Snowbound with the Sheriff

by Laurel Greer

  “Okay. But your whole ‘I can get here, but I can’t get home,’ is utterly illogical.”

  He smiled. “There’s calculated risk, and then there’s senseless.”

  She burrowed into her sleeping bag, inching as far from him as she could get without falling over the arm of the damn couch. “The boy I knew was all about senseless risk.”

  Wincing, he leaned back and shook his head. “I was.” Every cell of his body wanted to pull her against him. But her cocoon act suggested she wanted none of that.

  Or she did want him, and was desperately throwing up physical barriers. Hmm. “If the past couple weeks haven’t shown you that I’ve changed, I don’t know what will.”

  “I don’t know what will, either. And I’m going to tuck in. Do whatever floats your boat.”

  He chuckled, easing to his feet and making his way to the bedroom. “And if ‘floating my boat’ includes a kiss good-night?” he called over his shoulder.

  “Then you’re going to sink.”

  Chapter Eleven

  On Saturday morning, Gertie huffed at her phone as her call went to voice mail for the third time. Where was Ryan? She’d come to the bakery for her weekly tea-and-scone chat with her book club, had even stayed for an hour after they finished discussing the latest rom com to take the bestseller list by storm. Not even a hint of her grandson.

  Actually, that wasn’t true. A half-dozen people had asked after him, thinly veiled questions about his job and his love life. But no sign of the man himself.

  Well. She’d just need to go by his house, then. Make sure he was okay.

  She took her cup and plate back to the dishwasher and called a hasty goodbye to Vivian, who was running the till. Checking her phone again to see if Ryan had called back, she exited the swinging doors and promptly collided with a tall, fit body.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, I was looking at my phone. I’m as bad as a high schooler—” Her breath caught as she took in just who that body belonged to. “Tom. Good morning.”

  He grinned, teeth as white as the carefully groomed shock of hair on his head. He put two breakfast sandwiches down on the nearest table. He unzipped his green ski jacket, then slung it over the back of one of the two chairs.

  He had on ski pants, too.

  She wouldn’t mind taking a ride up the gondola if it meant catching a glimpse of Tom carving turns down the mountain.

  “Headed up the hill?” she asked, voice wavering a little. Her pulse skipped. Embarrassment pricked the back of her neck.

  “That I am. Convinced Lachlan to ski with me for the afternoon. It’s hard to pull him away from the baby, but the snow is unreal after that blizzard.” He motioned to his grandson, who was at the counter putting in an order.

  “Hmm. Maybe that’s where Ryan is,” she mused aloud.

  Tom cocked an eyebrow and sat. “Not unless he and Stella came back from the cabin at first light.”

  She froze. “What cabin?”

  “Mine,” he said.

  Her brain stuttered. Stella and Ryan had gone out to Tom’s fishing cabin? “That doesn’t make sense.” Or did it? She knew that kiss she’d walked in on would lead to no good. If the two of them had up and escaped to get some privacy, that could mark the beginning of the end of Ryan’s election hopes. Her stomach turned, and she looked at Tom, not bothering to hide her confusion. “He didn’t tell me he was—” She cut herself off as Lachlan arrived at the table with two steaming mugs.

  He set one down in front of his grandfather and kept one for himself. “Didn’t realize you’d be joining us, Mrs. Rafferty, or I’d have asked you what you wanted.”

  “Thank you, dear, but I’m not staying, I...” She didn’t know what to do.

  Tom studied her, concern in his eyes. “I asked Ryan to go check on her last night.”

  Wait, he’d asked? Her ears started buzzing, and she stared at him, unable to pick her chin off her chest. Tom added some sort of explanation about getting stuck working and worrying about Stella in the blizzard and his night vision, but all she heard was his first words on a loop. I asked Ryan.

  “You did what?”

  His brow furrowed and he reached for her hand. The warmth of his fingers chased away the chill in hers, and she almost let herself enjoy it, except he had thrown her grandson and Stella into a shoebox of a cabin together overnight, and how dare he? She yanked her hand away.

