Dashing Through the Snow

by M. Leighton

  That asshole.

  He practically hit on me last night and he’s sleeping with someone else. Evidently, he went home to her last night. After more or less propositioning me. He was going to kiss me, for God’s sake. And I was going to let him.

  What. The. Hell?

  The longer I think about it, the angrier I get, so when the phone rings and I see that it’s Jake, no doubt returning my call when he saw my number, I let it go to my answering service.

  Thank God I didn’t get his voicemail again. Thank God I didn’t have the chance to leave him some humiliating message about things I’d like him to do to me. Oh, Jesus. That would’ve been a disaster.

  A few seconds later, I hear the beep that indicates a message has been left. I punch the button to bring up the screen and tap to listen to Jake’s message.

  “Uh, hey, D. It’s me. Sorry I missed your call. A, uh, a friend was here and she answered the phone. Just joking around. It was…it wasn’t what it sounded like. So, uh, call me back. K. Bye.”

  A friend?

  Just joking around?

  Wasn’t what it sounded like?

  I growl in agitation.

  Does Jake really think I’m that stupid?

  Apparently so.

  And maybe I am that stupid. I mean, I just called the man to ask him to come and have hot snow sex with me in Colorado. That’s pretty damn stupid, no matter how you look at it.

  We are over.

  We’ve been over, and it’s time I put the thought of him and the idea of us out of my mind for good. He tossed me aside two years ago. There is no future for us. No hope. And the sooner I get that through my head—and my heart—the better off I’ll be.

  Even though he can’t see me, I jack up my chin a few notches. I’m stronger than this. Stronger than letting something like this, someone like him, get to me.

  I take a deep breath and tighten the muscles of my chin, muscles that want to quiver.

  He will not break me. Not again. I won’t allow it. I won’t. It’s that simple.

  It has to be.

  ********

  Fifteen minutes later, the sturdy four-wheel drive pulls to a stop. I’ve been lost in my own thoughts, alternately berating and bolstering myself, and haven’t paid much attention to my surroundings.

  But I do now.

  “Where are we?”

  “This is the chalet.”

  I take in the single A-frame cabin tucked in what looks like a cleft in the mountain, completely enveloped by trees and utterly consumed by solitude, and I think that there must be some mistake.

  “Um, no. I’m supposed to be going to a chalet. Like, a big one. With more than one room. And a spa. And a fireplace in every room. This is… No, this has to be the wrong place.”

  The driver reads the address to me and I confirm it with what Starla, the office assistant, sent to me. It’s correct. This is where I’m supposed to be. Only it’s all wrong.

  All. Wrong.

  I grit my teeth.

  Jake.

  He did this.

  He did this to me, knowing I’d get the wrong impression. He let this happen. Maybe even did it on purpose.

  Asshole! I think for the fortieth or so time.

  But then I realize I’m making no sense, not even to myself. Why would Jake purposely strand me here? Especially with a man, when “a man” was the reason we broke up in the first place. Well, at least he thought it was about a man.

  Jake dumped me because he thought I was cheating on him. I wasn’t, of course. I would never have done something like that to him. I loved him. I just wasn’t ready to commit. But he was, and he thought my reluctance must mean I was seeing someone else. Nothing I said or did could convince him, so he ended it. Threw away everything we had because he couldn’t believe that I just wasn’t ready.

  The problem was he just didn’t trust me.

  “All right then, but can you wait? Or, if not, can you come back and pick me up in a few hours? Looks like I’ll need to head back and find a place back in town.”

  “No, I can’t wait. But you can call if you have cell service. Or a satellite phone. I’ll come back for you if the weather hasn’t turned by then.”

  I sigh, one of those irritated ones that sound like a snake hissing in the back of my throat. My disposition has darkened and become snappy after my call to Jake, so I’m in no mood for this guy’s stupid hoaxes. He needs to give it up.

  “Look, sir, you can drop the act. I was born and raised in Philly, so I don’t scare easily.”

