“You’re skinny for a sack of potatoes,” he observes impolitely. “And who is this Connor asshole who picks out your boots and tosses you around? Your boyfriend?”
“He’s my b-best friend. Or he was before he stole my massage. And the word is wiry, not skinny. Only I can call myself skinny.” I squint up at his gloriously maintained beard. It’s shiny and it smells like cinnamon. Bet it would feel good too. Two freckles behind his ear catch my eye, and a visual of kissing that ear while he groans suddenly pops into my head.
It is definitely him.
He manhandles me the same way he did that night. It’s almost too much for my frozen brain to handle, so I try to think of something else. “Can I borrow your phone? I need to call him to come pick me up.”
And then I’ll convince him to take me back to Bex and far away from this entire situation.
“It’s at the cabin. You can use it when we get there.”
“That’s nice. You’re nice.” No, he isn’t. Why did I say that? And why do I feel like I’ve had one too many shots of tequila?
“I thought I was grumpy. Or was it bossy?”
“All of the above,” I assure him. “Nice and grumpy and b-bossy.”
He might also be a little kidnap-y, since he’s focused on this “cabin” and ignoring all my hints about the lodge and people who’ll notice if I’m missing. Eventually. Connor will notice eventually.
“We’ll call you Numpy.” Since I never got his name.
“We will never call me that.” His chest rumbles when he speaks, making me think of bears instead of dragons.
“A numpy bear,” I murmur sleepily. “Did you know t-teddy bears were created after Teddy Roosevelt refused to shoot a bear t-tied to a tree, because it wasn’t s-sporting?”
“I did not know that.” He sounds apathetic about it but dips his head down to hear me anyway, his scratchy beard brushing against my undamaged cheek deliciously.
The sensation tempts me to nuzzle closer. “Taft t-tried to replace it, but nobody r-really liked Billy Possum. Who w-wants to cuddle a p-possum?”
“That’s a riveting story.” His voice vibrates against my temple. “Please, tell me more about stuffed roadkill while we stroll through this snowstorm.”
“Rude.” But surprisingly funny, I think with a chuckle, pressing against his soft jacket. Sheepskin leather is so warm, even with snow melting on it. “When I get back, I think I’ll take a nap. Things a-always look b-better after a nap.”
His arms tighten around me. “Stay awake for now. What’s your real name?”
“Win.”
“What are you doing up here, Win?”
Why is he making me talk when all I want to do is cuddle and forget my problems?
“I told you that already. Weren’t you listening? I was going to refuse, but then we decided to gather some info on the sly. But I’m not a sly spy. Just a guy who hates to lie.” I snort at my rhyme.
“I’m going to check for a concussion again when we get inside,” Grumpy Numpy grunts.
I pat his chest. That is, I think about patting his chest. I also think about slipping my hands under his jacket and getting a better feel for the hard body I’m pressed up against, but mylimbs aren’t listening to me at the moment. “I don’t have one. I should know. I’m a teacher.”
He shifts me in his arms and I instantly feel more secure. Protected. “Do you teach medicine?”
I sigh. “Social studies.”
“That explains a few things. Though you don’t look old enough to be any sort of teacher.”
“You need glasses,” I grumble, ignoring the fact that he’s right because I basically stopped aging at seventeen. I’m told I’ll be thankful about my youthful appearance later in life, but I have my doubts. What if I’m like one of those child actors who plays a teenager for twenty years until they suddenly show up at fifty-five, trying to pull off the role of worried parent or weird priest in a made-for-television-movie, and the wrinkles and jowls on their baby faces freak you the fuck out?
Welcome to my brain. I wish I could blame a head injury for that.
“Are we there yet or areyoulost now?”