  “I was honestly worried about Stella,” he explained, the corners of his mouth turning down.

  “I could have gone,” Lachlan pointed out.

  “He could have gone,” Gertie echoed.

  Tom’s frown slowly shifted into a resigned smile. “But then it wouldn’t have forced Stella and Ryan into a tiny room, hopefully compelling them to talk out everything that’s gone unsaid between them.”

  Lachlan snorted.

  Gertie had to unlock her jaw, she’d been clenching her teeth so hard. “Did they want your interference?”

  A guffaw rang through the bakery as Tom cracked up, almost doubling over with laughter. “My interference? You’re something else, Gertie Rafferty.”

  “You can’t possibly—” She braced her hands on her hips “I mean, I haven’t—”

  “Yes, you have. You’ve been poking your nose into Ryan’s business since he was sixteen and actually needed to know someone cared enough to take an interest in what he did.”

  “And you think he doesn’t now?”

  She chanced a look at Lachlan, who was pretending not to listen. A laugh was still dancing on his lips. Impertinent, just like Ryan.

  But Tom Reid was the worst offender of the bunch.

  Backing away a step, she held up a finger and glared at the handsome veterinarian. “If this ends up being bad for my grandson, I’m blaming you.”

  “Blame away,” Tom said cheerfully. “I’m betting it’ll be nothing but good for the both of them.”

  “I hope you’re right. And... Don’t break anything while you’re skiing today.” Lifting her chin, she turned and headed for the door.

  “You know, while we’re on the topic of things that could be good for Raffertys,” Tom called at her back, “my invitation for dinner still stands.”

  “And I might have said yes, had it not been for this nonsense.” She left the bakery before she gave in to temptation and changed her mind.

  * * *

  Stella woke up on the couch with a shiver. Ugh. She should have taken the perennial fairy-tale advice to stay out of the forest—nothing good ever happened in little cabins in the woods.

  Weren’t sleeping bags supposed to be warmer than this? Her toes were approaching icicle range, even inside her thermal socks. You know where it would be warm? In an actual bed. Even better—with a big, bulky sheriff to share body heat with. She growled at her misguided inner voice. Ryan was already disturbing her external peace. He didn’t get to commandeer her thoughts, too. Until she could get him packed up and out the door, she’d have to keep him at arm’s length.

  Staring down the heavy stove, she willed it to relight. Damn lack of magical powers. Her attempts to break out both a spell and to use the Force hadn’t worked yesterday, either. Nor had she figured out a way to stay in her sleeping bag without falling on her face while kindling the fire back to life. She was about to brave the frigid air when even-gaited footsteps emerged from the back bedroom.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Delaying “good morning” seemed to be the smartest option.

  Metal squawked on metal, which had to be the door of the stove being opened. Then the crumpling of newspaper, the thwap of kindling being settled into place, the snick of a match.

  Lifting one lid a fraction, she watched Ryan’s fire-building technique.

  Fine, she watched his shoulders. Hello, glorious breadth—the red-and-black plaid shirt he had on was either the one she’d spotted in
the bedroom closet or identical to it. Either way, the thick flannel fit just right across his broad, muscled back.

  “Where’s your holster?” she grumbled. That had fit him just right, too. She’d told herself she abhorred firearms for years. But the minute Ryan ambled in last night, armed and in protector mode, an ache settled at the apex of her thighs and it still hadn’t faded.

  He angled his head just enough to look at her out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t sleep with it on. And I trust you’re not going to steal it.”

  “Did you get that shirt from the closet?”

  “I needed an extra layer. Is that a problem?”

  Only that I want to take it off you. “No. Unless it smells like old fish.”

  He plucked the material between two fingers and brought it to his nose. “Nope. Cedar chest.”

  “Great,” she grumbled. Add that to his outdoorsy, Yankee-candle smell? She’d be holding back from rubbing her face against the soft material until he left.

