On a Snowy Christmas Night

by Debbi Rawlins

  She didn’t know how or when it happened...only a second ago she’d been clutching the blanket at her throat. But her hands had moved to his chest and were alternately kneading and clawing at his flannel shirt.

  His tongue parted her lips, and she accepted him inside, confusion and fear fading along with her hesitancy. He wasn’t rough or rushed but seemed more interested in paying attention to detail. After a thorough exploration of her mouth, he returned to biting softly at her lips, then her chin and jaw, and finally trailing his damp mouth down her throat to the collar of her shirt.

  Only her top button had been left undone and she held her breath, waiting to see what he’d do next. He lifted his head and smiled at her. Adrenaline shot through her body, and she had the crazy impulse to drag his mouth down to her breasts, urge him to give her tight achy nipples the release they needed.

  “Go ahead,” he whispered. “Do it.”

  She stared at him in shock. Had she spoken her thoughts out loud? No, she couldn’t have....

  He glanced down at her hands, one of them still clawing at the flannel, the other fisting his shirt. “I’d rather you unfasten the buttons.”

  “Oh.” She snatched back her hands.

  He caught her wrist. “It’s okay.”

  “Did I tear it?” Judging by the sting in her cheeks, her face must be flaming red. “Oh, God, I’m sorry—”

  Touching a finger to her lips, he silenced her. Then he slid his hand down her neck to the valley between her breasts where her jacket gaped open. His probing thumb grazed her nipple. Her whole body had started quivering. It was no use pretending he hadn’t noticed. She could blame it on the chilly air. Except she didn’t feel cold anymore, her internal temperature had risen to a fever pitch, and she supposed he knew that, too.

  “Jesse, wait,” she said, when he started to steer her captured hand to his chest. “This will end in disappointment and there’ll be no taking anything back.”

  “Have I disappointed you so far?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Have I done anything you don’t like?”

  “No, but—”

  “Does this feel like disappointment to you?” He guided her hand lower until her palm pressed his arousal.

  She swallowed. He pulsed against her, and she jumped, jerking away her hand. Her breath came in short, hard gasps. She helplessly stared down at the bulge behind the thin cotton fly, wishing she hadn’t been so hasty. She wanted to touch him more but she couldn’t make herself do it.

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” she murmured, lifting her gaze to his face.

  The pity she saw in his eyes caught her off guard. She staggered back a step. Humiliation flooded her chest and belly. She was no match for someone like Jesse. She felt sick suddenly. Worse, she felt as if she were fifteen again, thrown out into a fast and confusing world she didn’t yet understand.

  “Shea, what’s the matter?”

  She shoved him away and searched blindly for the stool. For a second she thought about running for the door but he’d follow her outside for sure. Anyway, what good would it do to run into the snow besides prove she was that same inexperienced young girl who felt desperately out of sync with normal life? The only thing that would get her would be more pity.

  “Dammit, I’m not going to hurt you.” He caught her flailing arm. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I need something to drink.” She twisted her arm until he was forced to release her. “Where’s the whiskey?”

  “Shea. Jesus, I’m sorry. I misread the situation.” He exhaled sharply. “I swear to you I would’ve stopped if that’s what you wanted.”

  “The whiskey?”

  His expression bleak, he gave her a long searching look and then walked past her.

  She wrapped the blanket tightly around her body and sat huddled on the stool close to the stove and waited, not daring to see what he was doing behind her. She’d done it again. Muddled things when she hadn’t meant to. It was as if she spoke a different language, and there were no translators. Jesse was being nice, and she had to confess that the proof of his attraction was very compelling. Why wouldn’t her stupid brain let her have this? It wasn’t fair.

  “Here.” Apparently he didn’t trust her with the bottle. He passed her a tin cup barely a quarter full.

  She took a tiny sip and found he’d already watered it down. Although he had no business making that decision for her, she couldn’t summon the energy to object. Taking another sip, she watched him pick up his jeans and pull them on. They couldn’t be dry yet but she didn’t say a word.

  He lifted the sleeping bag out from behind the wooden crate, using the flashlight to inspect it. She saw now how they’d missed it earlier. Most of it had disappeared into a gap where two boards should’ve met at the corner. They probably had once but the lumber was warped now and already she could feel a slight draft the sleeping bag had efficiently blocked.

  She set down the cup. “Would you say the cot is beyond repair?”

  Jesse swung the beam of the flashlight on the torn canvas. “Yep.”

  “How about if I tear off pieces to plug that gap in the wall?”

  “You’ll probably need the knife.” He motioned with his chin in the direction of the pot and frying pan. “Take the flashlight.”

  She got up, leaving the blanket on the stool so it wouldn’t get in her way. He held out the flashlight without looking at her. God, she hoped he wasn’t angry. None of what happened had been his fault. Which was exactly why he had every right to be upset. Trouble was, she didn’t know how to fix it.

