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Now, I’m . . . I don’t know where.
A door slams and I shiver as I look up.
It’s definitely a man. Even as a blur, I can see that. He’s tall, well-built. I swallow and cough, and he swears.
“Fuck.”
That hot voice that’s low and dark and full of the best latent heat—and apparently, I’m delirious.
“I was fixing the generator. Here.”
He crosses to me and hands me something. My glasses. I close my fingers around the honey-colored rim of my Blake Kuwahara frames and slip them on. The world comes into focus.
I think this man might be hotter than his voice.
His T-shirt is a little torn and stained with both black grease and ash, and the old jeans show off all kinds of perfection a woman might be inclined to look at. Long legs, lean, and a package that . . .
I lift my gaze over his narrow torso and broad chest. The muscles on his arms are tattooed all the way up and down, and he has auburn hair. It’s cut short, a little long at the front that’s just right for holding onto when he . . .
And he has a short, close beard, like a shadow but thicker, and high cheekbones. There’s a streak of soot on one of them, and his dark eyes are amused. “I’m Mack Burns, your friendly rescuer. And you are?”
For a moment, I don’t answer. It’s not that I’ve got anything to hide—well, not from him—it’s just . . . oh, crap, does he have to be so handsome?
“Forgotten speech?” There’s an undercurrent I can’t put my finger on, and I’m vaguely aware I’m perched on a bed fully dressed like some queen bee. “Well, Princess, anything hurt?”
“Throat.”
“And she speaks.” He crosses the room and picks up a bottle, unscrews the cap on his way back, and hands it to me. “Water.”
“Thanks.” I take it, and the first cool swallow is both bliss and agony, and then I start chugging it until his hand stops me.
“Go easy there, Tiger. Small sips.”
I shoot him a scowl. I’m grateful, I know I am. It’s just he’s so . . . there, and so . . . handsome. Tall. And maybe I’m concussed.
“How many fingers?”
He holds up his hand.
“Two, now three.”
Mack nods. “Good, Princess. Now, what year is it?”
I tell him.
“The date?”
I tell him that too. “It was, anyway, before—”
“You crashed your carriage on your way to the ball. It’s a pumpkin now, but—”
“My computer!”
A muscle in his jaw ticks as the sky outside rumbles and claps. “Got your bag right there on the kitchen table. You scared of storms?”
“Not my favorite, but I’ll survive.” I take another sip of the cool water.
He sighs. “It’s gonna be a fuckin’ doozy of a storm but hopefully it’ll put out most of the fire that’s still burning.” Mack looks at me like I started it and crosses his arms. “Storm came through and lasted from the time I got to my truck until I got here. Now, are you sure you’re all right?”