  Warmth drifted over from the growing fire. He added a few logs and straightened, leaving the stove door open.

  “Is that safe?” she asked.

  “Just until it catches. Want to come warm up?”

  She pulled her sleeping bag into a tighter hood around her face. “I’m toasty already.”

  He snorted. “Not sure why I expected you to be less irritable after a night’s sleep.” After throwing on his coat and boots, he left for a few minutes. When he returned, he stripped off his outerwear—giving her a peek of a six-pack that proved the good sheriff did not skip ab day—and crossed the small room to the corner that served as a kitchen. He started making coffee and busying himself poking through the cupboards.

  “I’m not irritable,” she said quietly. “It’s more...testy.”

  “Whatever synonym makes you happy, Stella.” He started nosing through the cupboards. “What were you planning to eat for breakfast?”

  “I dunno, toast?”

  “That’s a sad lack of imagination.” He set a pot and a cast-iron pan on the stove. “I’m not here to wreck your day. In fact, I should be complaining that it’s my weekend being interrupted.”

  “Should?”

  He cast her a rueful smile. “Being holed up in a cozy cabin with a beautiful woman checks off almost all the boxes on my ‘how to spend a day off’ list.”

  Don’t ask, don’t ask—“Almost?” Damn it.

  His mouth curled up in a knowing, enigmatic half smile.

  “Urgh, you. You know that would be a terrible idea, right?”

  “I was just referring to the weather. Might be a tricky trip back home, is all.”

  Yeah, right. Snowmobiling concerns did not put that suggestive look on his face. “Need help with breakfast?”

  He brought her a coffee. “Nah. We can eat toast another day, Stella. I’ll take care of this one.”

  She warmed her hands with her mug, tromped to the outhouse and returned to a warm cabin full of savory, spicy smells.

  He ladled his creation into two of her grandfather’s blue enamel bowls.

  Curiosity piqued, she went into the kitchen and peered around his shoulder. “What are you up to?”

  “Feeding you, Bella.”

  She stiffened. “What is this, pull out the insipid, rhyming nicknames day? ’Cause I can assure you, I’m not about to revert to ‘Ry-guy.’”

  He lifted a shoulder and motioned for her to sit at the old Formica table, then set a steaming serving of noodles and broth in front of her. A poached egg crowned the creation, dotted with some sort of diced, fried meat and the green onion she’d brought to go on a salad.

  She eyed him. “Ramen? For breakfast?”

  “You’re living in New York. You can’t tell me you haven’t eaten noodles first thing in the morning.” Settling in across from her, he tucked into his serving, humming with satisfaction.

  He used to make that face after he made her see stars.

  Cheeks heating, she poked the egg yolk with a fork so it broke, oozing golden yellow. She spun a mouthful with her fork and spoon and took a bite. Oh, wow. Umami and salt with the perfect kick.

  “I see what you did here. You were trying to prove a point,” she said, shoveling in another bite.

  He smiled cockily. “Maybe.”

  “What are the meat bits?”

  “Fried Spam.” He stared at her as if challenging her to complain.

  She wouldn’t, not when it tasted this awesome. She took another bite. “Getting your kitchen MacGyver on before ten o’clock. Impressive.”

  And when he grinned, a day’s beard growth highlighting his square jaw, her insides melted like the yolk on her noodles.

  Stop that.

  Whether the order was for Ryan and his knee-weakening smile or for her piss-poor resolve, she didn’t know.

  The food being so good gave her an excuse not to talk. She finished and started in on the dishes.

  Ryan joined her and stared out the window at the falling snow. He hadn’t lied about his shirt smelling like cedar. The warm scent drifted into her nose and tugged at her, tempting her to run her hands along the soft fabric. Giving herself a shake, she scrubbed extra hard at the pot he’d used to make the soup.

  Not easy to do with him four inches away and looking more delicious than the meal he’d just made. Sweatpants and flannel suited him, both hugging his muscled limbs.

  She nudged him with an elbow. “You cooked. I’m cleaning.” Preferably with some distance between them.