  “That’s okay. You keep the light. I’d rather avoid any surprises in the sleeping bag,” she said. “Who knows what kind of crawly thing could have gotten in there.” He still wouldn’t look at her. “Assuming you still plan on sharing it with me.”

  He glanced over now. “If it looks okay, it’s all yours.” His gaze dropped to her legs, then quickly flicked to the blanket. “Your jeans and thermals might be dry,” he murmured, turning back to the sleeping bag.

  She should’ve already checked but she’d forgotten. She scooped up her cup and took the last sip of the watered whiskey. Then she moved to the cot, felt her jeans, which were still very damp, then used the dim glow of the lantern to rip the canvas into large serviceable pieces. She’d forgotten the knife, but it turned out she didn’t need it.

  “The sleeping bag is fine,” Jesse said from directly behind her. “Give me some of that and I’ll plug the wall.”

  She straightened, pressing a hand to her lower back, which was strained from stooping too long in an unnatural position. “Will this be enough?” she asked, holding out the worn swatches. “Some of them are a bit threadbare.”

  “They’ll work.” He took the pieces from her, careful not to so much as brush her fingers with his.

  The situation saddened her. She didn’t want him walking on eggshells around her. And to her complete astonishment, she missed his casual touching.

  They needed to talk. Or at least she needed to do some talking. It wouldn’t be easy. At this point she wasn’t even sure he’d be willing to listen, or that she was capable of making herself understood. Normally she’d ignore the whole awkward mess and retreat into herself. But she owed Jesse more than that.

  She rounded the stove so that she could watch him work while she sucked up her courage. Without thinking, she automatically started to count the floor planks where the light shined, like always, in groups of three. At nine, she caught herself and stopped. If she didn’t speak up now, she’d likely crawl into her shell of silence and not reemerge until they left the shack.

  “Jesse?” Her voice shook. God, her whole body had started trembling. Maybe she wasn’t ready to put herself out there. Or maybe she should’ve drunk a little more whiskey.

  “Yeah?” He crammed in the last piece of canvas.

  “Can we talk?”

  He hesitated, staying in his crouched position even though he was clearly finished
. “I need to go get more snow,” he said finally, and rose, dusting his palms together and then wiping them on his jeans. He still hadn’t looked at her.

  “Okay. Sure.” She swallowed. “It’s nothing.”

  She watched him pull on his boots, grab his jacket and the bucket, then disappear out the door.

  * * *

  JESSE HAD NEVER been such a yellow-bellied chickenshit in his entire life. Maybe one other time in the eighth grade when Sophie Scroggins had asked him to marry her. He’d left school in the middle of the day and only returned before afternoon homeroom because his mother had threatened to drag him back by his ear.

  Interesting that both times he’d wimped out had to do with a female. He glanced back toward the shack. This one in particular really had him tied up in knots. Mostly his doing. He’d been an ass, pushing her too far, and now she wanted to have the dreaded “talk.”

  Damn.

  What made it worse was that he wasn’t sure what she wanted to say. That he was a despicable human being? He didn’t think so. She’d seemed kind of nervous. Maybe she realized she’d given him mixed signals. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that he hadn’t totally misread her. She’d been turned on, all right. Probably not as much as him, but she hadn’t been indifferent toward him, either. Even though he’d only known Shea a few days, he’d learned a couple of things about reading her. He’d paid attention. The expression of pure joy she’d worn when she’d seen the Christmas tree. The shock that had turned to pleasure then quickly taken a dive to doubt when he’d touched the small of her back. He’d never come across anyone like her before, so maybe this time he’d gotten his signals crossed.

  He doubted she lacked experience, though a couple times he’d wondered. She had to be in her mid-twenties and had lived with someone, so she knew what was what. Was it just bad sex that had made her skittish? Hell, he wasn’t going to know what was going on in her head until he went back inside and took it like a man.

  Jesse shuddered as he made it to the top of the low ridge. It wasn’t just the cold wind giving him a chill.

  If he screwed things up with her and she hightailed it from the Sundance once they returned, it would put a crimp in Christmas for Annie, upset Rachel, disappoint his mother. And it would downright suck for him, as well.

  He squinted in the direction of the Cessna. The plane wasn’t visible from where he stood and he hadn’t expected it to be, but he saw enough to know it wasn’t worth trudging back through the mounting snow to use the radio. Cole would know they were okay. He wouldn’t organize a rescue after getting Jesse’s message. Not tonight. Tomorrow morning maybe, if the snow hadn’t let up.

  Darkness was falling quickly, so he turned back toward the shack. If he was careful they could have a fire well into morning. Even if it meant burning the frame of the cot, he’d have to keep the room bearable. Sharing body heat sure wasn’t going to be an option.

  * * *

  SHEA WAS SITTING on the stool by the stove. She’d taken off her jacket and draped it across her legs. Her head came up as he crossed the threshold, an expression of surprise and then relief on her face. It made him feel like an even bigger jerk. He should’ve warned her that he’d be a while.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked, giving him a tentative smile.

