Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
“Hello?” I groan as I sit up and look around groggily, pushing my now-stiff hair out of my eyes. When did I lose my hat? “I’m here! I’m over here and I need help!”
After my outdoor concert, what emerges is more of a raw, rattling croak than a shout.
“On my way.” The response echoes in the air around me. I have no idea what direction it’s coming from. “Keep singing. Or talk to me.”
The voice is deep and male, and it might have rung my city-dweller alarms if I weren’t too relieved to care. It’s not like I can run away, and there’s a chance he’ll take me back to his lair and warm me up before ordering me to put the lotion on my skin.
He's not a serial killer, you idiot.
“I’m talking.” I struggle to my feet, leaning heavily on yet another tree.
It’s a good thing there are so many around, since my body doesn’t feel like standing at the moment.
Even my good leg is shaking. I search for a shape moving through the gloom, but the snow is falling harder than it was before.
“If you can see anything, I’m the one in red, wearing boots that weren’t made for walking. ”
“What were they made for?”
He must be close. His voice is strong and smooth and all manner of hot.
Hot?
Sure. What could be hotter than not talking to myself anymore?
“For drinking hot toddies in front of a roaring fire while looking adorable,” I answer punchily. “Connor told me to bring hiking boots, but I wore these instead because I never hike and wasn’t planning to start this weekend. I twisted my ankle.”
I close my eyes and imagine a toasty fire and a toddy. Why am I so exhausted? “I should lie down.”
“Do not lie 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 worried about 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. It is him. 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. Connor can t-toss me around like a sack of potatoes, but he’s a weight-lifting mutant,” I mumble.
“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 my limbs 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 are you lost now?”
“I don’t get lost. And you wouldn’t either if you stuck to the trail.”
First there was a cabin, now there’s a trail ? And he doesn’t get lost? Hello, overconfidence. Being toted around by such an arrogantly mesmerizing sweet-and-sourpuss shouldn’t do it for me, but this guy is… Whew. I’d like to do it right back to him. Naked and in the first bed we can find.
Now you can fantasize? Worst timing in the world. You think the cold is only affecting your arms and legs? Imagine the size of your dick right now. Go ahead. I’ll wait.
That information is upsetting, but not a game changer, because my mouth is working fine and I have no problem going down for a good cause. Though the last time I did that, he ruined me for all other men.
Speaking of which… “Where did you go that night?”
He stops walking for a second and then drawls, “So you do remember me,” before starting forward again, going up what must be stairs. I see a porch railing and a roof cutting off the endless torrent of snow. Shelter. We’re here. Wherever here is.
“I guess you didn’t hit your head after all,” he continues. “I was worried you had a convenient case of amnesia. Like that time Serkan disappeared right before he married Eda.”
Or maybe I did hit my head, because holy shit, my interrupted hookup is talking about my favorite show. Does he actually remember me mentioning those names?
This has to be a dream. There’s no way he said that. No way he’s here. Why would he be here?
Maybe he was invited.
My heart stutters in sudden panic as I try to connect the most obvious dots.
I’ve only seen him twice, first at the pub and now here.
The two places only have one thing in common.
It would be just my luck if the man I haven’t been able to stop thinking about was dating a Finn, and their relationship was serious enough for him to be invited to the big anniversary party.
Too bad I accidentally pass out before I can ask him.