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Searching the room, I didn’t find anything in the closet, the dressers, or under the bed. I ran out of the room, the fire poker still in my hand. I’d check the kitchen and see if they were in there. Maybe my head wound bled a lot and had left them bloody, and he’d put my clothes in the washer. But where were my boots?
I was throwing open sliding doors to what I hoped was a laundry room when the back door of the house opened with a creak.
Freezing, every hair on my body stood on end.
I turned, startled like a thief caught.
He’d appeared large outside, but when he was ten feet away, he was… massive.
OMG. Who the hell was this man?
It seemed as though his broad but muscular body filled the whole house. A black-and-red flannel shirt now covered his humongous chest.
“Hello,” he said with careful control, his hands nonchalantly in his pockets. “I’m Brick.”
I simply stared at him, not caring what his name was. He was terrifying, and my tongue wouldn’t move. I considered fleeing out of the kitchen door and just keep going, but my feet wouldn’t move.
“I-I’m Amelia.”
He ran a hand through his ink-black hair that was dusted in snow as his deep mocha eyes studied me. Closer, I could easily become mesmerized by his ruggedness—that square jawline, lips that pressed tightly as if he was lost for words, and did I mention he had muscles? His bicep flexed, stretching the fabric of his shirt as he brushed the snow out of his hair. Was it wrong that my stomach fluttered?
“Um, you were in an accident last night. You ran through my mailbox and slammed into that tree out there.” He moved toward me, and my feet finally unglued. I recoiled from him, moving to the door, even though he frowned.
I put the island between us. He stepped back into the living room, dwarfing the long white linen couch, the two brown leather side chairs, and a flat-screen TV on the wall. The wood burner where I’d found the fire poker was also in there, and he even seemed to block the heat with his size.
“Don’t come near me,” I murmured, holding my hands up to ward him off. That only deepened the grumpy lines on his forehead. My shoulder muscles stiffened in response.
“I promise you, I won’t. I mean you no harm,” he muttered softly, seeming more frustrated than angry.
I wanted to go home! I trembled as we stood there, still clutching to the too-big-for-me pants as we looked at one another in an awkward standoff.
“The snow, Miss,” he said, gesturing behind him to the white linen curtains on the windows in the living room. “It started last night, and the ice was bad. So, I brought you in and tended to the few injuries you had, but you seem okay this morning.”
“Thanks, I guess. Where are my clothes?” My mind was still stuck on the whole notion that he stripped me and redressed me.
“In the washer. Your boots are on top of the washing machine. Everything was covered in glass, and your shirt had blood all over it. I went out and found your handbag and phone in your car this morning. It’s on top of the washer as well,” Brick offered in a casual tone.
Glancing over at the room I’d just abandoned, I opened the door, grabbing my boots, phone, and bag, but paused when I chanced a glimpse at a collection of handguns in the far corner on a shelf. They weren’t the kind used to hunt an animal, though the lethal hunting knives might be. Was this guy some freakish collector or a criminal who needed that many weapons? I backed toward the hall that led down to the room I woke up in, trying my best not to appear panicked or to let him know I saw all his guns. Shit.
“Are you hungry? It’s after one p.m., and you haven’t eaten. I can make you something?”
“I’m okay,” I replied instantly, my voice sharper than I’d intended, still not trusting him, even if what he said made sense, even if I could remember parts of the previous night. “How long before I can leave?”
“As soon as the storm ends. News says it’s going to be a few days, at least. The snow isn’t letting up, and my truck won’t make it down the incline without sliding into a tree or all the way down. And you’ve had intimate relations with one tree already this week.”
He chuckled, and the frown was replaced with a gorgeous smile, revealing perfect white teeth and small lines at the corners of his eyes. The man wasn’t my age, more like in his mid-thirties, perhaps, but he had a vibe that he had his life in order, that he knew what he wanted, and he’d take it.
A vibe that was almost the opposite of dickhead Jason.
Now, if this was any other situation, I might have laughed at the joke, but I struggled to breathe as everything sank in. He’d come across so grumpy before. I preferred when he laughed.
“How come you’re all the way out here alone so close to Christmas? Is someone coming to join you?” I almost slapped my mouth to keep it shut for asking such a dumb question. What would I ask next… did he bury his victims in the backyard?
“I don’t live here all the time, only come out every so often,” he answered me, and I nodded, my bottom lip between my teeth. “I like my peace.”
I eyed him when he turned away from me to fill the coffee machine, setting it to brew. He was just way too calm, and for some reason, that bothered me. Weren’t killers calm before exploding into a rage when the smallest thing triggered them?
Maybe I watched too many movies.
