by Amelia Wilde
“Gone?” she whispered. So much for not freaking her out. No way would I tell her about the stuff that happened before I left the party.
“There’s black ice up here. Hairpin curves. I braked and…” I shut my eyes hard against the wave of nausea that overtook me, took a step back and made it to the sofa, where I collapsed with an oof. My voice came out flat. “Went off the side of a cliff, Gran.” I paused, expecting some kind of reaction. Nothing. I’d killed her. “You still there?”
“Yes. Go on. How are you calling me?”
“A man saved me. Gran, he’s my…” Angel, I almost said, but some instinct told me he wouldn’t like that. “Micah.” His eyes were on me. I could feel it, though I couldn’t look at him right now or I’d lose it. “He…” Don’t cry. Keep it in. “He climbed down a…sheer…rock face. Um, broke the car window, and, uh…pulled me out.” Hiccup. “Just as it dropped.” I inhaled, wishing I’d learned how to meditate, or actually gone to all those yoga classes I’d signed up for.
“He there?” She used her all business voice.
“Yeah.”
“Put him on.”
“No, he’s…”
“Put. Him. On, Christa. I need to talk to the man who saved my baby’s life.”
“Um. Micah?” I held the phone out. “My Grandmother would like to talk to you.”
Expressionless, he stepped to the sofa, took the phone and said, “This is Micah Graham.”
He didn’t say much. A couple Yes, ma’ams and No, ma’ams. He had a good voice. Solid, but not overloud. Deep, and smooth… No, that wasn’t the right word. More like rich. Like a strong cup of black coffee. No freaking watered down lattes for this man.
I blinked. Was I delirious, comparing this man’s voice to a hot drink? These seemed an awful lot like the thoughts of a person teetering on the edge.
Oh, God, don’t think of edges right now.
One of the dogs—the big one. Brownie, I think?—nudged at my knee. I petted her unconsciously and sank deep into the sofa. It was one of those big, man-sized pieces of furniture. Soft and ridiculously comfortable. I tucked my legs under me and scratched behind the dog’s ear. It was soft, the movement repetitive and soothing. Micah spoke quietly into the phone. I could fall asleep to this.
“Here,” he said. My eyes popped open just as he put the phone into my hand.
“Oh. Thanks.”
“You there?” Gran sounded solid as a rock. Nothing could shock the woman. I wanted to be her when I grew up.
“Yeah.”
“You trust that man?”
I kept my gaze on the dog, remembering the feel of Micah’s hand holding mine, pulling me out of that death trap.
“Yes. I do.”
She exhaled on a long, low whistle. “There’s black ice all over the place, so you’re stuck there tonight, honey.” I opened my mouth to respond, but she barreled on. “He appears to be a decent young man, but I’m going to make some calls. He gave a reference—guy down at the Veteran’s Center. Kurt Anderson. Says he’ll vouch for him. I’ll call, just to make sure. I’ll also talk to the cops in case he has a record or anything. And maybe they can get someone up there tonight, but…” She finally paused and I could picture her expression. The tight-lipped look that said she was holding everything inside. Her next words came out fast and rougher than I’d ever heard her. “I can’t lose you, Christa. Not after your dad. I can’t lose you, honey. Just stay put. Don’t try to go anywhere in this weather.”
“It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow, Gran.”
“I know. I know, sweetie. You stay safe. Gus is here. It’ll be the two of us and that’s fine.” Since he’d moved into the neighborhood a couple months before, Gus spent most waking hours with her anyway, so it wouldn’t be a stretch. “I’d rather know you’re safe and alive than worry about you flying off the side of a cliff again. Stay with that young man. Okay?”
“Yes.” I looked at Micah, who was busy doing something in his kitchen.
“He tries anything, you remind him of the promise he made. Got it?”
“What promise?”
“Yep. All right. I’ve got to get cracking. Love you. Bye, sweetie.” Typical Gran, ignoring what she didn’t want to hear. She hung up, leaving me staring at the phone in one hand and scratching the dog with the other.
