The 48 Hour Hookup (Chase Brothers) (9 page)

“You know what?” He yanked off and flung his sunglasses, and for a moment, she thought he might be mad. But nope.

He kissed her.

He reached up, put his gloved hand at the back of her head, and dragged her mouth to his. And
kissed
her.

Surprise pelted her like ice blown from the trees, but was quickly forgotten. His lips had been cold, but they melted into warmth almost the moment they touched hers. It was gentle and sweet, which did little to explain the riot of desire tearing through her.

As soon as he broke the kiss, he nudged her sunglasses off her face. They fell to the side.

“Are you going to hit me?” he asked, eyes dancing, so brilliantly green against the snow that they took her breath.

This was her out. She should say yes, let him scramble to his feet, because they had a terrible habit for bad ideas. But she didn’t say yes. “No,” she said. “I’m not going to hit you.”

“Good.” He drew her in again, this time pressing deeper, this time getting there. Though he touched every corner of her mouth, all gentle and probing and gentlemanly, she couldn’t help but feel he was teasing her. Like he was holding back.

And still, it was the best kiss of her life.

Maybe it was her body’s jump to awareness, the encounter earlier that morning still tingling in her extremities. Maybe she was just grateful to have survived another winter sports incident. Or, more likely, it was him. Because wouldn’t
that
just be her luck?

“If we hadn’t already agreed not to do that,” he murmured, “I’d love to do it again.” He pushed back a few strands of hair that had escaped from her knit hat, every intense fleck of green in those eyes focused entirely on her. “Not that we’re going there.”

She should really look away, attempt to find her feet. But she didn’t. “We’re definitely not going there,” she agreed. Sort of.

“Actually,” he said softly, “I think you’re flinging me off one of those cliffs you mentioned.”

God, what was with
flinging
? Had she really told him she’d thought about having sex with him? She thought she’d been dodging a bullet, and instead she’d buried a landmine under the snow, and every step she took put her closer to that thing exploding in her face. Like now. “I didn’t know guys ever felt that way,” she stammered. The body contact was killing her. And why was he managing to woo her with his every word? Had he gotten less awkward, or was she just getting sucked in?

“Woman, you just destroyed me with that kiss. There’s no way I didn’t feel that.”

She shifted, figuring she should let him up. Out of the snow. Maybe find a way to come to her senses. But he touched her arm. “I’d like to feel it again,” he said.

“In the snow?”

“Let it melt.” He touched her cheek with a gloved fingertip, and the idea of that contact being skin to skin had her eyes drifting closed.

The gentle probing that followed was so deep and impossibly tender that she wasn’t sure she’d ever un-feel it. Not that she’d want to. It was like that soft mouth obliterated those walls she’d built, running as she did, and made her want so badly to find a place to stand still. Which was ridiculous, because despite being molten hot and a rescuer from raccoons, he was just a man. Of the same ilk that had broken her heart three times now, but that traitorous heart didn’t feel so broken right then. She felt…light. An endlessly free feeling she just wanted to capture and hold. Own it. Because whatever it was could only exist right there, on that mountain.

However real, it would never be more than an illusion.

Still, by the time she broke free, so reluctant, so seduced, she was ready to fling her clothes to the snow and let him maul her. Anything to feel him.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he said.

“Like this?” She barely caught the oddity of the question through the haze that had fallen over her.

“Natural. Not like on TV.”

His words jerked her back to where she was.
Who
she was, and with whom. She thought he understood her, at least when it came to the fact that she wanted to leave that part of her back in New York City. His reminder had no more place on that mountain than she did in skis, and his mention of it left her feeling like she’d been slapped. She struggled away from him, fighting to get her skis re-attached where they’d come loose.

“I’m sorry. Claire, I didn’t mean—”

He scrambled to his feet, not quite making it there before he lost his balance and tipped sideways into the snow. He didn’t have any more luck getting to vertical than she did. Good. She jerked her ski out of the drift and managed to snap her foot into it. Maybe. It seemed secure enough. “I thought you, of all people, would understand I don’t want that here. We
agreed
we weren’t doing that here.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, sounding bewildered. “I just meant that you look pretty damned amazing like this, minus the part where you look like you want me dead.”