  “I’m not trying to scare you, but you should be scared. People have died up here because they didn’t have enough respect for this climate.”

  I snuff the urge to roll my eyes. “I have plenty of respect for it, but that sky is as blue as Matt Bomer’s eyes. If a snowstorm is coming, my middle name is Pippy Longstocking.”

  “Well, then it’s a pleasure to meet you, Pippy. Now, can I help you with your luggage?”

  Before I can answer, he’s out of the SUV and going around to the hatch, where he stowed my single small suitcase. I sling my laptop bag over my shoulder, following it with the strap of my purse, and let myself out of the back seat.

  “It’d be much easier if you’d just wait. That way, you’d only have to unload my things once. Back in town.”

  His smile is smug as he slams the rear lid shut. “I’m happy to unload them a second time if I can make it back up here to get you.”

  I don’t even bother responding. He’s obviously not going to give up this ruse, so there’s no reason for me to keep banging my head against that brick wall.

  I spin on my boot heel and stalk off toward the front of the cabin. Behind me, I hear the crunch of the driver’s boots as they compact the thick layer of snow already covering the ground.

  The cabin is set on what looks like the only flat place on the side of this mountain. There are trees on every side, and no signs of life as far as the eye can see. And when I look way up behind the pointed roofline, I see nothing but a clean, white slope glistening in the sun. It’s beautiful and quiet and picturesque, but good God, is it remote.

  When I reach the wide porch, I stomp my feet to get the snow off them and walk to the door. I knock. When there is no answer, I knock again. When there is still no answer, I try the knob, which turns easily.

  I poke my head inside and call, “Hello?”

  I don’t hear a voice, but I do hear soft instrumental music playing and the soothing crackle of a fire.

  I push the door wider, taking in the chalet’s open floor plan. There is an ultra high-end kitchen to my left, a big king-sized bed framed by intricately carved wood to my right, and a great room that really is great directly in front of me. There is evidence of luxury in every material, on every surface. It’s understated, which still gives the place a rustic feel, but it’s there. From the polished quartz countertops in the kitchen to the polar bear skin rug in the front of the enormous fireplace, the space reeks of extravagance. And I’ve seen enough multi-million dollar homes to know extravagance when I see it.

  This is it.

  The only parts I hate are the Christmas decorations sprinkled throughout the space. They’re cleverly placed and beautifully elegant, but they’re there nonetheless, and I pick them all out instantly. A slender tree decked out in red and silver, a dazzling platinum sleigh atop the mantle, reindeer with red bows dancing across the coffee table—there are little bits of torture everywhere I look.

  “Where do you want this?” I turn to find the driver standing just inside the door, holding my case.

  I swivel, looking around once more. “Give me just a minute, please,” I request, taking out my phone and pulling up Calvin Phillips from the directory. He’s the photographer responsible for collecting footage of Dash’s run down the mountain as well as some candid shots of him during the interview. And this cozy, indulgent environment couldn’t be more perfect.

  I fire off a quick text to Calvin.

  Me: I�
�m at the chalet—I think—but no one is here. Have you heard from anyone else?

  While I await a response, I busy myself with checking my email so the driver doesn’t get squirrely and leave. Less than a minute later, thankfully, Calvin replies.

  Calvin: Should be a note for you on the table. I’ll call after the shoot.

  I glance toward the kitchen, and sure enough, there is a note between the thousand-dollar wine glasses, leaning against a crystal vase full of fresh asters in warm crimson and icy blue.

  Me: Found it. Where are you staying?

  Calvin: Across the ridge from the chalet. Gotta go.

  He might not get it right now, but I respond anyway.

  Me: Well, you might have company tonight. I didn’t book another room. I thought this place had more than one room.

  Calvin: You’re thinking of a lodge. But my bed is always open to you.

  He adds a winking face to his message and I grin, sliding my phone into my pocket. I cross the room and grab the note from the table.

  Dilyn,

  I’m so sorry that no one will be here to greet you. I got called away unexpectedly on other business, but I’ve made sure everything is in place. If you should need anything, please feel free to contact my assistant. Here is her card.