“Here.” He set a cup on an end table, took the phone from me and put it within reach. “You hungry?”
I shook my head but then my belly rumbled and I gave him a sheepish smile. “I don’t want to put you out.” As if I hadn’t put him out already.
“It’s fine.” He went to the kitchen and returned with a steaming bowl and spoon, which he handed to me. After putting a couple logs into the wood stove, he went and grabbed his own bowl, finally settling at a small wooden table to eat.
It would be polite to go and join him instead of staying here. But it was warm in front of the fire, with this plaid blanket thrown over my legs, the small dog on top off it, the big one pressing her head to my knee. Unbelievably cozy.
And, honestly, I wasn’t sure I could move.
6
Micah
Would she like the stew? Was venison something she enjoyed or was she one of those city people who couldn’t stand the taste of game? And she was a city person. That was for sure. That slick haircut, with its sharp edges, the short, sparkly dress. That single shoe she’d had on before chucking it. The spike heel.
City girl.
I scraped the bottom of my bowl, trying to figure out what someone with fancier taste buds would think. Salty, thick, rich, meaty. I liked it. The dogs liked it. Good enough.
And now, she was stuck with me, so she’d have to be okay with it.
Her eyes went to mine before looking back down at her stew, reminding me of a little animal, a little scared, shy, skittish.
“How you feeling?”
She appeared to consider. “Amazingly well. Thanks.”
“Yeah? No aches? Nothing hurt?”
She turned her head and stopped short with a grimace. “Everything?”
I went to the bathroom and the kitchen, then came back with a supersize bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water. “Take these.” I handed her four. I’d been in a couple accidents and I knew how bad that kind of shit hurt.
“That many?”
“You can do 800 for a couple days. Won’t kill you.” I knew this from experience.
She nodded, grabbed the pills, and was about to pop them into her mouth when I put a hand to hers to stop her. “Check ’em first.”
“Huh?”
“The pills. Make sure they’re what they’re supposed to be.”
It took her a second to get it, but when she did, her soft mouth hardened and she popped them without looking. “I trust you.”
I lifted my brows.
She reached for the water, which she slugged down before glaring at me. “You’d have to chase after me with a chainsaw, wearing a hockey mask at this point to get me to stop trusting you.”
The image startled me into a laugh. She had no idea how apt that image was. I filled the empty glass and brought it back to her.
“Don’t have to wait on me.”
Not bothering to respond, I went and grabbed the pile of clothes I’d set beside her at the door. I didn’t typically get embarrassed about my stuff, but the cloth on these was worn, washed, and faded like everything I owned. I’d picked the thermals because they were the tightest clothes I could think of, but suddenly I thought I might need to go back and see if I had anything more appropriate for a woman who wore glitter and had hair that looked like a wig.
I muttered something about a soak, went to the bathroom to turn the water on, and left the clothes in a pile on the radiator, along with a towel.
“Bath’s ready.” I grabbed her empty bowl from the side table. “No bubbles or any other fancy shit.”
“Oh, look. I don’t need a bath. I could just—”
“Trust me. You need it.” The lo
ok she threw me said I was being pushy, so I explained. “It’ll help your soreness. Left some clothes in there for you.”
“Okay. Thank you.” She reached out a hand and I stepped back, not daring to look at the questions I’d see on her face. “Look. Um, Micah. I’m sorry to barge in on you like this.”
“Can’t be helped.”
“Well, I appreciate it.”
I was probably supposed to fill the pause she left, but I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
“As soon as the ice is gone, I’ll call someone to get me, okay?”
I went into the bathroom before she could say anything else and shut off the tap. When I turned to leave, she stood in the doorway, blocking my exit. I cleared my throat to fill the silence.
“You have Christmas plans?”
I searched that perfect little heart face to see if she was kidding. “No.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d celebrated Christmas. Or, actually, yeah. I could. Kabul, six years ago. Brown turkey in gelatinous gravy, spongy cornbread, mashed potatoes that were whiter than the tray and tasted like chalk. I’d had no idea I’d been spending my last Christmas as a soldier.
