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‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Anything but tea, thanks.’
‘You hungry?’
He nods absently.
‘Okay, I’ll sort that out. Can you please try not to hit anything while I’m gone.’
He smiles briefly and she winks, then goes into the kitchen.
This is a fucking nightmare. One week from Christmas and he’s trapped in a snowstorm in Ireland, with no way of getting home. No ride. No tracker. No way for anyone to find him, even if they could, in the middle of a blizzard.
He gingerly prods his forehead, blood staining his fingers when he pulls them away. He can’t remember what happened. Why can’t he remember? Every time he tries, the pain ramps up a level. She mentioned a crash, which was presumably him, but that doesn't help in the slightest. He doesn't crash. It never happens. It’s impossible. While he was travelling he was protected.
Something happened to disrupt that. It’s the only explanation. But what?
He looks out the window at the snow swirling around the cottage. Until he can check out the crash site, he’s just guessing at what might have happened.
And that’s the part that’s going to drive him crazy. Patience isn’t his top quality. It isn’t actually a quality of his, full stop. He’s not so good at sitting around and doing nothing.
The cottage is small, barely enough head room for him to stand. There’s nowhere to pace or run. He’s stuck in this room, with a strange woman, until the storm blows over.
He turns his attention back to the kitchen when he hears the woman humming to herself. From what he can tell, she’s alone out here, yet she took the time and effort to help him, even though she knows nothing about him. She could just as easily have ignored the sounds she heard outside and got on with her night.
That says something about her. Heading out there alone and dragging him back to the house would have taken one hell of an effort, and he appreciates that. There’s no doubt he owes her his life.
She passes by the door and opens the fridge, taking out a bottle of milk. He’s not one of those guys who claims to have a type. On the rare occasions he went out to meet someone, he tended to go for women who wanted the same thing from the night as he did. Sex. Nothing more. He can’t have anything more than that. With his job, finding time to date came a distant last to everything else he has to do.
This woman hasn’t said or done anything to even hint she wants something from him, but that just makes her all the more appealing. No make-up. No fancy clothes. No perfectly groomed hair. Just naturally stunning. And as for the Snoopy pyjamas... that’s a new one, and he really likes it. He rests his head against the back of the chair, unable to take his eyes off her, as she butters a slice of toast.
His body isn’t taking the headache into account. Potential head injury or not, he’s turned on by her. He wants to see, to feel what’s under her Snoopy pyjamas. He’s never been more jealous of a cartoon dog before!
Being trapped here for the moment may not be ideal, given the time of year, but if he’s going to be stuck with someone, he can think of worse people. In fact, spending a day or so with her sounds pretty fucking amazing.
He smirks, as she hums a little louder and he recognises the tune.Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town.
Even though he’s not in the best of situations, his smirk grows to a full smile. How would she react if she knew that, not only is Santa actually in town right now, but he’s sitting in her armchair beside her fire, with one hell of a headache?
