She’d never seen a man move as fast as Fletcher when he jumped toward her, wrenching the compass from her grasp. The chain had worked its way around her pointer finger, so the movement was painful, her glove ripping off and dangling like a dismembered limb.
If Fletcher noticed, he gave no indication. He was always a stone, but in this case, he was one that had cracked open and was in danger of spouting lava. “Where did you get this?” he demanded.
She stuck her finger in her mouth—protection against the cold and the pain. “I told you,” she said, forming the words around the digit. “You dropped it in the car, so I wanted to bring it back.”
His eyes never left her mouth—or, more specifically, her finger. If it were any other man in the world, she’d say there was something erotic about that glance, about the way he fixated on the in-out movement of her finger between her lips. As though it was the most painful and pleasurable vision on earth.
But this was Fletcher, the staid. The solemn. The . . . irate?
“Did you open it?” The question was uttered in tones so harsh her finger practically fell out of her mouth. “Did you look inside?”
“Of course not. Why would I do that?”
“You should have left it there.” He shook himself, as if warding her off, but whatever spell was he was trying to conjure up didn’t work. Almost as an afterthought, he muttered, “You shouldn’t be here at all.”
That was it. The next person to tell her what was good for her—to wrap her in swaddling and pretend she didn’t have two thoughts to rub together—was getting a compass in the face.
Without a word, she yanked her glove away from him and marched in the direction of the assembled crew.
“What are you doing,” Fletcher called after her. “There isn’t time for you to play games.”
She whirled. “Playing? You think I’m here because I got tired of playing Solitaire on my computer? Because I’m seeking pinball-level thrills?”
“No. I think you’re here because you’re trying to prove a point. But this isn’t the right time for it. And you’re trying to impress the wrong man.”
Shock and anger hit her like a slap to the face. Fortunately, the presence of so many other people kept her from unloading the whole wheelbarrow full of fury that should have been poured, steaming and feral, over his head. He was the wrong man, was he? None of her girly, feminine taint was allowed to cloud his calm judgment?
“Good thing you’re the last man on earth I want to impress, then. Ace, do you think it likely I’ll freeze to death in a place where no one else seems to be succumbing to the chill, or would you like me to stay and add to the numbers?”
“Lexie.” Fletcher’s voice was equal parts desperation and command.
She ignored both, placing a cajoling hand on Ace’s arm. As she suspected, he wasn’t immune to her pleading eyes. She could do pleading very well. She did it for a living.
“Would it be so awful if she stayed overnight?” Ace asked. “We’ve got the room and could use the manpower. And she’s already here. Besides—I kind of like her company. She’s nice. She’s sweet. She . . . ”
Lexie chomped down on her triumph.
“ . . . she makes you feel good, like you could make it through a thousand freezing nights as long as she’s by your side.” Fletcher supplied, his voice flat.
Great. Now he was making fun of her.
“Well, she’s already come all this way,” Ace added.
Fletcher didn’t say a word, but his eyes spoke the question that hung in the balance between them.
“Please,” Lexie said simply.
With a grumble, Fletcher nodded. In low undertones rendered all the more inaudible by the rising wind, he spoke first to Lisa, then to Max. Both seemed to have no problems with the plan. Lexie held her breath for the full twenty seconds it took Fletcher to approach Newman with the request.
Although words weren’t something Lexie usually found in short supply, she would have been hard-pressed to name exactly what it was she was fighting for here. True, the thrill of being present—of actually helping these people, if only as the sad, self-deprecating clown who provided a few kicks—was part of it, but those things formed merely the outline of her intentions. The rest of the picture was hazy, but she knew it was linked to the swelling feeling in her chest that told her to push harder, demand more.
You’re trying to impress the wrong man.
No, her heart said. For the first time in her life, she was trying to impress the right one.
“Well?” she asked, her throat thick as Fletcher approached.
“You can stay.”
