Chapter 2
Fritha
Of all the people to find me on the side of the mountain, it had to be Rowan Evans. I’ve crushed on him ever since I was twelve years old and he was kind to me at my father’s funeral.
That’s probably how he still sees me, as that twelve-year-old girl hanging out by the buffet, stuffing homemade sausage rolls into my mouth until I puked because it gave me something else to think about other than the fact that Dad wasn’t coming home.
That was seven years ago, and I’m not that sad little girl anymore. I’m an independent woman who doesn’t need to be carried down a mountain.
I move my arms in an attempt to wiggle out of his grasp, but damn my arms are heavy. They feel like icicles. Rowan holds me tighter, and if I wasn’t wet through and numb I’d be enjoying this.
“I got you, little pup.”
That’s the first time anyone’s ever called me little.
I’m short and round, and I’m okay with that.
Since I left high school, I’ve discovered there are fewer assholes in the world than school would have you believe.
I guess compared to Rowan’s mountain man stature I’m little.
He’s carrying me like I don’t weigh a thing, like I’m a child.
I wiggle again, needing to get on my own two feet and show him I can walk down the path like an adult and don’t need to be carried like a child, but he adjusts his arms to keep a firm grip on me and pulls my head closer to his chest.
“We’re nearly there.”
Rowan’s chest is the first warmth I’ve felt since it started raining, which feels like forever ago. With every attempt I make to crawl out of his arms, he only holds me tighter. I guess there are worse things than to be carried down a mountain by Rowan Evans.
I give up my half-hearted attempts to stand on my own two feet and close my eyes, giving in to the pure pleasure of being this close to Rowan Evans’s heart, which is where I’ve wanted to be since I was twelve years old.
A few minutes later I feel him climbing some stairs, and for the first time there’s no rain falling on my face.
I open my eyes, and we’re on the tiny front porch of a wooden hut. It’s got to be one of the ranger cabins or hunting huts.
Rowan balances me with one hand while retrieving a key and getting the door open. Then we’re inside with the rain pounding on the roof and us both dripping water on the bare floorboards.
There’s a single bed pushed against one corner of the hut. On the opposite side is a small kitchenette with a wooden table and two chairs in the middle of the room.
Another door leads out to what I assume is the bathroom. It’s sparse, but it’s shelter.
Rowan eases me gently into a chair, and even though we’re out of the rain I can’t stop my teeth from chattering, which is such a childish thing to do. I don’t want him to see me like this, but he’s crouched in front of me, his grey eyes full of concern.
I attempt to still my jaw, but I’m so freaking cold it’s hard to get my body to do anything. I reach my hand up to hold my jaw shut, but the skin is numb and I can’t tell where my hand starts and my jaw finishes.
I catch sight of my fingers and they’re a pasty white colour, almost translucent. The blood’s completely drained from them, and that is not a good sign.
“We need to get you out of your wet clothes,” he says,
which is kind of what I’ve been fantasising about him saying to me for years.
I giggle and he frowns, and I make my face serious because giggling is what girls do, and I’m an adult and need to behave like one.
“Okay.” My voice comes out as a croak, and even my vocal cords are freezing over.
I look down to hide the horror, because suddenly I realise how serious this is. I’m so cold I’ve lost the blood flow to my extremities and my vocal cords don’t work properly, and all I can think about is the woodsy smoky scent of Rowan Evans and wonder how he’d taste if he kissed me.
“Take your wet things off, and I’ll find you something warm to put on.”
He stands up and shrugs off his rain jacket and a pair of overalls, revealing an almost perfectly set of dry clothes underneath.
I curse myself for my naiveté when I set out for my walk today and not having all the right gear like the proper mountain man in front of me does.
I stand up, gripping onto the chair for support because my legs are like icicle bricks, and I don’t trust myself not to fall.
Rowan pulls a gas cooker out of the kitchen and opens a lock box to grab a gas canister and a lighter. He gets water heating on the gas cooker all in the time it takes me to realize my fingers aren’t working properly and I can’t undo the zipper to my jacket.
“Let me help.”
He’s back in front of me again, unzipping my jacket and pulling it off my arms with an efficiency that isn’t anything like how I imagined he’d undress me when I fantasised about it.
