CHAPTER 18
Phoebe
I fight to open my eyes. When I finally succeed, I’m baffled.
Where am I?
I try to sit up, but that’s not happening. My arms are like strands of overcooked spaghetti. My head is a hundred-pound concrete block.
I look down at myself. I’m wrapped in blankets I don’t recognize, stretched out on an old ranch-style sofa I’ve never seen before. The sofa’s close to a fire that’s burning in a stone fireplace I’m not familiar with.
I pat the top of my pounding head. A wool beanie cap has been yanked down on my forehead. I don’t own a hat like this. My head is propped on a wadded-up shirt balanced on one of the sofa’s wooden arms.
I grab it. The shirt’s not mine, either. It’s a man’s shirt.
It’s dark in here, but between the fire and a small battery-operated lantern on a nearby side table, I see that I’m in a cabin filled with long shadows and dark corners.
Whose cabin? And why am I in it?
A loud banging comes from somewhere overhead, followed by a scraping noise. I glance up just in time for a bit of snow to hit me in the face. Someone’s stomping around on the roof of whatever this place is. Wherever I am. However I got here.
I think I might throw up.
I lay perfectly still for a moment until the nausea subsides. Then I take a deep breath of the cold air. “Hello?”
I’m not sure how long it’s been since I last spoke, but my voice sounds weak and scratchy. My throat is painfully dry. I try again. Louder.
“Hell-oh?”
The banging stops. Whoever is up there must have heard me and now they’re coming down!
And then I remember—I was on the ATV on my way to drop supplies to Louise and Jeb. I got stuck in a snowstorm. And then…
I raise my hand to my mouth in horror.
I should be dead. Why aren’t I dead? Maybe I’m dead and this is some sort of waystation where I’ll be judged?
Because I know the ATV broke through the ice. I went in after it. Someone must have found me.
“Jeb?” I call out. “Louise?”
I claw at my neck in search of the avalanche whistle. I know I blew it. It might have saved my life. But it’s not there.
I do feel the touch of silky-soft wool at my throat, however. Maybe even cashmere. I’m swimming in a baggy cashmere sweater. Again, not mine, and again, a man’s.
I slide my hand down the front of my body and feel around under multiple layers of blankets to my bare bottom and thighs. I’m not wearing any pants.
I check further. Sweet baby Cheez it! I’m not wearing any panties!
I scream.
A door opens. I summon all my strength to pull myself to a sitting position, then scuttle down to the opposite end of the sofa, blankets clutched to my chin. I put as much distance between myself and whoever is about to show themselves.
Polar air whips inside, tossing around what looks like several layers of clear plastic sheeting. The door slams.
What the H-E-double-hockey sticks is this place? Am I in quarantine or something?
“Phoebe? Are you all right?”
A man’s giant weather-proof glove shoves aside the plastic curtain. He stomps his boots onto the floor and pulls away the hood of his parka.
“Hi, there,” he says, smiling.
I feel my mouth fall open. I collapse back on the couch. That’s not Jeb. I know that voice. I know that face.
I’m just not accustomed to seeing a wide smile plastered on it.
“Evander?”
He laughs. “Welcome to the land of the living, Miss Travis! Stay under the blankets—I’ll be right there.” He closes the sheeting.
I watch his huge, blurry shadow bend and move around. I hear him unzip his parka and stomp his feet again.
“Are you feeling all right?” he yells over a sudden howl of wind. “You’ve been resting for about five hours. I’ve been checking on you in ten-to-fifteen-minute intervals.”
He opens the plastic again, just enough to peer at me in the dark.
“Are you hungry? You should drink something first, okay? I tried to get water in you but wasn’t all that successful. This will just take another minute.”
The plastic shuts.
“Did I hear you scream? Are you in pain?”
“Uh…” Am I? I try to focus. “Not really. Maybe a little. I don’t know.”
My answer is a feeble squeak of uncertainty. It’s not like I can tell him the truth. That I screamed because I discovered my lack of underwear.
Besides, he already knows I’m not wearing underwear because he’s the one who put me in this state. He’s stripped me. He’s seen me naked.
Oh, boy.
I drop my head to my hand. I’m horribly confused. I’m cold and sore. And embarrassed. And so worried. Because I can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream. It’s all tangled up in my mushy, hypothermic brain.
I’m sure that’s what I’m recovering from, and why I’m not wearing my clothes. But if I fell in water like I think I did, I just don’t understand how I survived.
And I’ve been dreaming about Evander. At least I think I was dreaming.
“Our options are severely limited for food, so don’t get your hopes up.” I hear the thud of his boots as he tosses them aside.
I raise my head. Now that I’m more awake, I revisit my surroundings. The plastic tarps are tacked to an exposed ceiling joist. I look at the fire again, and the drying clothes—his and hers. I recall the stomping around on the roof.
Evander is going all Navy SEAL on me, isn’t he? There’s something reassuring about that.
But the details are a surreal soup swirling around in my brain. I’ll need his help to sort it out. Who found me? He did, obviously. How did he know where to look? How did he manage to save my life? Where are we?
I touch the sweater covering me—the only thing covering me.
“I can go hunting when the sun comes up. It’ll be slim pickins’ in this shit, but I’ll find something. Do you like rabbit?”
That’s when it hits me, why this all feels so unnatural
It’s Evander’s incessant talking.
I’ve never heard him so chatty. I remember thinking he was strangely conversational after surgery when he was loopy on pain meds, stringing several sentences together at one time. Mostly about his tailor.
But this? It’s like he can’t shut up. He may even be in a good mood.
Did I fall through the ice and into an alternate reality?
He steps out from behind the plastic. He’s wearing only a set of thermal underwear and a pair of thick wool socks. I try not to stare as he adds wood to the fire, but how can I not stare?
He’s a freak of nature. In a good way.
A hot way.
Evander has close to no body fat.
I think back to the orthopedic trauma surgeon who flew in to handle Evander’s case. The doctor came looking for me once he’d finished Evander’s reduction and inflection procedure.
“This guy’s really a Navy SEAL, isn’t he?”
“He is. He was. He’s an attorney these days.”
“Well, that’s the most outrageous example of human physiology I’ve ever run across. You learn something new every day.”
I’m watching Evander’s outrageous physiology now, moving in the shadows and firelight. He’s beautiful. He’s graceful. He’s sexy.
He saved my life.
I wonder how it would feel to get that kiss I’ve been dreaming of, his mouth capturing mine.
Or how it would feel to be beneath him as he makes love to me. While I brush my fingertips across the cut muscle of his shoulders and arms. The line of his cheek. The chiseled chest.
And stare into those deep violet eyes. While I throw my legs around his waist and beg him to take me.
Okay, Phoebe. This is a life or death situation. Get ahold of yourself.
At least now I’m sure I’m alive. And that a near-death experience isn’t enough to stop me from my Evander-related daydreaming.
Evander stands. Turns. Stops.
My head reflexively tilts backwards as I look up at his face. He hovers, intent and stern. Light flickers over the rugged planes of his face.
I remember how, when he was recovering from surgery, I would sometimes steal a few moments to simply watch him sleep. I would study his mouth, his chin, his neck. Once, I picked up his hand and held it in mine and reassured him that he would recover just fine.
He doesn’t remember any of that, of course.
“I had no idea you were such a badass, Phoebe Travis.”
I nod, ridiculously, my head still thrown back. I stare up at him. I must look like a complete derp.
Evander takes a step closer to me. I can feel the energy radiate from his body.
I’m not sure what’s about to happen.