by Avery Flynn
Shelby flinched and dropped her hand. She’d been trying to help. It wasn’t like she wanted to hold his hand, or touch him, or—
I should have just let him fall on his ass. Way to go, Past Me.
“We need to shut off the other rooms and keep this fire going,” he said, closing the door that led from the open-concept living/kitchen space to the hall that led to the back of the house and then heading for the stairs. “Since there aren’t fireplaces upstairs and there’s no way we’ll get power all the way up here until after the storm’s gone, we gotta shut this room off as much as possible.”
Wait. What? No. That wasn’t right.
“Heat rises,” she said. “I’ll just stay in my room upstairs under some blankets. It’ll be fine.”
Okay, that sounded lame even to her ears. The more open space the heat had to fill, the less there would be.
“Shelby, we don’t know how long it’s going to be until either help arrives or we can drive back down the mountain,” Ian said as he climbed the stairs. “This is us for the next few days. Believe me, I hate it, too.”
And there it was, the shit sandwich of a situation. She was trapped with Ian Petrov in a cabin without power while the snow picked up speed outside and the wind howled. Yeah, when this was all over, she was most definitely going to come back as a ghost and haunt Lucy for getting her into this mess.
Chapter Four
Why was it that the thing a person was looking for was always in the last spot they checked? Ian grabbed the cast-iron skillet from the weird half-size cabinets above the built-in microwave and brought it over to the fireplace. The sun had dipped below the mountains and he’d augmented the light from the fire with about a dozen candles he’d found in the hall closet. No one was going to mistake it for high noon, but there was definitely enough light to cook dinner without worry of slicing a finger open instead of the fat steak he’d taken from the fridge.
“What’s all this?” Shelby asked as she walked down the stairs, looking like an extra from a postapocalyptic movie about badass women surviving in a new Ice Age.
She wore a long-sleeve black thermal shirt with buttons all the way down the front that weren’t tempting at all, a snug pair of black thermal pants that made leggings seem like religious wear, and had the thick comforter covered in silhouettes of grizzly bears from her bed wrapped around her shoulders and flowing behind her like a cape. She clutched a pillow and a duffel bag that looked to be about the size of a small car compared to her twiggy frame and obviously was throwing her off-balance. Weighed down like she was, when she moved from one step to the next, she bobbled a bit before regaining her balance, twisting her mouth in determination and descending to the next level. The same process repeated with each step, the tension increasing and making his gut twist with dread.
He stomped over to the stairs. his gaze trained on her foot as it came within a skate’s blade of missing the step. “Don’t move.”
Her eyes went wide with shock but she stayed in one place. “Why?”
“Because you’re gonna kill yourself, and the cops will never believe that you insisted on coming down the stairs loaded down like an overwhelmed pack mule.”
She grinned down at him, showing off a prominent gap between her two front teeth. “Two trips is for losers.”
“And people who aren’t into concussions or breaking their own damn neck,” he grumbled as he hustled up the stairs, getting to her level before she managed to lose the battle with gravity and balance.
He lifted the duffel bag from her shoulder and took the pillow from her grasp, shoving it under his arm before turning and heading back down, his annoyance with himself increasing with each step. Why in the hell was he helping her? He could have been snowed in here by himself, drowning his misery in scotch and stewing in the wreckage of the life he’d thought he’d been living.
Instead, here she was, the reason for his misery—okay, to be fair she was the messenger of his misery, but every time he thought about his dad and Christensen, it was like getting whacked on the back of the head with a two-by-four. Being mad at Shelby hurt less.
He let out another harsh, angry breath.
“Are you always this surly when you’re helping people?” Shelby asked, trailing behind him, all darkness except for the ridiculous comforter and her voice that sounded like she’d just taken a partial hit of helium.
“Yes.”
“Then you could at least have the decency to not look all Witcher hot while you do it.”
That stopped him cold and he turned around, glowering. “What is Witcher hot?”
The beginnings of an amused smile tilted the corners of her mouth upward. “Do you grunt?”
Okay, he wasn’t sure where this was going, but he didn’t like it. “Occasionally.”
She shot him an oh-really look. “In the past twenty-four hours, you’ve grunted so much that I can tell the difference between their meanings. Plus, you just did it, like, five seconds ago.”
He let out a huff of breath that rumbled in his chest as he dropped the duffel at the end of the oversize couch. It was a massive piece of furniture that had to have been custom-made. Roughly ten feet long, it ran the span of the living room with each end being bracketed by two chaises wide enough to be an extra-wide twin-size bed. It wasn’t as good as separate rooms while he was snowed in with her, but it was better than freezing his ass off in a snowbank.
“See!” Her triumphant tinkling laugher filled the cabin.
“I did that on purpose.” Not really, but he wasn’t going to admit that to her. “I don’t do it otherwise.”
She let her head fall back and laughed as if he’d just told the world’s funniest joke.
“Absolutely no one believes that. You are a grunter. A scowler. An eyebrow raiser.” She waved her hand in his direction with enough enthusiasm that the comforter nearly fell off from around her shoulders. “And you like to stand with your arms crossed when you’re wearing a Henley so we all know without any doubt just how big your biceps are.”
