Happily Ever After: A Romance Collection

by Amelia Wilde

  “Oh,” I started, guiltily. I’d been staring at his legs, hadn’t I? Was I distilling the man to a disability, rather than the person inside? I wouldn’t look below the belt again. Wouldn’t think about it. “I’m coming.”

  “Be right back.” He disappeared into his bedroom and re-emerged wearing long pants and buttoning a flannel shirt, his face a little flushed. He looked up and met my eyes briefly before settling across from me. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” I picked up my silverware, but he didn’t move.

  “For…” He pointed awkwardly at the door behind me. “That, I mean.”

  “Listen, Micah.” I put down the fork and knife with a clang. “You risked your life to save mine. Whatever thing you have that pushed you to do that…” Excessive testosterone or muscles or insane amounts of courage. “I’m guessing is the same instinct that made you fly off the handle and want pay that jerk back for what he did to me. I get it. But I hurt him already.” I couldn’t help a self-satisfied smile at the memory of Jonathan sinking to the floor with a groan, rolling into a ball, calling me a bitch. “I’ll probably file some official thing someplace. A police report or whatever. For posterity. Despite the he said she said thing. But…” I caught his eyes and held them, needing him to get it. “I appreciate the sentiment.” I picked up the fork, ready to be done with this, but also needing him to understand that he was—he’d always be the stranger who saved my life. A hero. “And all of this. Bed, food, clothes. I mean…”

  “Stop now.” He sounded gruff and his cheekbones had gone a painful-looking red. “Please?”

  “Okay.”

  “Will you just eat?”

  I eyed the absurd man-sized mountain of food on my plate. “I’ll try.”

  12

  Micah

  What am I supposed to do with this woman?

  Laid out on my sofa, talking on the phone to her grandmother, the cops, and then her insurance company, she was as out of place in my home as an…aardvark or something. I’d be more comfortable if a grizzly showed up and took a dump in my bed.

  She handled the red tape shit well, especially considering she’d dangled over that precipice less than a dozen hours ago. Sure would be nice to talk on the phone that easily, instead of turning into an idiot every time I had to answer questions. I’d bet the person she was talking to had no idea that the confident, ballsy lady on this end of the line was laid out on my sofa in worn-out oversized long johns, her body bruised to hell, scratching a dog under the chin with one hand and taking notes with the other.

  My place smelled different with her in it, it looked different, too. Smaller, shabbier, maybe a little brighter.

  Gotta get out of here.

  I put on my boots and coat, grabbed a pair of work gloves, and waved at her on the way out.

  Outside, the blizzard was on. Hadn’t seen one like this in a couple years. I had enough wood cut, which was good, since I didn’t really want to be chopping in this weather. I pulled my hat down and threw the hood up over it, then went to check the property for downed trees, wires, that kind of stuff. I had a generator, but the hum of its engine made me crazy. As loud as it got when I worked, chainsaw in hand, I liked things quiet at home.

  It was why I’d built up here, away from everything, against the advice of doctors and physical therapists and shrinks. Kept things simple. No rules to follow. Just mine and Mother Nature’s.

  I paused at the sound of Christa’s voice carrying through the thick front door, expecting the usual jolt of irritation at an intrusion.

  Nothing. Hm. Maybe it was the Christmas spirit, or something, telling me to simmer on the annoyance or I’d turn into Scrooge.

  I spent the next hour or so tromping around the woods, keeping myself as busy as I could. I even went up to the next rise to see if I could catch a glimpse of that douche-bag city guy’s place, but the snow made visibility impossible.

  It wasn’t until I went into my workshop and flicked the light switch that I realized the power was out. Was she freezing her ass off alone in there? Phone line was probably down, too. I hoofed it back to the cabin and hesitated with my hand on the doorknob. Should I knock?

  No. Jesus.

  Slowly, to give her a chance to—whatever it was she might need to do before I walked in on her—I opened the door, glanced at the empty couch, and had a moment’s relief, followed quickly by panic. Gone.