The calm, cool professional inside her urged her to give a curt nod, to thank him politely for taking her seriously. That was what normal people did in situations like this.
So of course she fell to the ground instead, giving in to the urge to make an impromptu snow angel. Pockets of snow melted on impact where they hit her skin, sneaking in her collar and nipping down her neck.
“I’ve been wanting to do that since I got here,” she admitted, taking Fletcher’s hand as he pulled her to her feet. She glanced back, noting with pleasure the crisp edges, the perfectly formed wings. Once upon a time, she’d spent entire winters making snow angels.
“I’m sorry to put you out like this,” she said. Whatever else her intentions, she didn’t want to get in the way of Fletcher’s work.
He didn’t let go of her hand. “You’re not putting me out, Lexie.”
Then why did he insist on looking at her that way, making her feel like both the smallest and the biggest human being in the world?
“Why can’t you just let me help you? What are you afraid is going to happen?”
He gulped, and Lexie could see the workings of his throat behind the clasp of his heavy winter coat. He didn’t have a scarf.
Wordlessly, she unwrapped one of her own—the manliest one she had, a blue and gray zigzag pattern she’d knitted herself. She loved scarves, always wore at least three of them at a time in the winter. They were like a hug.
People needed more hugs. Fletcher needed more hugs.
As if sensing what she was about to do, Fletcher tilted his head toward her. Gently knocking back the rim of his hood, she reached up and wound the fabric around his throat, taking care to tuck the ends underneath his zipper. Her fingers slipped over his skin, and she felt his warm pulse leap under her touch.
“There,” she said, smiling up at him. “Now at least you’ll be warm.”
All she got in thanks was a long stare and a deep, shuddering breath before he stalked to find out about their next assignment.
Chapter Nine
Fletcher did his best to arrange the sleeping tents according to his own wishes.
Between the ten of them and the four additional people who’d shown up to provide support, they had three sleeping tents. They’d take turns sleeping and continuing the search party: two in the RV station, two search parties of four, the last group of four asleep in a regular rotation. It was standard protocol, and he was able to swing it so he and Lexie never—never—had to share a tent.
That didn’t seem like so much to ask for.
“I don’t know why you volunteered to sleep first.” Lexie poked her head inside his tent as he was preparing to catch a few hours of rest. “That’s the worst shift. You’ll be walking death tomorrow.”
“I’m walking death every day,” Fletcher returned. “You aren’t the first woman to accuse me of being a zombie.”
“Oh, are you talking about that time Sean’s friend Jessica said you had all the perceptive capacity of the undead?” To his horror, Lexie actually came inside the tent. He shifted back so far his head brushed against the heavy-duty nylon, his hair lifting with static. It was a small tent. Miniscule. Practically a vacuum. “That doesn’t count. She was angling for a date, but no matter how much she shook her milkshakes, you never seized the day.”
“I count three butchered metaphors in there.”
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“Oh, sure. Now you’re paying attention. Poor Jessica.”
Since Lexie was blocking the only exit, there was no easy way to escape. Giving in to curiosity seemed his best route. “Jessica wanted me to ask her out? Really?”
“Oh, Fletcher.” Lexie laughed and shook her head. “I swear, you have all the perceptive capacity of the undead.”
The smile that sprang to his face stopped short at the sound of a zipper falling. Lexie’s coat—fluffy and damp and cold—fell with it.
Six. By his guess, based on a comingling of experience and hope, there were six layers left before she hit skin. Pure, soft, sweet . . .
Lexie snapped her fingers. “Hello? Fletcher? Did you hear what I just said? Lisa asked if I wanted to switch shifts so you and I could be on at the command station together. She gave me the all-clear, head-injury-wise, but said it would be the height of cruelty to leave me alone with Ace on my first night. He offered to show me his pec pops while we wait, so I’m sort of with her on this one.”