  Best,

  Kelly, Dash’s manager

  I glance briefly at the card—Vilma Jensen scrawled in cursive letters across the front, and her number and email printed on the back—then return it to its spot on the table.

  “Will there be anything else?”

  The driver has set my case down near the door and is now standing on the porch, ready to get the hell out of dodge. I give him a warm smile of gratitude. I feel guilty for my petulance and for taking my anger with Jake out on this man, even though he’s relentless in his humorless teasing of out-of-towners. “No, but thank you. I’ll give you a call for pick up later. Cell service permitting,” I add, going along with it. God forbid I alienate my only way out of this place.

  “My pleasure.” He nods once then pulls the door shut behind him, leaving me alone in the chalet.

  I walk to the wide, cream-colored sofa and perch on the edge, taking my laptop out of its case and settling in to await the man of the hour.

  I try not to watch the time, but I can’t help noticing how late it seems to be getting. The light is waning much faster than I expected.

  Nearly an hour after my arrival, the door flies open, cracking back on its hinges and letting a gust of frigid air into the room. A man decked out in black pants and a thick black jacket steps through, quickly flinging it closed behind him.

  “Hot damn! That’s one helluva storm coming.”

  I come to my feet, preparing to introduce myself after he strips off his hat and goggles, shakes out his longish black hair and then runs gloved fingers through it. But my response, whatever it might’ve been, dies on my lips when he turns a smile on me that nearly levels me where I stand.

  Holy. Shit.

  “You must be Dilyn. I’m Dash Grainger.” He crosses the room to where I’m standing, still as a statue, in front of the sofa. Even in the cumbersome clothes that don’t quite conceal the crazy-awesome body I’ve seen photos of, he moves with the fluid grace of a large jungle cat. No doubt his body is in peak physical condition—hard and muscular with lots and lots of stamina—a thought that causes an odd and very inappropriate fist to squeeze in my lower belly. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  He sticks a finger in his mouth and pulls off his glove with his teeth, then offers his hand. God, it’s such a hot, manly thing to do. So casual. So damn sexy. Or at least it is when he does it.

  Automatically, I take it, tucking my hand in his. His palm is broad and rough, his fingers long and strong as they clasp around mine.

  We shake hands and still I say nothing. I can’t find my tongue. Or my wits. I mean, I knew what this guy looked like—masculine perfection—and I’ve heard all about his reputation—playboy extraordinaire—but even so, I was totally prepared for this interview, and for him.

  Or so I thought.

  But in truth, nothing could’ve prepared me for the real Dash Grainger. Looking at him, up close and in person, is like looking at the sun—dazzling. Breathtaking. Mesmerizing.

  And I’m mesmerized.

  ********

  Dash

  We’re still shaking hands, but I haven’t gotten a single word from the woman I’m touching. And that’s a damn shame, because my entire body wants to know if her voice matches her looks.

  I was expecting a reporter, yes. I was expecting a woman, yes. But what I wasn’t expecting was for her to look like this: rich, shoulder-length hair that’s so thick my fingers itch to fist in it; skin so pale the blush in her cheeks looks like a pink sun is setting behind them; a small body perfectly formed, with high tits, a tiny waist, and long, long legs. She’s got it all, no question.

  True, I’ve dated some of the most perfect human beings on the planet, but this one…she has a real kind of beauty that hits me right in the gut. Very unexpectedly, I might add. It isn’t often that I’m wowed, but this chick is by far one of the most stunning women I’ve ever seen.

  I don’t think it’s something as trivial as just beauty that’s smacking me in the face, though. It’s her eyes that get me. They’re heavy-lidded and the color of bourbon. Soft. Sleepy. Sexy as all hell. And the way she’s looking at me… Holy God, I’m ready to skip introductions and beg her to let me peel her clothes off. But more than that, there’s something…vulnerable in them that makes me want to hide her away here in the mountains and protect her from…everything. What the hell?

