The fire’s already laid. One match and the kindling catches. Flames leap, greedy. I set her on the thick bearskin rug, kneel, and start peeling wet layers away. Coat. Scarf. Boots. Socks. Her jeans are soaked to the knees, and I hesitate.
“You want hypothermia, keep ’em on,” I tell her. “Your call.”
She looks at me for a long beat. Then her fingers—still trembling—find the button of her jeans. She shimmies them down, and kicks them aside. Underneath she’s wearing black leggings that are no better—thin, clinging, useless. I turn my back long enough to grab the wool throw from the couch, draping it over her shoulders, and tuck it tight.
Our eyes meet again when I crouch in front of her.
Her hands are ice. I close mine around them—both of hers in my two—and blow slow warmth across her knuckles. She makes a small, involuntary sound. My pulse kicks hard.
“You live here alone?” she asks.
“Most days.”
“Storm like this… how long?”
“Could be three days. Could be a week.” I rub slow circles over her fingers with my thumbs. “You’re not going anywhere till the pass opens.”
She doesn’t flinch at that. Just watches me. “Good.”
One word. Simple. But it lands like a match in dry grass.
I let go of her hands before I do something stupid. I stand, and tower over her. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Hot shower. Towels are clean. I’ll find you something dry.”
She nods, standing on unsteady legs, and clutches the throw around her like armor. When she comes back twenty minutes later—hair damp and dark gold, swimming in one of my old black-and-red flannel shirts that hits her midthigh, bare legs pale against the dark wood floor—something in me settles and tightens at the same time.
She already looks like she belongs here.
I hand her coffee. Our fingers brush. Neither of us pulls away fast enough.
She curls into the corner of the couch nearest the fire. I take the opposite end. Too close anyway. The space between us feels charged, like the air before lightning.
“You always this quiet?” she asks.
“No.” I lean back, arms crossed to keep my hands to myself. “Just trying to decide how much trouble you are.”
Her laugh is small, surprised. “A lot. Probably.”
“Yeah,” I say, and I mean it. “Figured.”
She sips the coffee, wincing at the heat, and looks at me over the rim. “You always this grumpy with women you rescue?”
“Never rescued one before.” My voice drops. “You’re setting a high bar.”
She studies me. Then, quieter: “Someone was following me. Before the storm hit. Black SUV. I saw it in Missoula two days ago. Same plates. Same driver.”
Everything in me goes still. Protective. Dangerous.
“You know who?”
“Not for sure.” Her gaze drops to the mug. “But I have something they want. Something I… took. By accident. Or maybe not.”
I let that sit. Then I stand, walk to the front door, throw the deadbolt again even though it’s already locked. Check every window. Come back and drop onto the couch closer this time. Our thighs brush.
“Rules,” I say.
She lifts her brows.
“Stay inside. Stay close. You don’t go anywhere without me knowing. And—” I hesitate, jaw tight. “—you don’t tempt me.”
