“Donotlie down.” The command jolts me awake.
“Keep talking. Don’t lie down,” I croak. “You’re pretty bossy for someone who hasn’t found me yet.”
“Why aren’t you wearing a hat?” Audible Orgasm asks from right behind me. I don’t even jump, that’s how tired I am. Have I mentioned his voice is dreamy? And familiar?
“Hat?” Good question. I was just wondering the same thing. “I had one, but then a tree m-mugged me and punched me in the face.”
I force my surprisingly heavy eyelids open, turning my head to get my first look at the man behind the voice. He’s wearing a sheepskin jacket, a navy-blue knit cap and a matching scarf that covers the lower part of his face. He’s plastered with the hard-falling snow as well, but I can still tell he’s good-looking. (It’s a gift I was born with.)
Which means he can’t be my rescuer. I’d know, because the last time I was rescued—after I borrowed Val’s truck and it broke down on the side of the road—it was by an older gentleman with a Red Sox hat and three teeth to his name. That name was Corky and he smelled of Tiger Balm and old feta cheese, but he was still my hero. That’s who I expected. A park ranger version of Corky.
What I can see of this bundled up man looks more like the dragon I was just thinking about. He has lovely brown eyes and possibly the same eyebrows, though I can’t be sure. Either I’m really tired or snow mirages are a thing.
“Too bad.” I laugh drowsily, watching my breath fog and drift around his shoulders. “I was hoping you were r-real since I don’t think I can find my way out of h-here on my own.”
“You’re here.”
The mirage is suddenly right in front of me, close enough to touch and thankfully blocking most of the wind. “I heard you singing but I… How did you know where I was? How did you get here?” he asks gruffly.
How did I get here? Stupidity, maybe. A bad sense of direction. Guilt because I was getting busy while my friend was in fear for her life. “I’m a spy. Don’t tell anyone.”
He’s staring hard at my eyes.
“You have unusual eyes. Beautiful.”
I’m about to break the weird stare-down with the mountain man who might be my pub beast’s Yeti cousin when he goes on the offensive, taking my head in his gloved hands and running his fingers roughly over my scalp, despite my feeble attempts to push him away. Damn it, did I actually find the only blizzard-loving serial killer in existence?
I lean as far away from him as I can. “Back off, man. What are you doing?”
“I’m checking to see if you’ve hit your head.” He sounds aggravated. “Your face is bleeding and you look like you’re in shock. You might have a concussion.”
When he reaches for me again, I engage in a weak one-sided slap fight I might be embarrassed about later. “I hit my f-face, not my head. I don’t have a concussion.”
He swears, and then he takes off his hat and shoves it on my head a little aggressively for someone who says he’s worriedabout an injury. His hair is brown and gold but it’s too short. Has he cut it?
Wait…
I blink to get my eyes to focus, so I can study his grooved forehead, those fiercely grumpy eyebrows and his lovely light-brown skin. Itishim. He’s too distinctive to be mistaken for anyone else. “What are you doing out here in the middle of a snowstorm?”
“You don’t know? I thought you were a singing spy.” He’s still checking for injuries instead of answering me. “I’ll have to carry you.”
“I don’t think that’s a good plan,” I tell him firmly. “We have to be close to the lodge. I saw a window, and my r-room is right up there. If I can relax here for a f-few more minutes, I’ll be able to walk the rest of the way.”
One eyebrow arches fiercely. “If you have a room at the lodge, what the hell are you doing all the way out here in this weather?”
“It’s not like I planned it, Grumpy. There were scary bushes and then I got lost and my phone died before it started snowing.”
He lowers his scarf and my eyes widen at the full beard on display. That’s new, but at least it doesn’t hide his familiar scowl completely. I want to kiss that frown upside down. I already know I can. I’ve done it before.
“You got lost. You didn’t mean to come to the cabin.” Those aren’t questions, and the foggy exhale that follows is a diatribe long. “Never mind, we can talk inside.”
“What cabin?” Before he can answer, my knees give out. He’s right there to catch me, lifting me with a swiftness that leaves me blinking. Why is the not-love snow attacking my face now?
Oh, yeah. I’m being carried through the woods like some damsel in distress by a handsome rescuer who just happens to be the guy at the pub that I…
No, that can’t be right. Maybe I do have a concussion. Maybe I’m unconscious.
“You can’t c-carry me in this. You might hurt yourself.Connorcan t-toss me around like a sack of potatoes, but he’s a weight-lifting mutant,” I mumble.