He shook himself, feeling like the biggest, most perverted jerk in the world. He was supposed to be taking care of Lexie, making sure she didn’t vault off the side of the mountain or wake up with her nose frosted to the ground, and all he could think about was how close he was to seeing a bit of skin.
“Actually, I wouldn’t write that off just yet. I’ve seen his pec pops. They have a mesmerizing quality to them.”
Lexie punched him playfully on the arm. “I told her you wouldn’t mind. Scootch, will you?”
If the tent was a vacuum before, it was a black hole now. A dizzying, cold-sweat-inducing hole. “What did you just say?”
Two scarves came unwound, the top one pink and sparkly, the other one a more serviceable red wool. Together they counted as one layer. Five.
His fingers rose to touch his own neck, where Lexie’s blue scarf still hung. It looked girly and smelled like her, and he found himself unable to make the motions to remove it from his person. Knowing how pathetic he was, he’d probably end up wearing it forever, scrubbing with it in the shower.
You’re being creepy again, Fletcher.
“Who’s being creepy?” Lexie looked up from the act of removing her boots. His thoughts were in such a jumble he couldn’t remember if they counted as a layer or not. Hopefully not. They were running short and it had only been about five minutes. “I don’t think Ace means any harm, although I bet he’s one of those guys who has a full-length mirror hung above his bed. I’ve never found that to be a flattering angle for anyone.”
Sex jokes? Lexie was in his tent making sex jokes now? “Is this conjecture or firsthand knowledge?” he managed.
She just laughed. “Someday, you’ll have to try it and let me know what you think. Are you going to sleep with your coat on?”
It was protection. He pulled his coat closer. “You can’t sleep in here.”
“The alternative is for me to sleep with Jason,” she said. With a barely stifled yawn, she added, “I promise not to snore or wiggle or even make a peep. Although these sleeping bags make a lot of noise, so I can’t promise they’ll stay quiet. Wait—where are you going?”
Air. He needed air. But as Lexie blocked the exit with her body and a hurt look, he resigned himself to a long, painful night of suffocation. “Shouldn’t you leave your sweater on?” He asked. Four. They were down to four layers now. “It’s going to drop down to about minus ten degrees out there. This is not how snow camping works.”
“Lisa said the sleeping bags work better when you let your body heat create a pocket of air. You know, like when two people are freezing in a movie and they have to get naked together.”
“Lexie, please don’t say the word naked right now.”
Fletcher was a master of control when it came to this woman—with the exception of the occasional creepy thought that slipped in, his one real talent in this world was his ability to not make an ass of himself in her presence. That run of luck was about to come to an end. A hard, embarrassing end that would soon become impossible to hide inside this tiny tent. There was no physical way for the two of them to lie in here without rubbing. Rubbing and touching, all of it accompanied by the knowledge that Lexie was stripped down to her underwear inside the smooth, slippery nylon of her subzero bag.
God, what he would give to be inside that bag with her—to be inside her, period.
“Fletcher, can I ask you something?”
Don’t let it be about being naked. Let it be about anything in the world but being naked. “Of course,” he croaked.
“What do you think of me?” She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, curling herself into a tiny ball. Two people inside a small tent couldn’t be farther apart from each other than the pair of them in that moment.
“What do I . . . think of you?” he echoed lamely. “As in, your value as a human being?” Or as a woman?
She gave a half shrug that rocked her body. “Yes. As a human being, as someone you can depend on. Be honest with me—if you aren’t, I don’t think anyone will. Am I just totally useless, always in the way?”
Even though the words Bad Idea flashed brilliantly through his brain, he scooted closer. Wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close, he soothed her rocking movements to an end. With just those four layers left, she felt warm and soft. He gave in to a momentary impulse to bury his head in her hair before speaking. She smelled incredible, flowers and sunshine in the middle of a bleak winter storm.
“You’re not useless, Lexie. You just spent the last ten hours trudging through snow and ice, putting yourself in danger for a woman you’ve never met. That isn’t something everyone can do.”
