Damn. How long had we been here? I shook my head to clear it, but all that brought me was the coalescing of the handsome features I’d dreamed about all the way here. High cheekbones, thick brows, and full lips that would’ve been amazing wrapped around my—
A large hand clamped around my wrist. A strong hand, with a vice-like grip that sent my pulse rocketing into my ears, slamming it into my eardrums. I darted a rapid gaze between the scalding hand and the chiselled face my every fantasy was made of.
No. It couldn’t be.
But it was.
Unless my nap in the snow had sent me delirious, my knight in shining armour was Fen-Fucking-Hawthorne.
Fen
It was the whisky. I’d barely had a nip—my dad would’ve called it a dram—but there was no other plausible explanation for the sinfully attractive streak of muscle and bone that had climbed out of the steamed-up, snowed-in Ford Fiesta blocking my gate.
Bloody whisky. It had always set me wrong. I’d only drunk it to take the edge off the restlessness the falling snow had let loose in my soul. Heavy snow round these parts meant one thing: nothing. As in, my whole life ground to a halt, no ups, downs, or anything in between, and the impassable road the stricken car was stuck on was a case in point.
At least, I thought it was. With my mind awash with chocolatey hair and eyes the colour of sunshine through a glass of dark whisky—ha, irony—I was having trouble pulling a sensible thought together.
I blinked hard, hoping I didn’t look like a serial killer, and glad my neck was covered. My body was less imposing than it once had been, but I was still a big bloke looming out of the dark. If I was the one stranded—
“Fucking hell.”
The coarse phrasing, wrapped around a soft London accent, cut through my meandering thoughts. I blinked again, shaking my head as if I’d just emerged from a long swim underwater. I knew that voice as much as I knew the face.
No. It can’t be. You’re seeing things.
Hearing things.
Whatever. But the harder I stared at the doppelgänger of a man I’d come to terms with never seeing again outside of my overactive imagination, the more solidified the apparition in front of me became.
Rami Stone. Literally the man of my dreams, past and present, because hell yeah, I still dreamed about him more than a year since I’d last set eyes on him. A year in which a lot had happened to me and him both, if the longer hair and dark stubble covering his masculine jaw were anything to go by.
I opened my mouth as a gust of wind blasted through the dip in the road that had done for Rami’s car. Whatever genius response spilled from my mouth was carried away. More snow fell around us, dotting Rami’s hair. He had no hat on, and the jacket hugging his lean build stood no chance against the wild weather bearing down on us.
Get a grip. Whoever this is, they need to get out of the snow as much as you do.
I reached for Rami’s other arm.
He evaded, shaking his head. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Me?” The power of speech returned to me before my brain caught up. “Dude, you’re blocking my drive. Don’t you think I’m the one who gets to ask the questions?”
Rami frowned, deep and disturbed. He gazed beyond me, up the mountain road, and then back the way he must’ve come. His rosy lips parted, but nothing came out.
Get him inside. The responsible adult in me finally kicked in. I was still gripping Rami’s wrist, reeling from the sensation of touching him again after all this time, despite the fact that his flimsy coat stood between me and his bare skin.
I pulled myself together and gave him a light shake. “None of that matters right now. Just come indoors, okay? Get out of this cold.”
Underlining my instructions, I tugged him away from the car.
He fought me, digging his trainers into the snow. “Wait. I need to get Charlie.”
The first thing that came into my head was that he had a dog on the backseat that was far better behaved than the collie cross I’d lost a month ago, and that I vaguely remembered him mentioning a dog once upon a time. Maybe. Most of our encounters had involved a serious amount of me losing myself to his twinkly eyes and sardonic smirk.
I let him go.
He spun around, ducked into the car, and a minute later stood tall with…a toddler on his hip.
My eyebrows shot up, taking half my face with them. In the dead of night with the yellow light from my torch to guide me, I could see the little boy had dark hair, and dark eyes like Rami’s.
Holy…I searched my brain for memories of him mentioning a child, but there were none. Never. I’d had no damn clue.
Stunned into silence, I took hold of his arm again, relieving him of the bag he’d slung over his shoulder, and guided him away from the stricken car. He didn’t lock it, and I didn’t correct him. It wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was he any time soon.
The thought alone was enough to send my head spinning. Whisky haze forgotten, I steered him through the gate his half-buried car was blocking, past the rope swing I’d swung on as a child, and up the narrow driveway that led to my house. It was a short walk, but into the wind. My face was numb by the time we reached my front door, and I knew any questions I had would have to wait while we got the tiny boy safe and warm.
I shut the door behind us and pointed to the living room where the wood stove was lit. “There’s a guard if you’re worried about him wandering around. Bathroom down the hall if you need it. I’ll get the kettle on.”
The whisky bottle was on the kitchen counter. I took my coat, boots, and hat off, and considered offering Rami a drink of the hard stuff, then figured he probably had other things on his mind.
I boiled the kettle and made tea, remembering from the few cuppas we’d shared at work that he took his strong and rosy, just a drop of milk. Good man. I was the same, though, thanks to how brutal life on the mountain could sometimes get, I’d regressed to having a couple of sugars since my time at HMP Manchester. Manual work meant I needed the calories. The gym bunny I’d once been shuddered in horror, but I found far more joy in a mug of builder’s brew than I had tubs of protein powder, so I didn’t much care.
“It really is you.”
Rami’s low voice—man, that voice—made me jump. I spun around. He was right behind me with the pyjama-clad toddler in his arms, thumb jammed in his mouth while Rami nuzzled the top of his head with his cheek. It was quite the picture and my heart stirred, warmth and longing flaring, along with the bright lights of the connection we’d once had. “How old is your son?”
“What?” It was his turn to blink in surprise.
“Your son,” I said gently. “How old is he?”
Rami held the boy tighter. “He’s not my son.”
“So what are you doing up here with him in the middle of the night?”
Rami shot me a sharp look. “Worried I stole him?”
A short laugh escaped me. “Should I be?”
“What do you think?”
“I think I’m hallucinating because you being in my kitchen makes no sense.”
“Can’t argue with that.” Rami drifted forward and peered at the tea I’d made, selecting the one without the sugar as if we encountered each other like this every day.