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.
