He’s not family, but he is here for the Finn family event. Isn’t Seamus Finn’s stupidly rich husband half Turkish? Maybe Michael is one of his bodyguards, off duty but nearby in case he’s needed. It would explain his fluency with the language, and why he isn’t mingling with everyone else. He does give off a protective vibe, although I don’t think bodyguards usually travel with teacup poodles, or whatever Mimsy and Madeline are.
Maybe they’re trained attack dogs. Who would ever suspect them?
That’s ridiculous.
Or is it?
“I thought about you too,” I admit cautiously. “But I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
His lips tilt. “Why would you? We were strangers. Now we’ve got some time to get to know each other. When we’re done here, we’ll eat and we’ll talk. You can ask me anything.”
That sounds promising and informative. I remember the sweet smells I woke up to and my stomach rumbles in embarrassing agreement. “Do we have time for that kind of Q&A?”
“We have all night,” he reminds me, startling me mid-hunger pang.
“Because we’re snowed in together.” He’s said it. I’ve seen the view out the window. I’ve even been out in that weather. But it isn’t until this moment that the reality of it finally hits me.
This isn’t a work of fiction, this is reality. I’m entirely dependent on this man who has two good ankles, my phone and my clothes. If things go south, I wouldn’t survive outside for long.
Back at the pub, all my friends were a few steps away, along with a bar full of witnesses. Even when he grabbed me and pulled me inside, locking the door behind me, I was cautious, but I was never really afraid.
You’re not afraid now.
No, I’m not. And that’s worrying. I’m actually very sensible about these kinds of things. I’m well aware of my limitations and compensate for them accordingly. I’m not a fighter, but I have pepper spray on my keychain and emergency numbers on speed dial. When I go someplace unfamiliar, even if it’s to meet a hookup, I always have a friend a phone call away or I bringa buddy, which is why Connor is now snowed in at the lodge instead of at home watching football in his boxers.
Yet here I am, in a strange place outside of the city with no potential rescue in sight, and I’m thinking about sexy role-play instead of personal safety. Michael is bigger, stronger and clearly more capable, but I don’t believe he’d hurt me. He doesn’t seem like the type.
Instead, he’s smiling a little, as if the idea of being stuck with me pleases him, which also genuinely confounds me. It’s hard to believe that he’s not at least mildly irritated by an inconveniently injured houseguest he’s forced to take care of in a storm. Even if we did make out once a few months ago, he couldn’t possibly have expected to see me again. Or thought about me as much as I thought about him.
Things like this don’t happen in real life. Not to me. I don’t get trapped in cushy cabins with men I’d like to fuck. Men who carry me places, tend to all my needs, and think I’m cute when I’m not trying. I don’t get the guys that smell like cedar and sex or look like Michael. I get businessmen who think happy hour means a happy ending. Men between relationships. Guys who want to be stallions. Actual equines.
And for the most part, I prefer it that way. I like my personal life expectation free. Occasionally, I have fun casual sex with fun casual men, and the rest of my emotional needs are met by work and friends. I’m not interested in false promises and attempts at monogamy. I have several trust issues I cherish, and no time or energy for new complications.
So this? This is not my life.
It is now.
As I try to wrap my head around it, Michael carries me past a charming little reading area with a fully stocked bookshelf and an oversized but soft-looking beanbag chair big enough for two in the open part of the loft. Was this where he’d been earlier?
I swallow hard when I see the door that I know leads to the master bedroom, trying not to think about the fact that, for the first time in my life, I’m being carried dramatically toward a bed. What I wouldn’t give for an appropriately sweeping soundtrack right now.
And then I see the room. Wow. If this place had a theme song, it would be titled #WompWomp and be full of sad trombones mourning the death of my erection forever. They must do a lot of wedding business at the lodge, but I feel like calling the manager after the storm passes and offering to give this place a free makeover.Holly Hobby Honeymoons in Etsy Hellcan’t be what they were going for.
Matching ivory dressers and bedside tables are hand-painted with delicate vines, hearts and bunnies. There’s a flat-screen TV on one wall, framed by two ivory cabinets marked His and Hers (because that’s not at all presumptuous). On the other walls, countless floating shelves are laden with thick candles and black-and-white pictures of—I wish I were joking—cuddling animal couples. Birds. Puppies. Bunnies again. (A bunny in a bridal veil puts me in the mood for something, but that something will never be sex.)
A giant canopy bed covered in a blue-and-green quilt sewn with overlapping rings and hearts takes up the center of the room. It’s huge, and elevated on a lighted platform like some shrine to fertility. And there are so many throw pillows. Too many. Have they replicated themselves while I’ve been watching? It looks like they have.
Michael’s open suitcase sits on that bed beside a familiar welcome basket—I got a tiny one with little soaps in my room at the lodge—and his laptop is on a small desk in the corner, with files piled up beside it. He hasn’t unpacked yet. Does that mean he arrived this morning, right before the clouds rolled in? Ordid he sleep downstairs because he was as intimidated by this bedroom as I am?
I sneak a peek at his face and see an expression usually reserved for trips to guillotines and lesson plans on capitalism. I guess that answers my question.
My sudden chortle earns me a look of suspicion. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s this room. I think it just made me pregnant.”
For a moment there’s shocked silence and some fast blinking. Have I broken him? Then the clouds part, the angels weep, and Michael laughs.
A deep rolling rumble emerges as a breathless rasp of sound, as if he isn’t used to it and it’s surprised him. It vibrates through my skin and creates a pleasurable ache in my chest. It hasn’t even stopped and I already want to hear it again.
