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I see four broad shouldered, tall shapes moving around the SUV. One is holding a big bag.
Their voices are low murmurs to me. They clap shoulders, shake hands, and then casually get back in the car like it’s only a temporary “goodbye”.
I’m still trying to figure out why Nolan came with his teammates when I hear the sound of the digital keypad beeping at the door.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. There’s an angry “error” kind of sound. Bzzt.
“Fuck,” a deep voice says from the other side of the door.
I breathe a momentary sigh of relief. Maybe it really was a mistake. He has the wrong code. He’s just going to walk away and my nightmare isn’t going to become a reality.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
The lock whirrs and the bolt clicks out of the way. I stare at the handle turning and jump back when the door swings open.
And there he is.
Nolan Saulters dominates the doorway. Broad shouldered, sandy-blonde hair down to the base of his neck with that trademark scar running from above his lips to one side of his chin. My eyes fall to the scar–the same one I remember tracing with my fingertips on a cold night during Frostival Week two years ago.
His icy glare pulls me from the moment.
“Calloway?” he asks.
For a split second, it’s like we’re back two years ago. Like I haven’t been watching him tarnish the man I thought he was from a distance this whole time. I can see the old Nolan right there in those eyes.
“Nolan,” I breathe, involuntarily taking a step toward him. His skin is pale and his cheeks are patchy with red from the cold. His square jaw is dusted with stubble that’s slightly more blond than his hair.
His features harden and he tilts his chin down a fraction of an inch.
I freeze, and then I see the Nolan I’ve been hearing about. The new Nolan. It’s in the subtle change in his eyes–an almost imperceptible hardness at the corners. And it’s in the slight quirk at the corners of his mouth, as if this is all some amusing joke only he’s in on.
“What are you doing in my cabin, Calloway?”
Calloway? He’s not even going to call me by my name, now? I fold my arms and point to the table where the two greeting cards are still laying.
He eyes me, then brushes past me with his huge duffel bag still slung over one shoulder. His scent drifts behind him and I can’t help inhaling it. He smells like the fresh air outdoors. And there’s a faint undercurrent of a subtle cologne that reminds me of ice and wintery forests.
I watch his back as he lifts the notes, one in each hand. “So, we’re sharing a cabin?” he asks.
“Uh, no,” I say. “We’re going to figure out some kind of solution.”
He looks over his shoulder and his smile is boyish and dangerous. “Think I’m going to bite, Calloway?” He sets the card down with a quiet scrape of paper on wood, then turns and straightens to his full height. He looks down at me, lips curved at the corners. “I’m all about consent. I’ll only bite when you ask.”
Hot, prickly anger rushes through me. Two years apart and he’s going to walk in here and pull this kind of shit on me? Really? “No,” I say, shaking my head as I ball my fists. “We’re not doing this.”
His thick, dark eyebrow ticks up. He lets the duffel slip off his shoulder–a not-so-subtle cue that he isn’t planning to go anywhere soon. “Which part?” he asks, voice low and purposeful. “The biting, or sharing a bed?”
“Neither,” I manage. “I want you gone. Tonight.”
With one step, he consumes the space between us. My eyes are level with his powerful chest and that scent of his is filling my brain again, distracting in the worst kind of way. I make myself look up and meet his cold, blue gaze. Were his eyes always so cold?
He says nothing, but the weight of his eyes on me is almost more than I can stand.
I’m trying like hell to sound confident and assertive, but my voice shakes like I’m about to cry. I bunch my fists at my sides like a kid, closing my eyes with frustration.
Nolan laughs softly through his nose, nodding, as if I’ve said something.
He finally walks out of my space and it feels like I can breathe again. I watch him go to the kitchen as if he’s taking stock of its contents. He’s opening doors with no haste, checking cabinets, and messing with the stove burners. “Not much,” he mutters, as if I’m not even in the room anymore.
