Brynne didn’t know what to say to that.
So she poured herself a cup of coffee and stayed where she was to sip it, keeping the counter between them. In that moment, she sorely wished some of her regulars would show up: the sweet old codgers who always ordered the Rancher’s Breakfast; the members of the Silver Streaks book club; or even Roy, from over at the post office, who could nurse a single cup of coffee and a slice of pie for the better part of an hour and always tipped one bright, shiny quarter.
No one came.
“Do you want breakfast?”
“Nope,” Eli replied.
Brynne was flummoxed again, at a complete loss, which made her feel foolish, which, in turn, made her about half-mad.
“Well,” she said.
Eli looked her over, though not in a rude way. He might have been assessing the state of a fence post, deciding whether to shore it up or cut it into chunks for firewood.
“Put on something warm. Snow boots, good gloves if you have them.”
“Why would I do that?” Brynne countered, all too aware that her heart was beating faster than it should have been.
“Because we’re going snowmobiling,” Eli answered blithely. “You and me.”
The thought thrilled Brynne; she realized she was hungry for fresh air and countryside. It never even occurred to her to refuse that blunt, offhanded arrogant invitation.
CHAPTER FOUR
BRYNNE HADN’T RIDDEN a snowmobile in years, and she’d never ridden one seated behind Eli Garrett, with her thighs pressing into his and her arms clasped tightly around his middle.
The streets of Painted Pony Creek were practically deserted, though folks smiled and waved from windows and doorways, looking as pleased as if they knew some benevolent mischief were afoot, and they were part of it.
Brynne waved back, when she dared let go of Eli long enough to make the gesture, but mostly she didn’t dare, because she was breathless, delightfully, deliciously terrified, certain that the roaring machine racing over the snow would suddenly pitch and roll, sending both its riders flying.
Overhead, the sky was winter blue and cloudless, and the sunlight sprinkled diamonds over rooftops and yards and the snow-laden branches of trees.
The machine sped on, past the park and the library and the sign that read, “Welcome to Painted Pony Creek, Montana, Population, 5718,” and then they were streaking through the open countryside, zigzagging around the craggy old trees in Ben Jackson’s apple orchard, weaving around obstacles such as boulders and fallen logs.
They raced over drifts of snow, traveling alongside the freshly plowed highway, and Brynne reveled in the whole experience—the speed, the indescribable freedom, the icy nip in the air, the glorious beauty of the intricate, ever-changing tapestry that was Montana at her natural best.
Brynne clung to Eli, exultant, startled by the joy she felt, skimming over the land she’d been born to, and had always loved, and had somehow forgotten.
Presently, they passed through a stand of timber and emerged at the top of a small rise, overlooking the shallow valley that cupped the town and its surroundings gently, loosely, like the palm of a giant hand.
Eli shut off the snowmobile engine and turned to look at Brynne over one broad shoulder. “You doing all right, city girl?” he asked, with a twinkle in those hazel-green eyes of his.
“I’m doing just fine,” Brynne managed, though in truth, she was quite overwhelmed. And quite sure she hadn’t had so much fun since—well, she couldn’t have said exactly when, because she’d been focused on emotional survival for so long, taking the next step, and the one after that, and trying not to look beyond the present moment.
So many feelings, all of them electrified and hopelessly tangled.
Eli swung a leg over the snowmobile and stood, offering Brynne his hand. She took it, rose awkwardly from her seat, stumbled a little and righted herself.
Or, rather, Eli righted her, catching her by her elbows when she fell against his chest. Her legs felt wobbly, as though they might not support her, and Eli’s fingers tightened slightly, as if he’d sensed that.
Time stopped as they stood there, facing each other, and the sweet silence of a fresh snowfall was all around them, something mysterious and holy.
Brynne’s heart pounded, and she hoped Eli would kiss her.
Hoped he wouldn’t.
He didn’t. He just smiled a slight, crooked smile and traced the outline of her right cheek with a gloved thumb.
In that instant, Brynne very nearly kissed him. She felt compelled—not just tempted, but compelled—to throw her arms around Eli’s neck, stand on tiptoe and plant a long, wet smacker right on that expressive mouth of his.
Everything within her seemed to thrum, like the sound of distant drums pounding out some urgent message.
She felt herself blush, and Eli smiled again, as if he knew why.
She, Brynne Bailey, who had sworn off men for the foreseeable future, especially if those men happened to be cops, was as taut as a wire. Her sexuality, in hibernation for so long, rose, stretched and roared within her, like a tigress ready to mate.
More than ready to mate.
If he’d guessed her thoughts, Eli was gentleman enough not to remark on them. Still holding her elbows, he set her a little away from him, or so it seemed to Brynne, though she was sure neither of them actually moved.
“Want to meet my dog?” he asked, tilting his handsome head to one side and regarding her thoughtfully.
“Why not?” Brynne managed, going for a light tone and falling just shy of the mark. “I probably should be getting back to the café, though. Lots to do to get ready for New Year’s Eve—it’s only a few days away, you know...”
Prattling.
Was she prattling?
“Up to you,” Eli said, with maddening alacrity. A part of Brynne wanted him to throw her over one shoulder, caveman style, carry her somewhere warm and private, lay her down on something soft, and make love to her until she absolutely lost her mind.
The more sensible part of her, the one that counseled immediate flight, was gaining ground, though not very fast or very forcefully.
“I guess I could meet your dog,” Brynne allowed, feeling stupid and, at the same time, brazen and bold. “Briefly.”
Eli remounted the snowmobile, and Brynne climbed on behind him.
If she’d been conscious of his proximity, his heat and the hardness of his muscles, before, she was ablaze with it now.
Now that they had a destination in mind, Eli drove more moderately.
They descended the rise and burrowed across the road and a long, winding driveway, following the trail Eli had probably forged earlier when he’d decided to zip on into town and collect her from her mundane life.