Her pale blonde hair clung in small strands to her pinkened cheeks like thin white flames. Her gaze was warm but uncomfortably probing. And her lips, full and parted, didn’t look to be the kind to utter the strains of words I’d heard slip from them.
She was an almost contradiction—each piece of her containing parts that seemed almost incongruous. Like warmth in the winter. Or rain under sunny skies. Possible but uncommon. Like her hair and the sharp heat of her eyes. Like the way my body suddenly burned when all I wanted—all I came here for—was to freeze what was left to feel.
I reached for the edge of the counter, suddenly off-balance.
Dropping my eyes, I cleared my throat. Get your shit together, Ryan.
“If I could just step out of your way…” My voice took on a rasped tone it hadn’t come in with.
She blinked twice, long lashes fanning the gold sparks that flickered in her gaze, and then apologized again, “Of course. Really sorry about—” She broke off with a small cry.
In her shuffle to move out of my way, she lost the last can she’d retrieved. It toppled from the leaning tower of SpaghettiOs in her arms and rolled right between my legs.
I thought I could move to the side in time; she thought she could retrieve the can before I did.
And, next thing I knew, my step intersected her lunge forward and connected her head directly with my dick.
“Fuck…” The word drew out in a hiss like a fuse attached to a bomb, long and slow, my balls exploding with excruciating pain.
I gripped the counter, doubling over as the searing heat spread up into my stomach. With all the layers I had on, I felt like there should’ve been more padding—more protection against the hit. There wasn’t.
I’d come to Michigan to get over a woman. Being neutered by a goddamn winter nymph wasn’t exactly how I imagined going about it.
“Oh, no.” She scrambled back, avoiding my vital organs this time. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. So so sorry.”
I groaned, dragging in thick pulls of air.
“Oh, dear. Oh, my. Do you need ice, sir?” Kurt lumbered around the counter, his jovial tone unaffected by his concern. “I have ice. In fact, I have some on clearance—”
Ice on clearance. In Michigan. In the middle of winter.
“No,” I snapped. And then, after clearing my throat, I repeated more steadily, “No.”
Inhaling deeply once more, I lengthened myself upright and extended a hand out, first to stop him and then in front of her, seeing her eyes dart for the can that still lay by my feet.
“No.” That time, the word was a harsh growl, and the blush it brought to her cheeks only exacerbated the pain in my balls as they tightened.
Planting my hands on my hips, I took a few deep breaths, willing my testicles to lower from where they’d recoiled in pain.
I looked at the woman again, her face stricken, but only when her eyes locked with mine did the pink tip of her tongue dart out and drag along her lips.
It was a small movement. Such a small motion. And somehow, it created an equal, if not greater amount of pain in my dick.
“Dammit,” I exhaled.
“I’m so sorry,” the white-haired devil blurted again. “Really, really sorry. I should’ve gotten a basket for all these. I thought I could hold them.” She hardly stopped for air as she rambled on, “Is there something—anything I can do?”
“Directions,” I clipped, annoyed that I found her fumbled apology endearing and that my lower half now ached for reasons other than the direct headbutt to my dick. “Forty-Sixth Street.”
She plucked her lower lip between her teeth, sending another sharp jab through my groin. “Are you… renting the cabin?”
I let out a long sigh. Of course, this place was small enough for everyone to know a renter was coming to town.
“If I can get there, yes,” I said tightly. “Directions. Now. Please.”
Kurt blinked rapidly at my demand and then turned to the woman. “Forty-Sixth Street. Why, what luck, that’s—”
“On the way to where I’m going,” she broke in and gulped. “The street sign is down. I can take you.”
My lungs filled with all the frustration I could later expend once I was at the cabin. Alone. With a fire. Food. And some fucking scotch. I just needed to get there first.
“Fine.” I nodded, wincing as I bent down to retrieve the last two cans on the floor before any more injuries occurred.
Instead of handing them to her, I set them on the counter with a distinct thunk and told myself it was because I didn’t want to risk another dropping scenario—not because I was afraid what might occur if my fingers brushed hers.
As it was, my cock was already semi-hard, attracted to the woman who’d tried to destroy it. I chalked it up to a cock-concussion. Scotch could fix that, too.
Hopefully.
“I’ll be in my truck,” I declared, about to sidestep her when she reached out and planted a hand on my chest.
“Wait.”
My eyes flared wide, feeling the heat of her small palm overwhelming the mass of layers.
She dropped her hand instantly and stuttered, “Do you have food already or want to buy some while you’re here?”
“I’ll come back,” I grunted, wondering why she cared if I had food or not. I had enough. Enough lunch meat, a loaf of sandwich bread, and a few protein bars I’d picked up in Traverse City to hold me over for a few days until I got settled.
Her almond eyes widened. “Are you sure? Maybe just a few—”
“No,” I snapped, harsher than intended. But only a little. “I just want to get to this damn cabin.”
I turned for the door.
“What about beer?” she called after me.
“I’ll be waiting in my truck,” I called over my shoulder.
I didn’t need food or beer. I just needed to get to this cabin and be alone. To get over what Hailey had done. To get over selling my company. To get on with life.
I’d watched her lug out several bags of goods that probably weighed more than she did and load them onto her snowmobile.
I didn’t know what shocked me more: that she’d gone to a hardware store for groceries or that she’d come on a snowmobile. But I caught myself in a small nod of approval when all her bags fit underneath the wide seat of the snow bike.
When we pulled out, I put the SUV in four-wheel drive. It was safe to assume that if she’d come from the direction of my rented cabin on a snowmobile, I was going to need the extra power.
We backtracked about half a mile before making a left. It was no wonder I’d missed the original right-hand turn. If there ever was a street sign, there wasn’t even a pole remaining for it.
Forty-Sixth Street was only partially plowed, some prior traffic having left worn, black streaks of the pavement underneath. Then, she made the first right, her hat like a bright orange beacon in a sea of white. Whatever drive we were on now wasn’t plowed. Hell, I wasn’t sure a real road existed underneath the semi-packed snow.
Grunting, I locked my teeth and let off the gas, absentmindedly wondering if there was a place nearby to get chains for the tires—if that was even allowed.
“Fuck.” I slowed the truck measurably, feeling how the tires easily lost some traction around the first curve.