He doesn’t say anything about my thin city coat that’s stylish but not waterproof and has no hood.
“This will have to come off too.”
He indicates my soaked cotton t-shirt, and I nod. I trust him implicitly, and if he says I have to take my t-shirt off, then who am I to argue?
He goes to check on the boiling water to give me privacy. But my thumbs are shaking too much, and I can’t grip the t-shirt.
“I need help,” I croak.
Rowan turns around, and his eyes flash something fiery that must be anger, which I get. I’m a giant pain in the ass, and now he has to undress me like a child. But I’m shaking so bad that I don’t care anymore.
He’s going to see my bright pink bra with the black lacy bows that I love because it makes me feel feminine in a retro girl-punk kind of a way, channelling my inner Pink.
Rowan stands in front of me, and his breathing is raspy and warm as it hits my skin.
He hooks his thumbs under my t-shirt and lifts it up.
The wet fabric makes a squelching noise as it peels over my skin.
My stomach rolls are exposed and I’m so embarrassed right now, but he’s got the t-shirt over my head so at least I can’t see his face when he sees my lumpy body.
The t-shirt catches on my oversized boobs, and Rowan gives it a tug.
Then he pulls it over my head and I’m in front of my man crush in only my bra and wet leggings.
If I wasn’t so cold I’d die of embarrassment, but hypothermia might get me first, so I nod weakly when he tells me my bra and leggings have to come off too.
“Here.”
He grabs the comforter off the bed and throws it around my shoulders. His voice is as croaky as mine, and I wonder if he’s got hypothermia too.
Somehow I manage to get my bra off and I pull the comforter around my shoulders, wondering what I’ll do if a boob accidentally falls out.
“Can you get your pants off? Everything that’s wet has to go.”
I nod my head and fumble with the elastic of my leggings while balancing the comforter around my shoulders. But my thumbs won’t move like I want them to, and he’s about to get an eyeful of boob if this comforter slips.
I look up at Rowan, and he must see the mortification in my eyes because he gives me a kind smile.
“Need a hand?”
I nod, and he reaches under the comforter and pulls my leggings down and my panties with them with an efficiency that’s frightening. I wonder how many panties he’s stripped off in his time, and the flame of jealousy that flickers in my stomach at least warms me up a little.
Rowan keeps his eyes on me and he’s breathing hard, probably annoyed at having to babysit me.
“Step out of those.”
I do as he says, and he grabs my wet clothes off the floor and scoots them toward the door, leaving a trail of water on the floorboards of the hut.
Now I’m standing naked with a comforter wrapped around me, shaking with cold. I’m even colder now than when I had all my clothes on.
Rowan looks worried, and that makes me worried. I sit down on the chair, or my legs give way, is a more accurate description.
Then Rowan is shrugging his clothes off too, and through the cold haze in my head I giggle again, because it’s my fantasy come to life only the situation isn’t right.
Mom always said be careful what you wish for, and maybe when I fantasised about getting naked with Rowan this is what the universe heard and what they’re delivering.
He flicks the gas stove off.
“You need body heat,” he explains as he lifts me up, comforter and all, and carries me to the bed like I’m a big sausage roll.
Then he climbs under the comforter with me and positions himself behind me like a big spoon. My bare ass grazes his thigh and I giggle like a maniac, because if I’m going to die here today, at least I’ll die knowing what it feels like to be in bed with Rowan Evans.
He wraps his arms around my body and pulls me against him. His legs entwine with mine as he attempts to cover as much of my body with his as he can.
I feel fabric between us, so at least he’s wearing underpants even if I’m not.
I would be embarrassed, but the situation is too hilarious. At least in my half-frozen mind it is.
He moves his arms against me, and the friction warms me up in more ways than one. With his tight hold on me the shaking abates, and after a while the shivering lessens to a few spasms.
My breathing catches up with my heart, and I can feel my fingers again.
The warmth from Rowan’s chest warms me from my back through my body. The beat of his heart soothes my shivers and warms me enough that when I drop off to sleep it’s not the cold rain pounding the tin roof that I hear, but the steady drum of his heart warming me up in all the right ways.
I fall asleep in his arms, warm and safe with a different kind of heat building between my legs.