  No, dumbshit. She can’t be.

  My eyes flew to the bathroom door, which was open, then to my bedroom—also open, but not all the way. I took two steps before I realized I couldn’t go charging in there like a bull in a china shop. She was probably resting. God knew she’d need it after last night. Christ, she’d probably need therapy. Could take years to get over a trauma like that.

  The dogs, who’d shown no interest in going out into the storm with me, were nowhere to be seen. Okay, so, with her, probably.

  Lucky bitches.

  Christ, I was pathetic.

  I turned to look at the wall clock. Two in the afternoon. I should get those chickens going soon. Unless…would she sleep straight through till tomorrow?

  “Micah?” Apparently not.

  I stilled. “Uh. Yeah?”

  “I couldn’t find your ibuprofen. You think I could have some?”

  “Course.” I went to the cupboard where I kept stuff like that—above the fridge. Putting stuff up high was one of those weird leftover things from growing up in a house with lots of young kids. Pointless now, but something I still did.

  I grabbed a bottle of water from my stockpile under the sink—no running water without power—snagged the ibuprofen, and went into my room.

  13

  Christa

  I swallowed the pills and sank back into the pillows with a grunt.

  “How am I hurting so much?”

  I expected him to ignore me and walk out, but his footsteps stopped. “Where?”

  “Oh, God. Everywhere?”

  He gave me a go on kind of look, so slowly, one muscle at a time, I took an inventory. “Neck. Kinda jammed on one side. Chest and ribs, all through here.”

  “Seatbelt.” His eyes scanned me, from top to bottom, and I could only imagine what he was thinking. I’d been called all kinds of names in my life—chubby, lazy, voluptuous, fat. Even compliments could rub me the wrong way, if they focused on my weight. I’d never forget the bartender who’d leaned in, smarmy smile on his face and said, “I just love a confident big girl.” He might have been admiring me, but it hadn’t felt like flattery. Just another reminder that I wasn’t somehow the right size.

  This guy, with his perfectly-sculpted abs and unbelievable strength, who could climb freaking mountains despite a pretty extreme physical impairment, was probably wondering how I’d let myself go like this. But I hadn’t. This wasn’t me with a few extra pounds, this was—me. Period. From the time I’d hit puberty, I was just…round.

  And I was fine with the way I looked. It was the assholes around me who had issues with it.

  “Where else?”

  I threw him a grumpy side-eye, and felt immediately contrite when I realized I’d just worked myself up over something he’d had nothing to do with. “Um. Upper back’s a mess.”

  “Roll over.” The words were quiet; an order. “If you want.”

  Our eyes met and I didn’t see disgust there, or pity, or any of that other annoying, totally unwarranted shit people threw my way. His face was perfectly placid, judgement-free, as if to say, You’re hurt. I can help you.

  So, instead of arguing, I turned slowly over. It wasn’t easy.

  He mumbled that he’d be right back and I lay on my front for a good thirty seconds, gasping like a fish out of water.

  He came back in and stopped abruptly. “Oh, uh… Maybe you should…”

  “Hm?”

  “I forgot about your shirt.”

  I craned my neck to look as he held up a tube of cream. Was he blushing? The guy who’d cradled me last night, while I s
obbed in his arms? Naked?

  “Oh, right. Can’t reach.”

  He remained frozen.

  “Hang on.” I was halfway up when his hand landed on my shoulder.

  “Stay.”

  That wasn’t supposed to get me worked up, was it? Being talked to like a dog or something. And yet, somehow, that one word did just that. Or maybe it was his touch, warm and heavy through the worn cotton of the shirt.

  Breathless, I dropped to my front and waited for what felt like forever. He finally shoved my shirt up, managing not to touch my bare skin at all.

  “Maybe, uh…”

  I glanced back to see him gesturing vaguely at my back, the visible parts of his face so red he appeared sunburned.

  “Oh.” Awkwardly, I lifted my top half up so he could get the shirt above my shoulders and almost all the way off. The fabric grazed my nipples and I dropped back with an oof, hyper-aware of my breasts, flattened to the bed now, the sides no doubt perfectly visible.

