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Of course they do.

Of course the giant man in the flannel and festive beanie grows Christmas trees. He probably chops firewood before breakfast and rescues woodland creatures during lunch.

“I’m Miles,” he adds, standing straight to his impressive height. “Miles Stratton.”

“Audrey.”

His gaze flicks over my dress again, but he doesn’t ask the obvious question. “Seems you’re not dressed for the weather, Audrey. And neither was your vehicle.”

“This wasn’t my original destination.”

“Well, wherever you were heading, you’re not getting there with that wheel buried to the axle. How about I help you out?”

“Thank you. I’d almost convinced myself this was premium mountain parking.”

His low laugh travels through the cold air and settles somewhere dangerously close to my stomach.

Miles steps nearer to look closer at my car situation before his gaze moves to the twisted back of my dress. “Do you want help getting out of that?”

My brain stops.

“Excuse me?”

“The dress.”

“I know what you mean.” Heat rushes into my cheeks as I plant both fists on my hips. “So is this how you do it in the mountains, huh? Just drive on up here in the middle of the night and approach stranded women on isolated roads and offer to undress them? Huh? Or is that stupid Christmas hat just making you feel unusually confident tonight?”

Miles's hand goes to his ridiculous beanie while I continue gathering outrage at being hit on while clearly having the worst day of my life.

“Because I should warn you, mister, I’ve recently developed a powerful dislike of men. Believe me, I've got huge hatred going on. Possibly permanent. So if you think I’m going to let some mountain stranger put his hands anywhere near my—”

“I was just going to offer you my coat,” he says simply, calm as anything. He unzips his black coat and slides it from his shoulders. “So you can change without freezing. Or introducing the other nipple to the whole of Chilmore.”

"Oh."

Miles holds the coat out for me, but taking it feels considerably more dangerous than the snow. I stare at it, then him, as he jerks it towards me like an offering.

"Take it," he says. "Unless flashing the wildlife is all part of your plan?"

I accept it without meeting his eyes. The heavy fabric is still warm from his body, and the lining smells like freshly cut timber.

Of course he smells like a Christmas fantasy with a dirty ending. Just look at him. He's like a sexy Santa who decided to join the gym instead of eating cookies.

I slide my arms inside, and the sleeves swallow my hands as the hem falls almost to my knees, surrounding me in this random strangers heat while he stands several feet away in nothing but that obscenely fitted red flannel.

Somehow, giving me more clothing has made this situation considerably less decent.

“Not another word about my nipples. Got it?”

Miles crosses one hand over his broad chest, but his devastating grin makes the promise completely worthless.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He turns his back while I climb into the rear seat and fight my way out of the dress. It takes another three minutes, one strained shoulder and a considerable amount of whispered abuse before thousands of dollars of bridal lace finally collapses around my ankles.

I pull on jeans and a sweater, then stuff the dress across the back seat with all the care it deserves after trying to strangle me.

When I step outside and wrap his coat around me again, Miles is crouched beside the buried wheel. He grunts to himself, then rises and walks toward his truck.