forehead. That’s going to leave a bump. “Archie?”
The lights flicker back on, and my stomach sinks as I stare at the Archie-size dog door in the back door, the flap swaying back and forth a fraction. Either from the wind or from being moved by a mastiff-size force.
My gut tells me it’s the latter.
“Shit,” I mutter, fling the door open, and run out into the storm.
I am so dead.
Chapter Three
Hudson
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I eye the ceiling lights. Are they staying on this time?
The storm is hammering Hartley Ridge and the mountains, but so far, there have been no reports of lightning-strike fires or property damage. A couple of flickering power failures, no doubt some downed trees, and maybe flash flooding down in the valley where Blue Mountain Creek cuts through the terrain, but no fires.
Wild wind and sheets of rain batter the house. Thunder and lightning fight for dominance of the night. I’m tempted to grab a beer, toe off my boots, flick the lights off, and settle back to watch nature’s temper tantrum through my living room window.
Instead, I grab a water, leave my boots on, and stand at the window.
As much as I’d like to relax, I need to be ready in case?—
Something black darts across the small patch of cleared area I call a front yard. An animal of some sort, spooked by the storm,no doubt. Too big to be a possum or wombat, but not bounding like a kangaroo.
Someone’s pet? A dog?
Lightning cuts the sky, illuminating Mrs. Andrews’s bullmastiff running across my yard, tail tucked, ears flat.
Ah, crap.
“Archie!” a voice screams, a split second before thunder detonates above, and the lights die again.
Crap!
Lightning peroxides the night outside, and my gut knots.
A young woman sprints through the rain after the dog, her face etched in fear, her wet hair and clothes plastered to her body.
For a heartbeat, the base male part of me notices lush curves and full breasts under the drenched fabric of a white T-shirt and an arse made for squeezing wrapped in wet denim shorts, and then I get a grip on my lust and bolt for my door.
