Page 22 of Solo

“Oh, thank you, Dr. Markham,” I say with a polite smile. “That’s really generous of you, but I’m fine here.”

He looks perplexed.

“How are you fine here? This storm’s just getting started. There’s going to be another three feet by morning,” he informs me, shaking his head the whole time. “No. You can’t possibly sit here.”

I keep the smile plastered to my face.

“I really do appreciate the offer, but I’ll just wait here. I’m sure a snowplow will come along, and then I can hitch a ride down to the main road.”

Now the eyebrows go up in skepticism.

“Miss Brenner, there is no snowplow. This development is the last to get plowed out, so you could be sitting here for the next twenty-four hours. Easily.”

I just shake my head, still smiling. “Thank you, but—”

“Stop. Thanking. Me,” he grits out.

“I’m fine. Good night, Dr. Markham,” I say as I flip the toggle to roll up the window.

A strong, black-gloved hand blocks it from rising all the way, and I’m forced to roll it down again. He reaches inside and unlocks the car door, then yanks it open. I guess he’s not taking no for an answer.

I roll the window up again, close my eyes, take a deep breath, and step out of the car. Even though I’m bracing myself, I can’t hide the wince that crosses my face as soon as my feet hit the snow. He takes a long look at me, from head to toe. Lightweight hoodie. T-shirt. Yoga pants. Flip-flops. No coat, no gloves, not even a pair of socks. Markham’s eyes grow wide.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he asks incredulously.

Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him curse before, and it startles me.

“I…I was in a hurry to get the paper to you…” I stammer out, but before I can even finish the sentence, he leans down and scoops me up in his arms, like a bride in her groom’s arms as they cross the threshold.

“Oh, hey! No, please, Dr. Markham, put me down!” I protest, kicking my feet.

“Stop struggling,” he hisses at me. “If you think I’m going to leave you in your car to freeze to death, or let you lose your toes to frostbite, then you’re even…”

He stops himself before he can say it, but we both know where he was going with that sentiment.

You’re even dumber than I thought you were.

Oh yeah, I’d put money on that one. I’m so mortified that I stay perfectly still and keep my mouth shut as he carries me easily around to the back of the house and deposits me in what appears to be a mudroom. He quickly pulls his boots off and hangs his coat on a hook.

“Stay here,” he says, disappearing through the doorway.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!

Could this be any worse? I’m sick and stuck in a blizzard with a man who hates my guts. I actually groan out loud at the thought of it.

“Here, put these on,” he says when he returns holding a pair of wool socks.

I sit on a boot bench and pull them over my freezing feet, unable to stifle the sigh of relief that comes over me.

“Come inside, I’ll get you a hot cup of tea,” he says, turning to leave again before he’s even finished speaking.

I follow him silently out of the room and into a spacious kitchen. It’s stunning, with vaulted ceilings and exposed beams. The countertops are butcher block and the appliances are top-of-the-line professional-grade stainless steel. He gestures to an island in the middle of the kitchen and I perch on one of the stools there.

“Your home is beautiful,” I say quietly as I look around.

He mumbles an acknowledgement that may or may not be a “thanks” as I watch him make his way around the counters and cabinets, pulling out a cup and tea bags then lighting the gas burner under a copper kettle on the stovetop.

“Milk? Sugar?” he asks without looking at me.