She leaned to get her poles, managing to fall over again. He wisely didn’t say another word. Just sat there in the drift they’d all but flattened. “Watch for ravines,” she muttered, more or less competently getting up and taking off toward the lodge. The tracks made it easy, though she hated he was probably watching her ass as she left. Not that she could blame him. That was pretty much all
she’d
done on that trail.

Why did he have to kiss her like that and then ruin it by mentioning what she’d gone there to escape?

And why did she have to
care
that the connection was ruined? She should be grateful. She didn’t know who she was madder at. Him for tearing through her defenses and reminding her of who she really was.

Or herself for wanting him in spite of it.

Chapter Nine

Liam watched Claire storm back down the trail. Her ass was phenomenal. Her anger was…justified. He got it. He couldn’t believe he’d opened his big mouth and reminded her of why she was running, but it had been a fucking compliment. Or maybe not.
You’re gorgeous when you don’t look like your TV self
probably wouldn’t have gone over well, had he succeeded in putting that all out there.

Irritated with himself, he managed to get his feet underneath him. Through a small clearing, the snow-covered view sprawled endlessly. He’d wanted to tell her that was what he loved about getting on a mountain. The views. The air. The isolation.

Instead, he’d kissed her.

He hadn’t meant to. She was just too…irresistible, all flushed and aggravated and plowing him down like they’d been on a forty-five-degree slope instead of relatively flat ground. The skis hadn’t been waxed in ages. Cutting the trail hadn’t been easy, but out there, he was in his element. Or so he’d thought. He’d found a new element. One with pretty blue eyes and a soft mouth. One probably spewing profanity in his honor.

Hell, he could do the same.

He’d barely slept with her lying against him. Instead, he’d spent the night with his mind filled with all kinds of dirty thoughts, every drop of blood he had in his body congregated south. He was still kind of blown away by the way they’d lain there, tangled and talking, spilling life stories like they were old friends around a campfire. He still felt the arch of her foot resting against the top of his and the curve of her hip teasing his fingertips. He still heard those soft sighs she uttered in sleep and felt the way she’d snuggled a bit closer with each one. He wondered a time or two who she thought she was cuddling with, but he quickly pushed each of those thoughts away.

Didn’t matter.

Especially not that morning, when she opened her eyes and let him drown. He never meant to touch her, not so intimately, but he’d lost all control of control. Granted, he hadn’t mauled her, but he hadn’t been able to resist when she’d let him in.

And now he’d blown it.

He covered the trail half-heartedly. He didn’t have to cut it, which made the going faster, but he didn’t figure Claire wanted to see him right then. Their attempt to find anything to build a fire with had failed, but he noticed a low bough that blocked a dead branch and stopped to break off as many of the smaller branches as he could. The wood wasn’t dry like firewood should be, but it wasn’t snow-soaked either. With any luck, it would burn…if they managed to light a fire, that was. He crammed it into his backpack and headed down the trail.

By the time he made it back to the shed, her gear was back inside, and she was nowhere in sight. She couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen minutes ahead of him by then, but now that he’d seen she’d gotten back to the lodge, he figured he shouldn’t look for her at all.

A breeze blew, chilling him. The sun was bright, and the air temperature on the rise, if the dripping ice was any indication. He glanced at the power lines heading into the lodge. Everything there appeared intact, not that that meant anything. There were probably a few miles of wires between there and the substation. He withdrew his phone. Upon discovering he had a signal, he called the local power company and reported the outage. No estimate on restoration, as they were still assessing damage.

He suspected Claire needed space, and he didn’t mind giving it to her. He felt bad, but throwing an empty apology her way wouldn’t help things, so he figured it was as good a time as any to get to work. At which point he remembered he was missing the equipment he’d left in his truck and hadn’t been able to retrieve due to the storm.

He shook his head. Without the bulk of his gear, he wouldn’t get much done in the basement with the furnace, but with the power out, it made more sense to start in the attic, where all he needed to do was check over the ductwork. Since there appeared to be attic windows, he’d have more natural light to work with up there anyway, which was convenient without electricity.

On his way in, he checked the window on the service porch. It was open. He swore under his breath, then backtracked and walked to the front door. If the stupid raccoon was in the kitchen again, he didn’t want to run it to the front of the lodge.

