Chapter 3
#MountainDaddy?
I have no idea how long I’d been lying here, contemplating my inevitable demise, when a male voice asks, “Need a hand?” and a strong arm yanks me out of the bush.
I scramble to my feet, furiously sweeping snow off my face with my arms. I blink rapidly, trying to clear the snow-induced fuzziness from my vision, and finally get a good look at my rescuer.
I’ve never been rendered speechless before, but the man—nay, mountain—before me is unfairly attractive.
My eyes scan upward, admiring his denim-clad thighs, his Carhartt jacket and loose Henley with two buttons undone, the thick, brushed mustache that hugs his upper lip, and the curly, almost-black hair that spills out from under a snow-dusted cowboy hat.
No, my eyes are not, in fact, mistaking me. He is wearing a cowboy hat in the Northeast.
This man is dangerously close to the one I pictured while tipsy-emailing last night. Which is deeply, terribly inconvenient. Especially since he’s a reindeer killer.
“You look different than your photo?” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“Just…your hair is shorter than in the photo. It looks nice.” He reaches forward, dusting snow off my jacket. He smells like espresso.
“Don’t try to compliment me.” Especially when my black, chin-length bob is probably giving Lord Farquaad vibes. I fold my arms and take a careful step onto the porch until I’m face-to-face with him. “You must be Jamie. You could’ve warned me about the snowmobile.”
“Yeah, I could have.”
“Don’t agree with me.”
“Would you prefer I argue?”
I throw my arms up. “I don’t know. I am freezing. My bunny has fainted again, and I really need a hot shower—”
“Is your rabbit okay?” He glances at Jubilee’s cage.
“She will be. She just does that sometimes.” I point my finger at him. “But don’t try to change the subject. Explain yourself.”
“A thank-you would be nice for the rescue.”
“I didn’t need rescuing. I was perfectly fine.”
“Didn’t look fine there, ma’am.”
For some ungodly reason, that word—“ma’am”—delivered in that gravel-and-honey voice, sends a shiver straight through my entire circulatory system.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion on my looks, Daniel Boone.”
“Can’t say I’ve been called that before. Usually, I’m known as the holiday hunk of Cranberry Hollow.” He winks at me, and I step back. He’s fucking with me.
“No one in their right mind would call you that!”
His grin widens. “Do you disagree?”
“Are you seriously trying to flirt with a person one second away from a total emotional meltdown?”
“Hey, if the flannel fits.”
“You’re wearing a Henley.”
“Thought I noticed you checking me out.”
“Over. My. Frozen. Body.”
He chuckles in a mellow, unbothered way that vibrates through the air like a goddamn space heater.
I hate that I like arguing with him. I’m never allowed to argue with patients, so I learned to suppress all of my emotions until it became second nature, but now it feels as if they are bubbling out of me.
I cross my arms. “Where were you?”
He keeps staring at me with his deep green eyes. There are bursts of gold and brown in his irises.
“I was picking my girls up from school.” He nods toward the larger house, where two mini-hims are standing at the front door. Identical twins. One of them has her hair styled in space buns, and the other has a sparkly pink headband pushing her chocolate curls out of her face. They giggle and wave.
“I like your coat!” one of them shouts.
“We asked Dad for sparkly coats, but he got us these,” the other adds, holding out her arms like she’s been sentenced to fashion prison.
Their jackets are oversized, navy, and thoroughly dad-approved.
“Girls, homework. Now,” Jamie orders, and they scamper off. “Sorry I wasn’t here.”
He’s a dad. Fantastic. Now I’m officially a Scrooge who scolded a dad in front of his kids. “You’re a daddy—I mean, a dad-dad?”
His eyes flash like he knows exactly what I mean. “Last I checked, yeah.”
I try to recover. “Right. Great. I just love when my emotional meltdowns come with a child audience.”
“They’ve seen worse,” he deadpans. “Last December, Honey stripped down to her thermal leggings and tried to become one with the reindeer herd. I had to carry her back to the house under one arm, soaking wet, while she yelled, ‘At least let me try the hay!’”
The image makes me want to laugh, but instead I roll my lips between my teeth.
Focus.
“This cabin looks nothing like the photos on Craigslist,” I whisper-yell.
“I never claimed to be a photographer,” he says, his eyes shadowed by an emotion I can’t quite read. “Those photos were taken ages ago. But trust me, the inside’s been completely redone.”
“You catfished me.”
He grins. “The only fish up here this time of year are wild brook trout. I thought a big-time New York City vet would have thicker skin.”