  Whatever the exact reason actually is, this woman has my attention in a big way. She has it by the balls. And maybe something else.

  When she still doesn’t open that lush mouth of hers to say anything, I give her hand a tug to pull her closer as I lean in. I can’t resist a little teasing to loosen her up. Or at the very least to hear what her voice sounds like. “They didn’t tell me you were mute, but you’re so beautiful I don’t even care.”

  ********

  Dilyn

  He’s so close I can smell mint and winter on his lips. His perfect, perfect lips. It takes a few seconds for his words to register, and when they do, my face heats to a thousand degrees in less than a second.

  I snap my eyes shut and shake my head, reaching for the calm indifference I always employ during interviews with impressive people. But for the first time in my eight years as a journalist, it’s nowhere to be found.

  But at least I manage to recover my voice.

  “I’m sorry. This day has just been… Well, nothing has gone as I expected. I’m just a little…discombobulated. That’s all.”

  ********

  Dash

  Holy dick-suckin’ Saturday! That voice… Jesus. It’s even better than I hoped for. It’s like she took a long drink of hot whiskey and it burned her the whole way down.

  I smile at her, tickled as shit with the way this is turning out. “Well, I hope things get better. Starting now.”

  ********

  Dilyn

  Dash shoots me another crippling grin, slowly releasing my hand so that he can reach up and unzip his jacket. I probably shouldn’t watch him do it—it’s too much like watching him undress—but I truly think looking away is beyond my control. I can’t not watch him. He’s pure beauty and raw, raw, raw sexuality.

  Oh, Lord, help me.

  He peels the jacket off his broad shoulders and tosses it on the chair behind him. Beneath it, his wide chest and flat stomach are encased in a stretchy, black Under Armor shirt. It’s so snug and fits him so flawlessly that I can see every hard, lickable ridge of his abdomen.

  My eyes are trained on them as he bends to push the thick pants he’s wearing down his legs. When he stands, my mouth goes dry as a bone. He’s wearing the same type material on his lower half, too, and the material leaves little to the imagination.

  The man is just built. Fr
om the top of his sexily mussed head to the extremely impressive bulge between his thick, sculpted thighs, He. Is. Built.

  “Sweetheart, you’d better give me those eyes,” Dash says in a low, sensual tone that is all bare skin on bare skin. Per his request, I drag my gaze up to his. His eyes are the color of coal, but they sparkle like onyx. “I’m gonna go right over to that kitchen and make us a drink, because it seems like you need one.” He takes a single step toward me, bringing him close enough to reach out and swipe the pad of his thumb across my lower lip. “But if you look at me like this again, I’ll take it as an invitation to relax you in a much more pleasurable way.”

  Before I can even formulate a reply, he sticks his thumb in his mouth, as though licking my flavor off it, and turns to make his way to the small bar cart standing between the kitchen and living area.

  With his eyes, his attention, his presence focused elsewhere, I can drag in a deep breath.

  “So, tell me a little about yourself,” he says above the clink of ice cubes into crystal tumblers.

  It takes a few seconds for his words to penetrate, and when they do, I’m forced a little more toward the thinking woman that I usually am. “This…this isn’t about me. I’m here to interview you.”

  That’s right, dummy. You’re here to interview him. Get your head out of your ass and do your job.

  Dash doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he waits until he’s standing only inches from me, lips curved into a lopsided smile, offering me one of the drinks in his hand. “They must not have warned you about me then.”

  I frown, taking the short glass without really thinking. “Warned me?”

  Dash moves to my left and around to the sofa. I turn to keep my eyes on him as he goes. He plops down on one of the soft cushions, leans back in that manly way guys do, and motions for me to sit as well.

  I do, perching primly on the square I occupied before he arrived.

  Eyeing me, Dash laughs, a low rumbling that reminds me of an idling motorcycle engine. It’s a sexy, dangerous sound that makes the hairs on my arms stand up. “First of all, you need to relax. I don’t bite.”