“Okay.” A big inhale lifted her chest, drawing my eyes down for a half-second before I stopped myself and concentrated on her face. “Well, then…okay.”
As she hobbled inside, I couldn’t help checking out her ass in the pointless little dress. Shit. I’d better figure out what to do about the sleeping arrangements.
7
Christa
Oh, God. I groaned and sank into the deep, hot water. Maybe I had died, after all, and this was heaven.
I’d eyed the tub before getting in because, though the cabin appeared neat, I didn’t really trust guys’ cleanliness. This one, apparently, was the exception to the rule. The tub was spotless. His soap selection left something to be desired, but I’d deal. All it meant was that he didn’t have a live-in girlfriend, since no woman I knew would settle for just a bar of soap and a bottle of cheap shampoo.
But whatever. He’d saved my life. The man had a pass on everything. Forever.
And this felt amazing.
For a second, with my eyes closed, I let my mind wander, which was a mistake. A sound assailed me, loud as a freight train: screeching tires, smashing metal, breaking glass. I gasped and worked hard to catch my breath.
Freezing. Hurting. Loud. So loud. I threw my hands up over my face. No. Oh, God. Oh no.
“You okay in there?”
Yes, I tried to say, but I was shaking too hard to use my voice. How could I possibly be cold in this hot, hot bath?
No. No, I’m not. I’m really not.
“Um. Christa. Hey.” He knocked, the sound weirdly muted against the cacophony in my head. “Say something, okay?”
I turned, sloshing water out of the bath, and grasped the edge with both hands.
“I’m… Shit. I’m coming in.” After a few seconds, the door flew open and he was there—really freaking tall, his shoulders wider than the doorway. His hair—the color of wet bark—was shorn about half an inch from his scalp, like he didn’t have time to deal. He looked dark and angry and wild and, for one weird second, I left my tight-knuckled hold on the bath behind and let my body remember how his had felt beneath me.
I must’ve looked like hell because he didn’t pause when he saw me, just swooped and removed me from the bath like some towering God. Hercules or Poseidon or whatever. Water went everywhere, soaked him, the floor, but he didn’t give a crap. From where he’d grabbed me under the armpits, he shifted, lifted, pulled me to him, and breathed.
Oh. Oh, I’m crying.
He tightened his hold and put an arm under my bottom to steady me, held me as easily as an infant, while I clawed at him and sobbed into his neck.
Big, loud, messy convulsions like I didn’t remember doing since I was a kid, before my dad died. Back when sobbing had served a purpose, getting emotion out into the air, cleansing it, maybe. After his death, there’d been no point in crying. Why bother, when God didn’t hear me? When my insides were too shriveled to feel anything anyway?
His chest rumbled against mine and I tried, hard, to stop. To listen to whatever he was saying. But I couldn’t. This wasn’t a breakdown that I could stem using willpower. This was one of those all-encompassing things that hurt. Like really, really hurt. Had I broken a rib in the accident?
“Come on, honey. Come on.” He was swaying, back and forth, shushing me in a quiet voice, trying his damnedest to soothe me. Who was this man who looked like he’d as soon tear a person apart as talk to them, and then rocked me like a baby? Like I was something precious.
Against my nose, the underside of his jaw was rough, as if he’d shaved there recently. It didn’t smell like soap there, though, but like… I sucked in a long, stuffy-nosed breath. He smelled like… The woods, maybe? Sawdust? And, God, that other thing. A man smell. His body, earthy, but good. Not sweat so much as…what was the word? Pheromones, or something.
Holy shit, what am I doing?
I let out another shuddering breath, shaking hard, and in that moment, became utterly aware that I was naked. In his arms. My nipples were almost painfully hard against the rough wool scrape of his flannel shirt.
Another scrape. Oh. Oh, God. Was I moaning? How was this happening? I tilted my head, despite myself, and let my top lip stroke that place that smelled so good. An urge took me over—lick him, it screamed, and I was about to, when his voice cut through this…insanity.
