Chapter 20
WILLOW
“She’s coming home with me.”
My brain just stops.
The words echo into the storm like they’re meant for the mountain itself, and for a second I can’t process anything beyond them.
I’m not the kind of woman who swoons at a man’s feet—and I know, logically, that he means this in the most practical way possible.
Where else would I go?
But that doesn’t stop my knees from wobbling.
He finishes the call, muttering a few more clipped words before sliding his phone into the back pocket of his fitted jeans.
Then he turns toward me, snow swirling around his broad frame, and my heart stutters.
Predator isn’t the right word.
Protector is.
“Get in the truck, Willow.”
The sound that escapes me is small and ridiculous—a squeak—and I immediately want the ground to swallow me whole.
I don’t argue. I don’t ask questions.
I just turn and head for the truck I hadn’t even registered as being there.
The wind howls harder now, ice and snow pelting my face and legs.
I lift one foot to climb in and realize too late how high the step is.
My jeans are soaked.
My muscles are stiff with cold.
My balance is shot.
I might cry.
I don’t get the chance.
He’s there again—suddenly close, suddenly solid.
His hands grip my not tiny waist, warm and unyielding, and he lifts me like I weigh nothing at all.
I gasp.
Before I can even process it, I’m deposited onto the seat, breathless and stunned.
He shuts the door, snow swirling behind him, and when I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror as he circles the truck, I barely recognize myself.
Wet hair. Frost clinging to my hat and lashes. Red nose. Red cheeks.
But alive.
Because of him.
“Seatbelt.”
“What?”
“Fasten your seatbelt, Baby Girl.”
He waits.
I do it, fingers clumsy, pulse racing.
Then he drives.
The road is dark and slick, winding down the mountainside like it wants to test us, but his hands are steady on the wheel.
Confident. Sure.
If anyone can tame this mountain, it’s him—and the thought hits me so hard it almost steals my breath.
The heater blasts, but I’m still shaking.
From cold.
From fear.
From everything that almost happened.
He doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t turn on the radio.
We reach his place twenty-one minutes later.
By then, the ice has melted into my clothes.
I’m soaked through—windbreaker included, which I only now realize is absolutely not waterproof.
My sneakers squelch when I move.
He cuts the engine and turns to look at me.
I squirm under his gaze.
He gets out, rounds the truck, and opens my door.
His eyes drop to my feet, and his jaw tightens.
“Goddamn it,” he mutters.
Before I can ask what’s wrong, he unbuckles my seatbelt, grips my knees, and pulls me toward him.
“Open your legs. Now—hold on to me.”
I barely have time to comply before he lifts me again.
Just like that.
Like I’m light.
Like I’m easy to carry.
Like my body doesn’t take up space the way I’ve always been told it does.
His hands secure me at the hips first, then they go down to my ass. Firm and steady.
My arms go around his neck on instinct, backpack dangling awkwardly from one shoulder.
Snow crunches under his boots as he carries me through it, up the steps, and inside.
Warmth hits me all at once.
He doesn’t put me down immediately.
Instead, he leans back slightly and looks at me—really looks at me.
His eyes are dark, intense, searching in a way that makes my breath catch.
Like he’s seeing straight through my fear and into something deeper.
“Put your feet down, Willow.”
Embarrassment floods me, but I do as he says—or try to.
My feet don’t quite reach the floor.
He lowers me slowly.
Too slowly.
My body slides against his, and for one dizzying second I’m acutely aware of how close we are.
Of how solid he is.
Of the unmistakable heat between us that has nothing to do with the fire or the storm.
Of the thick, hard length pressing against my belly.
I freeze.
So does he.
And for one charged, breathless moment, I’m not sure which of us is more shocked by what we both just felt.
“We need to get you out of these wet clothes.”