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In the bar, I grab my backpack and shove my romance novel, Timber, in before zipping it shut. I have a type. Alpha as fuck, bearded, and branded. A man who knows what he wants.
Smith takes my hand as we walk out of the bar into the brisk night, snow falling softly, a swollen moon overhead. A shiver runs through me at his touch, with the magic of the night staring down at me. It’s Christmas Eve and I’m leaving a bar with a stranger. Not necessarily a miracle, but right now, I’ll take it. It means a night away from my brother and his friends.
Smith opens the door to his massive truck, the hubcaps high above my waist. He helps me in because I need it — this truck could use a step ladder. I blush as I consider my skintight leggings and the way they hug my skin. Wishing I’d worn sweatpants and an oversized hoodie instead of a fitted sweater that barely covers my butt.
Still, Smith doesn’t say a thing.
Instead, he grunts — in approval? -- and leans over to buckle me in as if I’m a child.
“I know you don’t need my help but, girl, you’re precious cargo.”
I inhale. His hands are so close to my belly, my boobs, and my pounding heart.
“Do I scare you?” he asks, as he clicks the buckle in place. He runs his hand over the fabric of the belt, making sure it’s nice and tight. I can’t breathe. He smells like pine trees and woodsmoke and gingerbread. Like Christmas.
“A little,” I admit. But then I breathe him in again and I forget my fear. My insecurities. The fact that a man I don’t know is driving me to God knows where.
“Good,” he says, looking me in the eye, his hand still on the belt as if determined to keep me in place. “Because I’m a little scared too.”SmithThe drive to the cabin is a quiet one. The night air is still, the trees high above us as we venture deeper into the woods. The further we get from town, the more my desire grows. The woman next to me is the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.
“Can we put on some music?” she asks, her voice honey sweet.
“’ Course,” I grunt, pushing the buttons on the dashboard. Moments later Dean Martin is crooning Baby It’s Cold Outside and Christmas fills my cab.
“This is one of my favorites,” she says. I look over at her. There’s a smile on her face. She doesn’t seem freaked out at the idea of being alone with me. A man she doesn’t know. “We almost to your place?” she asks.
“Nearly.”
“My brother knows where to come tomorrow?”
“I gave him my address.”
“Oh.” I swear to God, there is a hint of sadness in her voice that time.
“He treats you bad?” I ask.
“Not good.”
“Why do you stay?”
“He’s all I got.”
My cabin is within eyeshot now, and my body tenses, wanting to make the night one where she feels safe and secure. I park my truck, kill the ignition.
“I know he seems mean—" she starts.
“He sold you.”
“You bought me,” she shoots back. “Doesn’t seem like you’re any different than him.”
“I wanted to get you out of there.”
“I didn’t need you to rescue me.”
“Maybe not,” I relent. Running a hand over my beard, I add, “But you didn’t seem to resist the saving.”
Her head snaps toward me. “I’m not a damsel in distress. I’ve taken care of myself all my life.”
“You must be tired. It’s hard doing it all on your own.”
“Do you live alone?” she asks, her question surprising me.
“Yeah, I do.”
“And do you need help? Someone to take care of you?”
I swallow. My words aching to get out. The truth so raw, so real.
“I suppose I do, Sugar. I suppose I do.”
She stares at me, realizing I’m not a fighter. Not unless I’m pushed against a wall and right now there are no walls up, no barriers. She wants to see me, have me. Well, good because I’m hers.
My eyes must reveal that truth… that I’ve been alone for far too long. That her being here with me, isn’t about a poker game at all. It’s about the deep thirst in my soul only she can quench.
“Oh,” she manages to whisper, the electricity between us in the cab charged. Alive. She feels something, that much is for sure. But just how much?
“Come inside,” I say finally. “I don’t want you to catch a cold.”
I don’t wait for an answer. I get out of the truck, and open her door, taking her smooth-skinned hand and helping her down.
Once inside, I set to making a fire in the river rock fireplace and she sets down her bag. “It’s so festive in here,” she says, taking it in, her eyes lit up. There is a small Christmas tree in the corner with white lights strung around it, a star on top. “It’s like everything you own has a place. Somewhere it belongs.” Her fingers run over the wool blanket that hangs on the back of the leather sofa, as her eyes run across the framed paintings on the wall of mountain landscapes.