“Oh, I have thick skin, believe me—”
“I see that. For someone named Joy, you’re not really—”
“Joyful,” I finish with a fake laugh. “Haven’t heard that one since middle school.”
I hear his girls giggling from inside the main house.
I glance at his hands. No ring. But that doesn’t mean much.
Plenty of people don’t wear rings. He has kids, so he’s probably married or in a serious partnership.
And even if he isn’t, what am I going to do?
Hook up with a single dad who runs an animal murder plant while his kids make snow angels in the driveway?
I could just—
No.
Except…
With the clinic being closed, I unfortunately have all the time in the world.
No, no, no!
I think I need to suck it up and just go to Miriam’s house in Jersey. I can hide away there, maybe even put up a YouTube background video of New York, so it feels like I’m at home.
“Thank you for your time, Jamie Wilder. But after careful consideration, I’ve decided I can no longer do this.”
“Don’t you want to at least meet the animals?”
“No. I’d like you to fill up the snowmobile with gas and point me to town and the closest hotel.”
“What happened to the canister I left for you in the back of the sled?”
“I took it out.”
“Why?”
I narrow my eyes at him, a challenge in every inch of my posture as I gesture toward the sled. “I had to cram my essentials into that thing.”
“Well, you need that canister to fill up the tank.” His gaze sweeps over the suitcases, now heaped with snow. “And that was my only gas canister.” He clucks his tongue, a sound so infuriatingly smug.
“Of course it was.”
My frustration bubbles up, almost spilling over into a full-blown tantrum. I’m cold. I’m tired. I haven’t eaten since that stale airport croissant. And I’m stranded in a winter hellscape with a man who is exasperatingly cheery.
Reading my distress, his expression softens.
“It’s nearly nightfall, and town is a good fifteen minutes away. I get it, this day’s been a catastrophe, but at least stay the night, avoid any snowmobile accidents during the storm, and maybe check out the animals? It’d mean a lot to me.”
“Can’t you use that pickup truck of yours and take me now?”
“I know better than to drive on these stormy roads at night, and the forecast says it’ll only be getting worse. Blizzard is coming through tonight.”
“Wonderful.” The snow is pouring down now. The universe is clearly having a field day at my expense. “Fine, I’ll stay. But only because I have to!”
One night. I can survive.
“Great.” He claps his hands. “I can make you pancakes in the morning. Maybe you’ll reconsider the quality of my customer service then.”
I arch an eyebrow. That is definitely not the kind of morning after I envisioned, even if my body briefly wonders if that was some sort of invitation. “I’ll pass on breakfast. One night here, and at the crack of dawn, you drive me back. The very crack.”
“The deepest crack of dawn. Yes, ma’am.”
I stick out my hand. “Now can you give me the key so I can warm up, please?”
“Did you try the front door?” Jamie saunters over, opening the door with ease. “Key’s inside. Nobody locks their houses up here.”
“Well, I will be deadbolting this door tonight.”
“Suit yourself.” He leans against the doorframe. “Fridge is stocked, in case you’re hungry.”
“I’m a vegetarian,” I blurt instead of a proper thank-you, fully expecting the fridge to be brimming with freshly slaughtered reindeer meat. Bile burns in my throat.
“I know. I read your résumé.”
My heart stutters.
The tidbit is there, but buried in the Interests section, which I assumed nobody bothers to read. Not even my longtime coworkers remember my dietary preferences—they constantly order me chicken sandwiches or sushi for group lunches—but this man reads my résumé once and stocks a fridge for me.
Fuck my morals. I want to sleep with him.
“That’s—uh, that’s very thoughtful of you,” I say. “Thanks.”
“If you’re wiped out, you can always join me and the girls for some PB&Js.”
“I’m sure your wife already has her hands full,” I reply, trying to sound nonchalant.
“It’s just me and them,” he says, looking away.
“Oh.” I feel a pang of curiosity.
Where is the girls’ mom?
And if he is single, does that mean—
I shut down the thought. I am getting out of here.
Tomorrow.
I’ll go to town, find Wi-Fi, book a flight to Greece, stay at a resort, and have an affair with someone who doesn’t own a cowboy hat or read résumés or have an incredibly hot caterpillar hanging on his upper lip.
“Joy?” His long fingers wave in front of my face.
“Huh?”
“You must really be cold.” He glances at the fireplace. “Want me to start a fire for you? Or you can thaw off at my house while I make the sandwiches.”
“I’ll manage dinner and the fire on my own.”
The less time I spend with Jamie Wilder, the better.