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I eye him warily, which I know is stupid. I’m in the middle of nowhere, and reluctant society girl and graphic designer Sidney Novak from New York City isn’t going to be expected here. I’m not staying, but . . .
He nods. “Princess it is.”
“I’m not a princess.”
“Uh-huh.”
I stand, wobble a little, and then force myself to steady. “Sidney.”
“I might just call you princess, Sidney. You’re not from here.”
“Passing through.”
He nods again and taps his fingers on his tattooed arm that’s somehow so masculine and unexpectedly sexy. My mouth goes dry in a way that’s got nothing to do with smoke.
“And you’re fine? No burns? I didn’t notice a head injury, but I’m not a medic, and you were knocked out.”
My cheeks burn. “Smoke, and I might have fainted.”
“Okay, then.”
The man looks at me and frowns, there’s thunder in his expression, flame. “Then what the fuck do you think you were doing? You can’t outrun the fire. Or were you looking at it?”
I try and count to ten to calm the fever he sets off in me. I count, and at twenty-nine years old, my slow fuse temper just might have shrunk to something like short, fast, and furious. Because what is his problem?
I don’t need someone else in my life rubbing me the wrong way, telling me what to do, shouting. I don’t need to be told all my shortcomings, and if only I were sweet and into glamour like my cousin, Koko—real name Kate—maybe I’d be happy. Or have the life my parents want me to have.
Turning, I pick up my bag and slide it onto my shoulder. “Thank you for your macho posturing and rescuing me, but I’m going to go.”
“Okay.” His mouth twitches a little at my words, but there’s still thunder in his expression. “Go ahead, Princess.”
I’m being a child, I know that. I never go around acting like a child, but I’ve got a feeling Vic would be applauding and shouting, ‘you go girl’. It’s just been a hell of a two weeks for me.
All I want to do is finish passing through wherever the hell I am and get to my new, getaway sustainable home I had built. Work on my graphic designer software, do some freelancing, and just be me.
“I just want to be left alone.”
Mack looks me up and down. “Who are you? Garbo?”
Who the hell is this rough-edged mountain man knowing who Greta Garbo is?
I grip the straps of the bag. “Thank you for saving me, but I’ll be going.”
And with that, I sail past him, a little shocked he’s not arguing. He strikes me as all the other domineering men I know, most of them in my family. These kinds of men don’t just give in.
I pull open the door and falter.
Oh.
The front of my beloved Audi is crumpled, and it’s still chained to his truck. My heart sinks to my toes.
His hand brushes against my back, setting off a cascade of flame inside, and the heat of his body warms me in a way I didn’t know I needed to be warmed. “Yeah, your fuckin’ car’s toast right now. But come in, I’ll make us some food. I think there’s soup in the cupboards. Not princess food but hey.”
I glare up at him. “Not a princess.”
“Not an ogre.” He grins slowly, and my stomach turns in a giddying somersault. “Look, we’re not going anywhere tonight. This storm’s going to be bad when it really breaks, so it’s dangerous to head out before or during. We can leave tomorrow.”
“How do I know you’re not an ogre?”