  After a few long seconds, he sank to the bed beside me, his weight making me roll into him. Would he shift back? Should I?

  Neither of us moved until he opened the tube of cream. I braced myself for that first cold squirt. It never came. He must have rubbed it between his hands, because when he finally massaged me, there was nothing but warmth. And somehow, he knew exactly where I needed it.

  His strong, rough fingers carved out a semi-circle around first one aching shoulder blade, then the other. He kneaded at me, pressing at a knot to loosen it, then moving on to the next. At some point, I let out a sound, then another, until finally what emerged from my mouth was a long, low, constant groan of pleasure-pain.

  The man was a miracle worker, those hands some kind of magic.

  Over and over, he worked at me, his movements deep and slow. At some point, our breathing synchronized, gasped lavender-laced inhalations flowing into long, heaving exhalations. He leaned forward to pluck gently at my neck, his chest close enough to warm my back, but not quite touching it and all I could think was, Do it. Get on top. Straddle me. Cover me with that impossibly strong body. Show me what it can do.

  Who the hell was I? I’d put this man out, forced myself into the solitude he clearly preferred, and now, to top it all off, while he worked his ass off to heal me, I objectified him.

  Goosebumps, which he couldn’t possibly not see, ran out from every place he touched with his hands, making my skin sensitive, alive. Embarrassing, but not enough for me to put a stop to it.

  By the time he pulled away, I was a sweaty, guilty, squirming mess. Despite the sore muscles—or maybe because of them—I felt swollen, pumped full of blood and a strange sort of need.

  “That good?” he asked, gruffly. I imagined a tinge of resentment in those words, as if he’d meant to add enough at the end, and just held back.

  “Amazing.” My voice came out lower than I’d intended.

  He didn’t get up, didn’t move and, though I wanted a look at his face, I didn’t dare turn around, couldn’t burst the bubble by opening my eyes.

  After a long, uncomfortable, hyper-aware handful of seconds, his hands returned to my shoulders and I tensed. This is it. He’ll touch me differently now, take advantage in a way that I welcome, instead of how that Jonathan fuck did it last night.

  Only it wasn’t like that, of course. Because guys like him didn’t take advantage. And, probably, he didn’t even want me that way, which made my own fantasies more ridiculous.

  Roughly, in a purely practical way, he grasped at the shirt and pulled it over my back. When one of his pinkies skimmed the soft side of my breast, lighting up my nerves like a Christmas tree, it was purely accidental. Obviously.

  Once I was fully covered, his hands landed at the base of my back. So quickly I must have imagined it, his thumbs brushed under the cotton, along my spine up, then down.

  He let out a long, shaky breath, tightened those big hands briefly around my waist, and stomped out of the room, leaving me alone to figure out what the hell had just happened.

  14

  Micah

  Christa didn’t leave my bed for the rest of the day, which was a relief. I shouldn’t have done that, shouldn’t have touched her at all. But that last bit—the squeeze at the end… Fuck. When was the last time I put my hands around a woman’s waist?

  Years. My last leave, in fact.

  I shoved the chickens into the hot oven, shut the door, and stepped back, clenching and unclenching fingers that couldn’t seem to lose the feel of her. Not just the softness of her skin—as exotic to a man like me as some wild animal to a city person—but the blatantly feminine swell of her hips.

  Even now, hours later, I got hard just thinking about it.

  While rubbing her back, I’d stared at her nape—slender and…not weak, exactly, but dainty or something. Vulnerable, in need of protection. I’d fought the urge to press my lips to that sweet, defenseless spot, to add my teeth to the mix.

  Jesus, how would she have reacted? Especially after the shit she’d gone through last night—not just in her car, but with her asshole boss?

  A surge of possessiveness rocked through me, tightening my muscles, making me tense and angry and, fuck me, just a little hornier.

  Wrong. Completely wrong.

  How would she possibly respond to the unwanted advances of a man like me?