“What’s a Henley?” That came out of his mouth, but all that was running around his head was that she’d been checking out his muscles.
“What you’re wearing. What do you call it?”
He looked down. “A shirt.” He’d gotten the Henley because it was soft and comfortable. Because he hated shopping, he’d gotten twelve of them in three shades. Between these shirts, his collection of sports-related T-shirts, and a healthy collection of workout stuff, he was pretty much set when he wasn’t in uniform on the ice or in one of the stupid suits Coach insisted they wear before and after games. She thought it showed off his guns, huh? He crossed his arms again, being sure to tuck his hands under his biceps to really set them off. And bingo, he saw it. A rusty chuckle escaped. “Never noticed that before.”
“Believe me,” she said, her cheeks a little pink. “Other people did.”
Other people, huh? Or maybe just Shelby? Did his chest puff? Did he flex a bit? Did he start getting thoughts he didn’t need to have? Yeah, he did. Sue him. “Why does it make you so mad?”
She rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t.”
“It sure seems to bother you.” Yeah. He wasn’t convinced, especially since she wasn’t looking at his face. Nope. Her gaze had traveled lower. “Or maybe it’s more that it gets you hot and bothered?”
Did he sound like his grandpa saying that phrase? Sure shooting (another PopPop special), but he leaned into it, enjoying feeling something other than seriously pissed off for the first time in weeks.
Her cheeks flamed. “You’re obnoxious.”
“And hungry.” He waited a few seconds to see if her blush could darken any more. “Which is why I am about to make us dinner.”
“I think I liked you grunty better.” But that twitchy trying-to-fight-off-a-smile of hers was back.
“Steak,” he said,
figuring it was time to get back to the matter at hand. “Yes or no?”
She sighed, sending the puff of her short wavy hair up from her forehead. “Yes.”
“Perfect.” He walked over to the fireplace and set the metal screen down on the two bricks that had already been in the fireplace. “Maybe if you’re eating, you can’t spread all the secrets you’ve ever heard about me.”
You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?
This time she grunted, and it didn’t take much skill to translate it as a snarly little fuck you, especially since when he looked over his shoulder, he caught her flipping him off. Oh God, this was almost as good as busting his teammates’ chops in the locker room. It was just the sort of thing he’d been missing since all hell had broken loose—well, one of them. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to enjoy a little trash-talking fun. He wasn’t about to ruin his mood by thinking about his now-dead friendship with Christensen.
Before his brain could pounce on that thought and inspect it obsessively from every possible angle until he was three seconds away from chucking out his entire hockey career to go live in the woods, Shelby let her comforter drop. He tightened his grip on the cast-iron pan before he dropped it on his toe and found himself out of the lineup even longer.
Ian had never been a guy with a type. Every woman had something about her that was sexy and intriguing and grabbed him by the balls, demanding his admiration. Seeing Shelby, though, in the soft light being thrown by the huge-ass fireplace and all the candles he’d dug up did something else. It made his gut flop and his toes sweat just like before a big game when everything was on the line and the stakes had never been higher. It made no fucking sense. The woman had fucked up his life. That she hadn’t done it on purpose didn’t matter. Intent didn’t eliminate responsibility.
It was going to be a long few days before a snowplow got to them.
…
Belly full from a perfectly cooked steak and warm baked apples, Shelby started shuffling the cards she’d found in the drawer of the wooden coffee table with a scene of deer in the meadow carved into its polished finish. Across from her, Ian was sucking down the last of the orange juice, seltzer, and one scoop of rainbow sherbet that had been her go-to treat drink since she’d gotten out of rehab. Thank God the Airbnb people had stocked the fridge and pantry. At least they wouldn’t starve. Maybe it was because the hangry had abated, but they hadn’t sniped at each other since dinner had started, and Ian had only grunted twice.
And with hours to go until bedtime, the books on her tablet weren’t going to do her any good, since she’d forgotten to charge before the power went out. Beyond anything else, not having access to her latest read when she only had four chapters left to go and everything was chaos was pretty much the definition of sucking big-time.
“You gonna deal or just shuffle for the rest of the night?” Ian asked as he adjusted the pile of pillows he was sitting on, then adjusted them again and again.
Shelby bit down on her lower lip as she watched him be all snarly with the pillows, stifling the giggle desperate to escape. It shouldn’t be funny, but it was. He was like the princess and the pea over there.
Once he finally settled, she finished shuffling and put the cards in the middle of the table. “Did you decide what game you want to play?”
For the first time since he’d marched into her room like an avenging ghost, he smiled, and it transformed his entire face and was like catching a glimpse of a happy oasis in a desert of grump. “Slap Jack.”
She snorted. “Yeah right.”
“What?” He crossed his arms over his chest, the uh-huh-that’s-right look on his face showing that he knew exactly how good his arms looked at the moment. “It’s fun and fast.”
“Your thumb.” She pointed at his hand. “The one that you had surgery on? The one that’s the reason why you aren’t playing right now even though the team needs you?”
He shrugged. “I’ll use my other hand.”