  He picked up a tea towel. Concern flickered on his face. “Hopefully I can get out of here by tomorrow. I only have the weekend off.”

  “Tomorrow?” The pot slipped from her hands into the water with a splash. The droplets showered her front and her face. She groaned. “Ew.” She caught herself. “The dirty water. Not you.”

  “That’s a relief.” His mouth quirked, and he brushed the dish towel across the dots of water on her chin and cheeks. “And as for your objection to tomorrow, visibility’s not great,” he explained. “Doesn’t look like it’s letting up anytime soon.”

  She plucked the towel from his hand and tried to dry off her sweatshirt. A lost cause. Enough water had sprayed up to soak through. “So you’re just going to stay another night.” She pulled the wet material away from her torso and shook it a little.

  “I’m not trying to make your life difficult, Stella.”

  “Yeah, you’re way near the bottom of the complications being thrown my way right now,” she said. The cabin was free of the job-related tsunami of garbage that had swamped earlier in the week. Though hiding out here did bring a semblance of peace, she knew it was just temporary. She’d have to go back and clean up the wreckage soon.

  So why not fully enjoy yourself for a few hours? Scratch the itch, so to say?

  Oh, wait, because it was a stupid, stupid idea.

  And yet...

  But was it even what he wanted?

  Ask. Or just dive in.

  He was staring out the window again, drying their cutlery with lazy movements.

  “Ry?” After wiping her hands off on the sides of her sweatshirt, she separated the garment from the thin tank she wore underneath and pulled the hoodie over her head. Even with the air in the cabin fully warmed by the roaring fire, goose bumps still rose on her arms.

  A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he kept his gaze fixed on the trees.

  She slid a hand up along his stubble-roughened cheek and turned his face toward her. “Put the towel down.”

  “We’re not done cleaning up,” he murmured, eyes a molten blue.

  “If you’re stuck here, there’s no rush to finish,” she said. She scooted in front of him, fitting her body between the small counter and his bulky frame.

  “What are you doing, Bella?” His voice was a low growl.
/>
  This time, she didn’t protest the endearment. “Just taking advantage of the resources available to me.” She let her palm trail from his cheek, down the open neck of his shirt, one finger pausing at each of the buttons until she was almost at his waist.

  He caught her wrist with one hand and stroked her lower lip with the thumb of the other. A single “ha” came out on a snort. “Taking advantage of me?”

  She nipped at the digit still caressing her mouth. “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Not possible. I’m one hundred percent here for this.”

  He was? She cocked her head. “But you were so concerned about what everyone thought. And I can see why... I ran into Georgie Halloran—”

  A soft kiss cut off her words, making her legs downright shaky.

  “Who isn’t here. No one is. No one knows I’m here except your grandfather and my undersheriff,” he said.

  She kissed him back, eliciting a deep groan. She settled her palms on his chest, feeling his heart rate speed up. “Leaving a travel plan. So responsible.”

  “People can get into real trouble in the wilderness.”

  Yeah, she was getting a firsthand example of that. “Good thing we’re not actually lost. And you’re an outdoor expert.”

  “An expert? Yeah, right.” A frown tugged at his mouth. His hands tightened on her hips, holding her away from his body.

  Damn it. She didn’t want that physical space anymore. Emotionally, though, they could never close the gulf—there was too much between them. Things she hadn’t told him; things he’d claimed not to want to know.

  Should she be frank with him? Before they went any further?

  Maybe...

  But what if she told him everything about her pregnancy and miscarriage...and he reacted poorly? Then they’d be stuck in this closet of a space, with no way out and a whole lot of anger and hurt to keep them company.

  No, best to wait until he asked to spill all that. And for now, she could use him as a distraction instead of futilely trying to distract herself from wanting him.

  “When it comes to you, I’m no expert. I’m as green as they come,” he continued. “I feel like I know everything and nothing about you, simultaneously. And that this is both the best and worst path for us to explore.”