  She wouldn’t have to kick me in the nuts. Because I wouldn’t touch her again. Okay, I’d rub her back if she asked me, but I wouldn’t give in like I’d done with that last squeeze.

  Something shifted in the other room—her or one of the dogs, who’d laid down on the floor beside the bed—and, rather than wait around to see how badly I’d fucked up with that move, I rushed to put my boots on, opened the door, and whistled for the dogs.

  The cold hit me right off the bat—a welcome smack to the face. Good. Maybe the girls and I would camp out here tonight.

  It’d probably be safer for both of us.

  But, Jesus, couldn’t I just get a grip? She was injured, for God’s sake. Not begging me to fuck her.

  “Come on, girls!” Finally, they joined me at the door, then followed me outside.

  I opened my mouth to tell Christa where we were going and closed it. We weren’t a couple. This wasn’t some domestic, “Honey, just headed out for a bit” moment.

  Instead, I shut the door and stomped through the two feet of snow toward my workshop, in search of something to do with my hands.

  Checking my equipment would have to do, since the weather barred pretty much everything else. I grabbed my rope bag and yanked out meters of rope, along with the mechanical prusiks I used to facilitate movement up and down trees.

  Bear started whining for dinner an hour or so later. I’d checked all my rigging, gone over lanyards, carabiners, harnesses, and ropes. It was almost dark out and I’d need to turn the stove off anyway, so I had to get back to the cabin. The problem wasn’t that I didn’t want to, it was that I wanted it too much.

  So, maybe my sisters had been right. Maybe I did need to get out more often, talk to people, see old friends, meet women.

  What about the woman in my house?

  Off-limits, idiot. That was Cindy’s voice talking in my head—my youngest sibling. You want a woman on even footing. Not one who’s dependent on you for everything.

  She was right, damn it.

  I trudged back to the house, the girls dogging my footsteps, barely taking the time to pee before rushing through the hard-driving snow toward the cabin. Dinner wasn’t something they took lightly.

  On the porch, I wiped the girls down, knocked the snow off my boots, and peered at the windows. Was there light on in there? Shit, I hadn’t thought to leave her with a flashlight or candles or anything.

  I opened the door and the dogs shot inside like furry, wet cannons.

  “Oh, hey!” Christa giggled “Hey Bear! Hey Brownie!”

  I forced myself to concentrate on my boots for a good ten seconds longer. When I finall
y dared to look at her, I could see her face flush, even in the dark of the candle-lit cabin. My neck prickled with heat of its own.

  “You all right?”

  She nodded. “Like a new person.”

  I nodded and sank to the bench, where I pulled on my slippers.

  Play it cool. I stood, noting that she’d taken the chickens out and covered them with foil.

  “So—”

  “Do you think—”

  We both stopped and let out awkward little laughs.

  “Go ahead.”

  “No. No, ladies first.” I cringed at those words, picturing the precise look on Cindy’s face if she heard me saying that. “Or guest first.” Or something. Jesus, Graham. Get it together.

  She broke through the silence. “Is that what I am? Your guest?”

  “Well, of course.”

  “Unwanted, though.” A smile played around the edges of her mouth, but her eyes looked unsure.

  “Course not.” Definitely not.

  She shrugged. “Well, then unexpected, at least.”

  “Maybe.” And then, because I couldn’t let her hang like that, I went on. “But appreciated.”

  “Yeah?”

  It was my turn to shrug—which made me feel like a kid again. A stupid teenager, always skirting around things, unwilling to commit. I immediately regretted it. I opened my mouth to say something reassuring. Like an adult. A man, damn it. But my eyes were distracted by the amber glow of the bourbon bottle and—coward that was—I used it to get out of this conversation.

  “Want a drink?”

  Her brows rose. “Is that safe? With all the painkillers?”

  “You take a lot of ibuprofen? I mean, before this?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’ll be fine.”

  I went to the cupboard and grabbed two glasses, poured a couple fingers of booze into each, and glanced at her. “Ice?”