He stomped his boots on the wide porch, giving the soul- and truck-crushing tree a side-eye, just because he could.

When he walked inside, Claire was stoking the ashes, no hint of a fire brewing. She spared a backward glance, but barely.

He dropped the wood on the hearth. “The window is open again,” he said.

That
earned him good long look. “You’re kidding me.”

“You didn’t go to the kitchen yet?”

“I haven’t been here long,” she told him. “Thanks for the wood.”

He nodded an acknowledgement. “I called the electric company. No clue when the power will be on. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to get started in the attic checking out the ductwork.”

“Do you need any help?” she asked, her voice noticeably softer.

“Just tell me where the access is.”

“There’s actually a real flight of stairs. Follow the upstairs hall all the way to the back. There’s a narrow door on the left that leads up there.”

He gave a brief nod. “Okay. That’s where I’ll be.”

“Liam?”

“Yeah.” That little knot he had in his chest loosened when she said his name.

She wiped her hands on her pants and stood. “Do you mind going with me to the kitchen? I have stuff in the freezer, assuming it’s still cold, for a stew I can make over the fire, provided I ever get it lit, but I’m not sure what’s waiting for me in there.”

“That’s a lot of ifs and maybes, but if you’re going to make a stew over the fire, I’ll go with you anywhere.” His stomach rumbled at the mere suggestion. He was missing his mom’s Sunday dinner.

“I never said it would be
great
stew. I’m not much of a cook.”

Nevertheless, he gave her a grateful smile. “Camp rules. Anything cooked over an open fire is delicious.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” she warned as she followed him down the hall.

He paused long enough to grin at her before he flicked the switch on the pocket door. Before he opened it, he slid it open just enough to grip the free side with his hand and kicked the bottom a few times. “Just in case there was anything near the door,” he said when she gave him a questioning look. He slid the door open a bit further. Nothing jumped out, so he stepped inside the kitchen. “What am I looking for?”

“Meat and veggies in the freezer,” she said. “I can get them. I just didn’t want to be alone.”

“I got it,” he said. “Hang out near the door just in case there’s any—ah, hell.” He rounded the island and found himself in a standoff with a growling raccoon. “Watch the door,” he warned. He spared the theatrics this time. The stupid thing hadn’t been frightened enough to stay away, so he wasn’t about to humor it. Instead of sticking to the walls, he opted for giving the critter a wide berth. He ignored the chattering or barking or whatever the thing was doing and opened the freezer. It was still cold, everything he touched still frozen. One by one, he held up the items that looked like candidates for a stew, then gathered them in his arms and retraced his steps back through the kitchen.

“What’s he eating this time?” Claire asked.

“Nothing.” Maybe that was his problem.

She stood on her tiptoes, straining to peer around the center island. “Maybe you should give him something.”

He shot her a wry look. “I’m not sure you understand how breaking and entering works. Generally, it shouldn’t be rewarded.”

She frowned and crossed her arms across her chest. “Well, it’s cold outside, and he’s obviously hungry.”

Was she kidding? “He’s a bandit.”

Her face lit. “We should call him Bandit!”

He could have stared at her all day, all that light dancing in her eyes. But even he had standards, and naming a raccoon Bandit fell beneath them. “Um, no. That has to be the most overused raccoon name in the history of raccoon names.”

“Fine. You name him.”

Liam almost rolled his eyes. Almost. Because he was standing in a kitchen with an armload of frozen food while a raccoon with a lopsided mask chattered at him like they were old friends. Or like Liam was about to have his face shredded. “Stanley.”

“Stanley?” That pretty little mouth of hers twisted comically. “You can’t name a raccoon Stanley.”

“I think I can.” He handed her the cold stuff. “Any food in the cabinets?” He shot a glance along the bank of ’70s-era orangey-glazed knotty pine, seeing nothing through closed doors. He wasn’t sure why he’d even looked.

Her nose scrunched. “I think I remember a banana in one, if he didn’t take it last time. I’ve been putting everything there to keep it away from mice. Not that I’ve seen any.”

With a pointed look at Stanley, he said, “Thank goodness there aren’t any
mice
.” He went to the cabinet, found the aforementioned banana, and went to the service porch, leaving the fruit on the sill of the open window.

When he returned, he found Claire peering around the island. Stanley stared back at her. “Making friends?”