“That doesn’t seem like the best idea.”
He grunted—of course—which she most definitely wasn’t beginning to find amusing. She was just getting used to it so it annoyed her less, that was all. And the butterflies bouncing around in her stomach? It had to be steak-related. Who could afford a thick, juicy piece of meat that size on her salary? And yes, she was talking about the steak and not the man, thank you very much.
She cut the deck in half, sliding one stack over to him and keeping one for herself. “You’re going down, Petrov.”
“Not gonna happen. I have professional-grade reflexes.”
That might be true, but she had three-fourths of the deck within minutes. If he had been someone else, she just might be thinking that he was hesitating so he didn’t smack her hand into a pancake—but this was Ian Petrov. He’d growled at her earlier today. Literally growled. Plus, if he even made eye contact with her, he was scowling half a heartbeat later. That whole don’t-hate-the-messenger thing was definitely not part of his personal philosophy. So the game continued as the fire crackled and the wind howled outside. King of hearts. Two of spades. Nine of spades. Four of diamonds. Jack of—
Shelby slammed her hand down on the pile a fraction of a second too late, landing on Ian’s hand with a resounding thwack. His eyes went wide and he sucked in a quick breath before looking down. He’d used the hand with his injured thumb.
“Oh hell, I’m sorry.” She shot up from where she sat crosslegged and nearly collapsed back down as invisible pins and needles jabbed at her because she’d sat in the circulation-destroying position for so long. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he said before he even looked down to make sure his stitches were still in place. “It was my fault.” He glared at her. “I got distracted.”
Okay, she wasn’t exactly a fan of losing, either, but what the hell was with all the dirty looks? She hadn’t meant to whack him. He was the one who used his injured hand and suggested Slap Jack.
“Do you need me to look at it?”
He pulled his hand close like she was going to cleanse the wound by shoving his thumb into the fire. Trust issues? This guy? Yeah, he was pretty much a wounded bear. Of course, that didn’t excuse him from being an ass. Come on, they were both adults. Shitty stuff happened to everyone. Part of adulting was figuring out how to move forward without firebombing the place.
“Nah,” he said, relaxing a few degrees as if he realized he’d flinched. “I’ll live—and eventually the sports press will stop giving me shit for getting injured by falling over my own feet.”
“Could be worse. Do you remember the goaltender who tweaked his shoulder blow-drying his hair and had to stay off the ice?”
Ian chuckled. “And then there was Ron Tugnutt—real name—who messed up his groin when he bent over to tie his shoes.”
“Or,” she said, getting into the spirit of the moment, “the guy who busted up his hand cleaning his bagpipes—not a euphamism.”
They were both snickering by now at the ridiculousness of it. Hockey wasn’t an easy sport. It was hard checks, illegal hits, and fighting over a frozen piece of vulcanized rubber that could knock your teeth out and break bones if it hit a player right. Still, the players played through it all, even if it meant wincing on their way to the bench and spending the time between shifts trying to fight through the pain.
God knew, she’d seen it enough going to games with her former stepdad before he’d hit it big and had earned enough to finally buy the team he’d always loved.
Of course, that hadn’t happened until after Jasper Dawson and her mother divorced. After that, they’d lost touch because it wasn’t like they’d even been related for that long—her mom rarely made it past the year-and-a-half mark before setting her eyes on freedom. Still, when Shelby saw the news about Jasper, she’d celebrated that little victory of his from her room at the rehab clinic, telling everyone about h
ow for one glorious season she and Jasper had season tickets right behind the bench.
It had gotten so cold down there at that level, and by the end of the games, there was no mistaking the smell of the sweat-soaked hockey pads, but it had been absolutely wonderful. So when her counselor had recommended she find a hobby that she could pour her energy into instead of pouring herself into a bottle, the Ice Knights had been it. And The Biscuit had been born out of a place of desperate hope for the future.
“So you’re saying I’m in good company?” Ian asked, dragging her back to the here and now.
“Well, you’re at least not alone. I’m not sure it’s the same thing.” She held out her hand. “Now, let me see your thumb.”
He didn’t move. She lifted an eyebrow, ready to go to battle.
Finally acceding, he put his hand in hers. Turning it over, she noticed the little nicks and scars dotting his knuckles, no doubt from years of playing hockey. Heart beating fast, she brushed her fingertips over the back of his hand before turning it over to get a better look at his injury. The stitches were perfectly lined up, tiny and angry-looking after that smack, but none was torn.
Good. Great. You can let go now, Shelby girl.
She could.
She didn’t.
Instead, she made the mistake of looking up and catching him not glancing down at his thumb but staring directly at her with what sure as hell wasn’t a thank-you-for-checking-on-my-boo-boo look. It was the kind of look that promised the best kind of dirty things and had her shifting on her pillows. There were just so many bad possibilities, the really good bad kind that involved nudity and licking and touching and orgasms for everyone and—
Oh my God, Shelby. Calm the fuck down before you embarrass yourself. He is just looking at you, not getting naked and eating you out by the light of the fire.
And that was a mental image she most definitely did not need in her head right now.