And that’s when my brain short-circuits.
Because the man standing in a blizzard, looking at me with genuine concern, is unfairly, unreasonably attractive. Even with snow coating his dark hair and a thick jacket hiding most of his body, there is no missing the strong jaw, the striking hazel eyes that seem to shift between green and gold, or the way his presence seems to command attention without even trying.
“I …” My voice comes out as a squeak. Great. Very smooth, Sloane. I clear my throat. “I’m fine. Just lost.”
“Where are you headed?” his deep, velvety voice asks, and I feel the timbre of it somewhere low in my belly. I try to hide the shiver his voice gives me. Or maybe it’s from the cold blasting through my car. Probably the cold. Definitely the cold.
“Uh …” I scramble for the rental information, which is, of course, still on my dead phone. Shit. “Pine Ridge Cabins? I think is the name of it. My phone died, and it was like a last-minute trip, and um, I …” I’m rambling.
Stop talking, Sloane. Just stop.
His eyebrows rise slightly, but not in judgment. More like curiosity. “You’re staying at the Whitaker property?”
“If that’s what it’s called, then yes.” I mentally kick myself for sounding so uncertain. So unprepared. So much like someone who has made a series of spectacularly bad decisions.
“You are about two miles from the turn-off.” He glances up at the sky, and I follow his gaze to see snow falling even harder than before. When he looks back at me, his expression has shifted to something more serious. Concerned. “But I am not sure you should keep going. This storm is getting worse.”
Two miles. I can do two miles. I have four-wheel drive, and determination and stubbornness in spades. “I will be fine. I have four-wheel drive,” I reassure him like the mountain princess I am. Or at least, like the mountain princess I’m pretending to be.
“Four-wheel drive does not help when you can’t see three feet in front of you.” He’s using that particular tone men use when they think they know better. Though to be fair, in this situation, he absolutely does know better. “And the road gets worse from here. Steep grade, no guardrails.”
Ekkk. My stomach drops, but I refuse to show it. “I appreciate the concern, but I have driven in snow before.” Like I said, mountain princess. Total lie. I had driven in Denver snow. City snow. Plowed roads and traffic lights kind of snow. Not whatever fresh hell this is.
“In Colorado backcountry during a blizzard?”
Screw his sexy face and that tone. “No, but …”
“Listen, I’m not trying to be a dick. I am trying to keep you alive.” He runs a hand through his snow-covered hair, and I try very hard not to notice the way his jacket pulls across his shoulders. “I’m doing emergency checks on properties in the area because we are about to get hit hard. Like, do not leave your house for three days hard.”
My stomach sinks. “Three days?” I mentally take stock of what I brought with me in the back of the car. Granola bars. Wine. More wine. Cheese. Not exactly survival rations.
“At least. Maybe longer.” His eyes, those stupidly beautiful hazel green eyes, are kind but firm. “Look, I cannot force you to turn around, but I can tell you that if you go up that mountain and get stuck, we will not be able to get to you for a while.”
The image of my car sliding off the mountain flashes through my mind. Of my body being found weeks later, frozen solid, clutching an empty wine bottle. Of my mother at my funeral, saying, ‘I told you so’ to my corpse. I look at the swirling snow, at the rapidly disappearing road, at my inadequate city-girl winter coat on the passenger seat with its cute faux fur trim that will do absolutely nothing against this kind of cold. Then I look back at him, with his capable hands and his I-save-people-for-a-living energy, and his face that should probably come with a warning label.
“Is there no way at all I can get to Pine Ridge Cabins? I’m staying in number seven.”
He gives me an ‘are you serious, lady’ look. Just had to check. Because I used some of my meagre savings to book into the cabins, and they were expensive. I don’t have that kind of money to waste right now. He must see the internal conversation I am having with myself and responds.
“I’ll let Mr. Whitaker know that I have stopped you from going further up the mountain. He will understand it’s an emergency, and I’m sure he can sort something out for you.”
Okay. I nod. That is good. I’m sure he will understand. Hopefully.
“What do you suggest I do now? Should I head back down the mountain?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds. Hating how defeated I feel.
He shakes his head. “Not in that car, I don’t want to have to drive back down the mountain to rescue you from sliding into an embankment.”
I’m slightly offended by that statement. I’m a good driver. No, I’m a great driver, just crap at reading the weather.
“For the safety of all involved, I recommend you stay here and wait it out.”
“Stay here? Like pitch a tent in the wilderness and become a snow cone?”
He gives me a look that says he doesn’t appreciate my sarcasm. “There’s a ranger station about a mile back with a generator and heat. You can wait out the worst of it there.”
“For three days?” What about the weeks I had planned to watch Christmas movies while crying into my glass of wine while stuffing my face with cheese?
“Better than freezing to death in your car.” He says it matter-of-factly, like death in a ditch is a real possibility we are actively avoiding.
