Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
ARIELLE
The grumpy mountain man stomps through the door like it owes him money, disappearing into the white.
The boom rattles the windows. I flinch, heart hammering, eyes stinging.
Gus climbs out of my purse and into my arms. I hold him tight and breathe, trying to process everything since sunrise—bullets, fog, and one infuriatingly hot man with a jawline that could cut glass.
Mateo was right about one thing. Davin’s a pain in the ass.
A six-foot-plus, muscle-stacked, tanned, black-haired, bearded, Army Ranger-shaped pain in the ass.
“Thought I was Mateo’s fave cousin,” I tell Gus, kissing his velvet ears. His big eyes stare back, still shell-shocked. “Never thought he’d curse my Christmas with the weightlifting version of Ebenezer Scrooge.”
Gus pants happily.
“Those bad men tried to shoot us, buddy. But we lost them in the fog. Just like James Bond. Or maybe Lara Croft—way better wardrobe.”
The joke lands flat. I’m still shaking. Tears would help, but no way I’m doing that in front of Mr. Grinch.
Hot or not, he doesn’t scream “emotional support human.”
The fire crackles. Heat finally seeps through my frozen jeans. My teeth stop chattering long enough for logic to kick in.
Shower. Clothes. Sanity.
“Not like Grumpy banned hygiene,” I tell Gus.
The hallway creaks under my steps. First door, guest bedroom. Second, bathroom.
Functional. Depressing. Aesthetics: Lumberjack Minimalism.
“Guy clearly lives alone,” I mutter. “Or he murders anyone who tries to redecorate.”
Gus sneezes like he agrees.
I open the linen closet. Rows of gray towels greet me, all folded with military precision.
Figures.
The next door reveals a bedroom with a bed big enough for a Viking army. I suddenly feel like Goldilocks snooping around the wrong house. “Definitely too big,” I whisper, then stop at his closet.
Flannel heaven. I grab one—orange and black, soft as sin. I press it to my cheek. It smells like leather, smoke, and danger.
I shouldn’t think about what he smells like. Or looks like without it.
My body doesn’t get the memo.
I backtrack to the bathroom, towel and flannel in hand, despite my better judgment. He won’t mind. Besides, he’s lagging on luggage delivery. Can he really blame me for improvising?
In the bathroom, light glints off the chrome accents of the shower stall, and it hits me all over again…
Tires squeal, a bullet sparks off a guardrail. Headlights cut through the fog, ominous, searching. A metallic smell mixes with ozone as a shiver trails down my spine.
I step into the shower, quivering all over. Hot water hits like salvation. Steam fogs the mirror, the world, my thoughts.
I sing “Let It Snow” at the top of my lungs because irony deserves commitment.
Half an hour later, I’m clean, thawed, and deeply offended by his shampoo situation.
No conditioner. No cute scents or fancy bottles. Just “Man.”
“Fantastic,” I grumble. “Now I smell like testosterone and tree sap.”
Through the shower stall’s glass, I spot his flannel on the counter. “When in the Sierra Nevada backcountry, raid the Grinch’s wardrobe.” Can’t imagine he’ll mind too much. Especially if I make it look cute.
Gus snores on the bathmat, legs twitching in puppy dreams.
“Don’t judge me,” I whisper. “Some of us cope with fashion.”
Boom! I gasp. The door slams. Heavy boots pound out Davin’s unmistakable cadence.
Uh-oh. The mountain’s back.
I start belting “Santa Baby” because chaos is my love language.
A deep groan answers from down the hall.
Score one for me.
Maybe.
My stomach tightens. He’s risking his neck for me, and I’m over here trolling him with cabaret classics. A classic Arielle coping mechanism.
I towel off, slip into the flannel—still warm from shower steam—and pad to the bedroom. My luggage sits there. He must’ve dropped it off while I was singing badly in the shower. Two towels lie under it, collecting the snow melting in puddles.
Guilt pinches me, but not enough to skip his flannel. It’s cozy. And smells unfairly good. I slide into leggings and the fluffiest purple socks I can find, extra material slouching at my ankles.
When I return to the living room, he’s standing by the window, arms folded, expression carved from granite. Gus growls from my arms like backup.
“Dog stays inside,” I say, before he can start.
“Not a chance.”
“Outside, he’ll turn into a popsicle.”
“Not my problem.”
I open my mouth for a snarky comeback, then notice his gaze drop to the flannel I’m wearing. His pupils darken. Cheeks flush.
My heart trips. “Sorry,” I blurt. “I needed something warm. And you were taking forever with the luggage, so I thought I’d help myself. Didn’t think you would … mind.”
He clears his throat. “Trudging through three feet of snow for two weeks’ worth of luggage might make a man late. What are you packing for? The Oscars?”
I shrug away his questions. “Thanks for hauling it,” I say more softly.
He doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens instead. Stepping forward, he doesn’t stop until he’s directly in front of me, hand coming up to smooth down the collar of the flannel. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“That they shot at you.” His voice drops low. “That you could’ve been killed.”
The crack of gunfire echoes in memory, sharp as ice breaking.
All the breath leaves me. A smart-mouthed reply dies somewhere in my throat. I just stare at him—this scowling, grim man who looks ready to kill whoever aimed at me.
You have to get through this, Arielle. It’s only a few days. McGregor’s friend just has to keep you alive through the holidays. Then, you can disappear.
I shake my head. “How do you—”
"Bullet holes. Found two. One in the upper right-hand side of the windshield. The other through the passenger side window.”
I shiver, memories washing back over me in slow motion. Excruciating, terrifying.
Davin grimaces, waiting.
But I can’t. There aren’t words.
My heart quakes, lips trembling. Then, the dam breaks as I snuggle Gus closer.
Tears spill hot and messy, unstoppable.
Gus whines, licks my cheek. Davin stands there—arms crossed, unreadable—like a man fighting the urge to cross the line between soldier and savior.
Boots creak. For a second, I swear he’s going to reach for me. I almost feel his warmth—almost admit I want him to.