After setting up their pads and sleeping bags, Coop sat back on his haunches, eyeing the space they’d be sharing. It was tight in here, as he’d known it would be.
Which was fine. They’d sleep like the dead tonight.
While she unpacked the cooking supplies, he went out to pile snow up along the base of the tent, for added protection against the elements, then dug a latrine area, which would afford at least a bit of privacy.
After that last flurry of activity, they wound up inside together, brushing off the layers of frost coating their outerwear. He pulled his boots off with a sigh.
When Angel did the same, she let out a long, low groan that shouldn’t have turned him on. Not even a little, considering how beyond tired he was.
“Okay?” he croaked and rubbed his throat unconsciously. Hurt like hell from the dry wind and constant exertion.
She nodded, but he was pretty sure that was bullshit. He’d never seen the woman’s face so devoid of expression, like she couldn’t even lift her brows. As if her facial muscles wouldn’t activate after the day’s journey.
“I’ll make dinner.”
“I can—”
“You’re not the chef here, Angel. You’re just…one of the team.” He set out the camp stove and got to work heating up chunks of ice.
“Yeah?” Her face changed, something flickering in her eyes. “Team of two, huh?”
He watched out of the corner of his eye as she reached up and under her clothes behind her back, fiddled with something, and then sank forward with a sigh. “Darned thing.”
He opened his mouth to ask what darned thing she meant and then realized just in time: her bra. She’d undone her bra with as much relief as she’d pulled off those boots. The hell women went through just to be women.
After a few seconds of watching him pour pale, desiccated poultry and sauce flakes into the cook pot, she collapsed onto her back, wide eyes fixed on the tent ceiling. “Not much of a team member, am I?”
“What do you mean?”
“How far do you figure we went today?”
He didn’t have to pull out the GPS to know they’d made it forty-eight miles in the plow and just about eight on their skis.
“’bout fifty-six miles.” He worked hard to sound unconcerned.
“Crap. We only skied eight miles?”
He nodded.
“You can ski twice that much. You’d still be at it if I weren’t here, wouldn’t you?” Looking grim, she refused to catch his eye. “Right?”
With a half shrug, he stirred and thought about what he could say to make her feel better. Nothing. It was true. She was holding him back. At the same time… “Glad you’re here, though.”
“Comeon.” She looked at him finally, the sudden directness of her gaze almost aggressive. “Hauling me around’s not doing you any favors. Wouldn’t you rather survive this than die because of my dead weight?”
He blinked at the rehydrated chicken dish sending its mouthwatering fog into the air. Crazy how good this stuff smelled. Finally, he set the spoon down and turned to her. “No.”
“Bullshit.”
“Rather not do this alone.” That wasn’t strictly true, but it seemed like the right thing to say.Yeah, I’d rather be alone, but I couldn’t leave you back there to diedidn’t have a good ring to it.
“You go out on the ice alone every single day.”
“That’s research.”
“Ah. Research. A fine mistress.” She did some weird approximation of a foreign accent.
He snorted and opened his mouth to say something, but she beat him to it.
