He slammed the door before she could argue further, started the engine with the key fob still in his pocket, and cranked the heat to maximum. Through the window, he could see her fuming, her mouth moving in what was undoubtedly a continued string of complaints. He ignored them and headed back to the camper.
Her bags. She'd need clothes. Toiletries. Whatever else females required to survive. He didn't know what that included, but he could figure it out.
The camper door was still open, banging against the frame in the wind. He stepped inside and looked around, trying to identify the essentials. A backpack hung from a hook by the bed and there was a stack of presumably clean clothes next to it. He placed the clothes in the pack, trying not to wince at the haphazard arrangement. There was a box of toiletries in the tiny bathroom and he grabbed the whole box, along with her laptop bag, covered in stickers and paint splatters. He added two totes full of art supplies, then carried everything back to the truck.
Fighting through drifts that had already grown another inch, he breathed a sigh of relief that she was still in the truck. She'd even stopped yelling. When he opened the driver's side door and placed her bags behind the seat, she was sitting with her hands pressed against the heating vents, eyes closed, some of the tension finally leaving her shoulders.
"I could report you," she said without opening her eyes. "For manhandling. Or womanhandling."
"You could."
"I won't. But I could."
He climbed into the driver's seat and put the truck in gear. "Are you going to keep complaining?"
"Probably."
"Fine. Complain somewhere warm."
The drive took thirty minutes instead of the usual ten. The roads were nearly impassable, drifts building faster than the occasional plow could clear them, but his truck was built for this and he'd driven in worse conditions during away games in Minnesota. He kept his focus on the road and the narrow channel of visibility his headlights carved through the white-out.
Beside him, her shivering slowed, then stopped. Color crept back into her cheeks. Her hands dropped from the vents to her lap, flexing experimentally as the feeling returned.
"Where are we going?" she asked finally.
"My condo."
"Your—" She sat up straight. "Tarmek. No. Take me to a hotel. Or a shelter. Or literally anywhere that isn't your personal residence."
"Hotels are probably booked with stranded travelers. Shelters will be overwhelmed. You're coming to my condo."
"That's not appropriate."
"Neither is freezing to death. I think inappropriate wins."
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. She crossed her arms over her chest, and stared pointedly out the window at the nothing that was visible beyond the glass.
"You're very high-handed," she said. "Has anyone ever told you that?"
"Frequently."
"Good. I want it on record."
"Noted."
Silence settled between them, broken only by the grind of the wipers and the howl of the wind. He kept his eyes on the road, his hands steady on the wheel, and tried not to think about how right it had felt to pick her up and physically remove her from danger with his own two hands.
Orc instincts.That's all it was. Protective instincts deeply ingrained by millennia of evolution. Nothing personal. Nothing to do with the way her weight had settled against his chest like it belonged there.
The small condo building appeared through the snow. Only four units, built into the hillside with floor-to-ceiling windows thatoffered spectacular views of nothing, at the moment. Far enough out of town for privacy but close to the arena
He pulled into the underground garage and killed the engine.
"We're here," he said unnecessarily.
She looked at the garage door, then at him. Her expression was unreadable in the dim light.
"Fine," she said finally. "But I want it noted that I'm only agreeing because the alternative is turning into a human popsicle."