“He’s cute. And his mask
is
crooked.”

“I told you I was observant.”

“I got that,” she muttered. He let it go. She was speaking to him, and he hadn’t talked himself into an apology for what was an innocuous, if loaded, statement. They were in a good place, he and Claire. It was as good a time as any to escape to the attic. He helped her carry the food to the front room and hesitated in a moment of fascination while she tended to what looked like a cauldron. There had been two of them—one on each side of the firebox—but he’d assumed they were decorative.

“Anything else I can do?” he asked.

“No. Have fun in the attic.”

He hesitated, giving a long look to the dead fire. “Need a hand with that?”

“Maybe,” she said. “My lighter is dead, and we’re not dire enough to tackle those roads before the plow hits them.”

He glanced around the room. “We’re going to need to put something in there that will catch easily.” Assuming they got a flame out of thin air. He hadn’t quite figured that part out yet. “What about a piece of the blanket?”

“Absolutely not. My grandmother made those quilts.”

Figured. His gaze landed on the leather recliner.

“No way,” she said.

His brow lifted. “Did your grandma raise the cow, too?”

She shook her head, pairing the gesture with the kind of glare that would shut a man down in a heartbeat. “You can’t buy those chairs anymore. They belong together.”

“What if I promise to leave the leather intact?”

She nodded, albeit slowly and with what looked to be suspicion. “Now I’m curious.”

He picked up his knife from the hearth and turned the chair to its side. When he found a seam, he eased his knife between the stitching.

“That’s. Not. Intact.”

“The seam can be re-stitched,” he assured her. “I’ll pay for it myself.” Once he’d opened it enough to fit his hand, he eased inside and felt for the batting. When he got his fingers around it, he tugged. It didn’t move.
Dammit
. With her narrowed eyes boring into him, he popped a few more stitches until he had a clear view through the pocket he made, then started pulling the stuffing out of the chair.

“You’re dead to me,” she said.

“Did you not lay a tree on my truck?” He handed her a pile of chair innards. If she was going to look at him like that,
she
could put them in the fire.

“The truck didn’t have any historical significance,” she said. “It was brand new.”

“Which is kind of
my
point,” he shot back. He didn’t know why she had to be so damned angelic there in the light that reflected off the snow and beamed through the windows. Blue-eyed and blonde, she was textbook gorgeous, but there was more than that drawing him in. He just wished he knew what, so he could combat it some kind of way.

But at this point, he couldn’t even fight fire with fire.

There wasn’t any.

“Is there any dry wood anywhere? This bagful won’t last long if we get a fire going.”

“I was just going to check the service porch and the shed. The wind blew the snow in every direction, so I’m not sure anything was safe, but I should be able to at least find some sticks.”

“Can I try your lighter? Maybe it’ll surprise us.”

She handed it to him, then zipped her jacket and pulled on gloves and a knit hat. “If you take apart any more of my furniture, be gentle.”

“I’m always gentle.”

“What a disappointment,” she said as she slammed the door shut against a gust of wind.

He stared at the closed door for a long time before remembering he was supposed to light a fire. Shaking his head, he turned and knelt in front of the hearth. The remains of the fire were a dull gray, not much ember to them. He’d camped a few dozen times, but he’d gone into that prepared with waterproof, windproof matches and kindling.

He tried the lighter. Barely a spark, but maybe enough. He took a piece of the batting from the chair and held it over the lighter, then tried it again. The lighter sparked, but the fire didn’t happen.

After a few minutes, Claire returned and stood watching him.

“I don’t suppose you have a condom?” she asked.

Caught
completely
off guard, he couldn’t even look at her. “You want to have sex? Now?” It wasn’t like he’d turn her down, but where the hell had that come from?

“
No
,” she said quickly. “I mean, that’s not what it’s for.”

Not sure whether or not he should be flattered, he looked to see her blushing. Or maybe that had been the wind, not that there’d been any. Wordlessly, he reached into his pocket and extracted his wallet, then a condom, which he handed to her. Despite her quick and emphatically negative reaction to having sex, he was suddenly grateful Sawyer had thrown a small box in Liam’s backpack “for the road.” If sex did become a thing, he’d hate to think he’d used his only one for…whatever the hell she was doing.