“You okay?”
“I don’t know,” I said, truthfully. I was breathless, and still clogged with unshed tears.
“Come on.” He turned to the side and took me to the right, into his bedroom, where he somehow managed to pull back the blanket while holding me. Slowly, and so carefully that I almost started crying again, he put me in his bed, covered me, and left me alone in the dark.
I opened my mouth to ask him to stay and then shut it without uttering a word.
8
Micah
My instincts had played a big part in saving my life more than once. So I listened to them, usually. But tonight, I had to ignore the one begging me to go back and slide into bed next to that soft, naked body. I paced to the door and back. There and back. On the third trip, I noticed the girls following me with their eyes, wide as I neared the door, disappointed on my way back.
I let them out and sniffed. Smelled like snow.
I went and grabbed my phone—hated the goddamned thing, but I couldn’t run my business without it—and checked the weather app.
Two feet. If they predicted that much down in the valley, then up here, we were in for a major blizzard. Maybe I could get her down the mountain in the morning, then come back up before it hit.
I thought of what her grandmother had said to me on the phone. “You’ll take care of my baby for me, won’t you, Micah? You’ll keep her safe?”
My “Yes, ma’am” had been automatic. Of course I’d keep her safe. It was what I did, keeping civilians safe.
Except not anymore. Unless I counted climbing trees to cut off dangerous branches as being for the good of the public. Which it wasn’t. It was what I did for a living. To make money. To survive.
I sank to the sofa, face in hands, and waited for all the post-battle feelings to pass. My muscles were weak with it, loose the way they’d be after a drink. Which wasn’t a bad idea.
I shoved back up to standing, went to the kitchen and pulled a beer out of the fridge. Then, after a couple seconds, I put it away and took out the hard stuff. Bourbon. It finally felt like the right time to open it.
Funny. Distracting me from a naked woman in my bed wasn’t what I’d expected to use the bottle for.
I gave an internal shrug and poured a massive serving, turned off all the lights, let the girls back in, grabbed a couple blankets from the closet, and limped back to the sofa.
I took a few deep sips, set the glass aside, toed off my slippers, and stood up again to shuck
my jeans. Then, with a sigh, I removed my prosthetic left leg, a process which took a few minutes.
It was weird, sitting here with my residual limb out, and her just beyond the door in my room. She could walk into the living room any second and see me.
I forced myself to stay like that—drinking the bourbon with bare legs, daring her, in some fucked up part of my brain to come out here. Would she let me hold her, if she knew? Would she cry in my arms? Would she still think of me as the hero who saved her tonight?
Jesus. Idiot.
I slugged back the rest of the drink, enjoying the smell and smoky burn, and sprawled out under the blankets on the sofa, my eyes drawn to the flickering flames behind the wood stove’s cloudy glass door.
Jesus, that had been close. Her face, when I’d first seen it… I shut my eyes, but that was worse, because I could hear her. The choked little whimpering sounds.
The freezing little hand in mine.
My eyes flew open. I’d left my gloves down there, on the side of the road.
Whatever. Had another pair someplace.
And, fuck, what did a pair of gloves matter compared to what she’d gone through? She’d lost her damn vehicle.
I had a sudden urge to go check and make sure she hadn’t lost anything else when her car had tried to suck her down the mountain. Anything else—like a limb. As if she wouldn’t have noticed.
I turned to my side and rubbed my face, trying to clear those almost-dead, worst-case scenario images from my brain.
So, instead of those, of course, I got a flashback of her ass. Not just the sight of it, but the feel—in my hand, and in my lap.
Christ, I was getting hard just thinking about it. Which was messed up. But probably better than popping wood while she was sobbing in my arms. That would have been bad.
With a sigh, I reached down and cupped myself, let my hand squeeze my cock, halfway between trying to get it down and just enjoying it. I hadn’t gotten turned on by a woman in forever. So of course it was the traumatized one sleeping in my bed who’d do it.