She sniffled. Fletcher pulled back and tilted her chin up. It seemed important that he look at her for this—that he show her he was looking. At the real her, not the watered-down version everyone else seemed to see.
“You’re selfless and you’re kind and you’re funny.” And beautiful. The kind of beautiful that radiated inside and out. “You’re my friend, and you’re the strongest woman I know.”
Her breath caught and her eyes—those dazzling, luminous blue eyes—turned his way. Wide and beseeching, he knew instinctively that she was waiting for more. Asking a question. Giving him his chance. If there was ever a time to declare his love for her, this was it.
He blinked and turned away. Lexie might be strong, but he wasn’t. He didn’t have the strength to witness her reaction if he laid himself bare. A single overture of benign friendship, though insufficient to fill the aching need inside him, was better than losing her altogether.
“Thank you,” Lexie said.
“It’s the truth.”
She waved her hand carelessly, though he noticed she caught a tear on its return path. “I mean for all of this. Sean would have bundled me in cotton wool and sent me home right from the start. It means more to me than you realize that you let me stay.” She released a yawn. “But even I’m willing to admit I’m exhausted. Is it okay if I sleep now?”
“Of course.” Fletcher shrugged back into his coat and shoved his feet into his boots. “I’ll let you get some rest.”
She frowned, and he had to fight the urge to wipe away the unhappiness with his thumb. Or his lips. His lips would be so much better.
“You’re not going to sleep?”
“Later,” he lied, reaching for the tent zipper. There was no way he’d get any sleep with her this near, and even he had his limits when it came to self-torture.
Before he could think better of it, he leaned in and brushed a kiss on her forehead. It was light, brotherly even, barely a touch.
It almost killed him.
“Good night, Lexie. Sweet dreams.”
And then he left before he had a chance to screw it up even more.
# # #
Sleep was impossible.
In all her life, Lexie had never felt so tired. She had yet to take off her super-wicking socks, but she was pretty sure blood crusted betw
een every one of her toes, adding a layer of protection and warmth. Her muscles ached with the exertion of climbing mountains, and her head throbbed right in the center—a feeling she knew from experience had the potential to transform into a full-blown migraine, yet another in her long line of personal failings.
And even though she was cocooned in a sleeping bag that had probably cost more than her car, and was being lulled to sleep by gales of wind so loud they could be mistaken for the Caribbean Sea, her eyes refused to stay closed. They were too busy reliving the expression on Fletcher’s face as he’d kissed her goodnight.
Fletcher Owens. The man she knew but didn’t know, the friend she’d taken for granted for so long, had willingly placed his lips on her skin. And her skin liked it.
Her skin freaking loved it.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no,” she told herself firmly. “You will not start having inappropriate thoughts about Fletcher. It’s one thing to be an annoying tagalong. An annoying, lovesick puppy is ten times worse.”
Misreading his overtures was all she needed to make her life officially a one-way train wreck—especially since he’d made it so patently clear that even sharing a tent with her was out of the question. The look of downright fear in his eyes when she’d taken off her coat hadn’t helped matters, either.
She sat up and pulled at the cord that locked her into the sleeping bag. It was almost possible to hear the hiss of her body being released from the airtight seal. There was no use pretending to sleep when her services could be used outside. And if all that blood was already crusted in place on her feet, it seemed like a shame to waste it.
In the act of reaching for her coat and boots, Lexie dislodged Fletcher’s bag, a smaller, more serviceable canvas sack she’d seen him pull out of his Monster Pack earlier. The bizarre thought that it must contain things like his underwear flitted through her head.
Boxer briefs. She couldn’t say for sure how she knew, but the fact that Fletcher wore boxer briefs was cemented in her brain in all the best possible ways. Probably because she loved them, all tight in the right places and sexy without trying too hard. Men’s underwear had come a long way in the past few decades.
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