  “I considered trying to get to the Cessna to use the radio again but it’s not worth it. Not with the way the snow is still blowing.” He carried the bucket to the stove and noticed that she’d laid out the sleeping bag. The blanket was spread overtop.

  Stupid place for it. She should’ve had it wrapped around her shoulders.

  “It’s kind of weird not having any windows,” she said. “From my office at work I have this great view of the San Jose skyline, which I rarely notice. I bet I’ll appreciate it more in the future.”

  He pulled one small bench closer to the stove and farther away from her, and sat down to unlace his boots. His jeans were damp again but they were staying on. “I was rude. I shouldn’t have walked out when you wanted to talk. I apologize.”

  “Apology not accepted,” she said, surprising him, and then shoved the bangs out of her eyes. “I’m the one who needs to apologize. Not you.”

  Damn, he’d meant to grab the whiskey. He toed off his boots, then got up and found the bottle. If it were up to him, he’d skip the cup but she’d probably want more. He hoped not. Polishing off the Jim Beam by himself would keep him warm. A little numbness would be good, too.

  “Do what you want with my apology. It still stands.” He poured two shots into a cup and chugged it.

  “I need some of that,” she said, jumping up and letting her jacket fall to the floor.

  He ordered himself not to watch her walk toward the meager kitchen supplies but he didn’t have a shred of willpower. Didn’t help that her shirt had hitched up and he could see her pink panties riding halfway up her left cheek.

  He poured himself another shot.

  “You put some water in that?” he asked when she held out her cup to him.

  “I don’t want it watered down.”

  “You end up with a headache and no aspirin, it won’t be pretty.”

  “If I get a headache I’ll deserve it.”

  “Suit yourself.” He poured her half a shot. “How about some trail mix or jerky?”

  She shook her head and bent over to pick up the jacket from the floor.

  Jesus. He had to look away.

  Reclaiming the stool, she sat down and took a big sip. “Jesse,” she said in a sudden rush, “I overreacted earlier and now things are icky between us and I don’t have the faintest idea how to fix it.”

  They stared silently at each other for a moment. He didn’t know what to say. “Icky?”

  She shrugged a shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He scrubbed at his face, then plowed his hand through his hair. “I don’t see what needs fixing,” he said, and watched her lower her gaze to her cup, the furrow of her brow deepening. “I promise to be a gentleman, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “No.” She gave him a fleeting look before averting her eyes again. “It’s the pity I can’t take. I’m fully aware that I’m bad at social interaction, not just with men, but in general and I—”

  “Pity? Where’s that coming from?”

  “Please don’t deny it.” She sighed. “I don’t think you’ve lied to me yet.”

  “Damn right I’m gonna deny it, since I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m guilty of some lustful thoughts,” he said, and saw her eyebrows go up. “Yeah, I admit it. Though it’s not like that wasn’t obvious. I’ll also admit to being pissed off that a guy could leave you with the notion that sex is nothing but a big disappointment.”

  She just sat there, staring at him as if he’d dumped a pail of cold water over her head. Then she blinked. “Lustful thoughts?”

  This woman was going to make him crazy. How had he thought for a second that he could read her? She looked surprised and sounded a little excited. Neither reaction made sense. “I promised you I’d be a gentleman and I aim to keep that promise.”

  Her gaze lowered to her cup, and then she drained the whiskey.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  She seemed uncertain but nodded.

  “Why do you think you’re bad at social interaction?”

  “I don’t just think it.” She shrugged. “It’s true. All through school I was the shy younger kid who no one wanted to hang out with. I wasn’t invited to parties or asked out on dates. Which was fine with me because I spent a lot of time at my computer.”

  “Don’t tell me you were one of those wonder kids who graduated from high school at thirteen.”

  “I was fifteen.”

  He’d been joking. Obviously she wasn’t. “And college?”

  “Eighteen,” she said with a trace of apology. “But I stayed on for postgraduate studies, if that counts.”

  “I b
et you’ve got a bunch of fancy letters after your name.”

  Shea smiled and shrugged.

  Something else occurred to him. “Hey, should I be calling you Dr. Monroe?”

  She rolled her eyes. “That would be my father. I haven’t gotten my Ph.D. yet. I got bored with school.”

  Well, that explained a few things. He’d started to wonder if she’d been brought up in a convent. “So, is your father famous?”

  “In the world of physics, yes, he’s quite well-known.”

  “And your mother? She must be working on curing cancer.”

  Shea let out a startled laugh. “No, she’s working on her fourth husband.”

  “Ah.” Jesse held up the bottle in offering.

  “Just a little,” she said and leaned over with her cup out.

  He poured them each a shot. “They divorce when you were young?”

  “Ten. I left for boarding school soon after so it didn’t matter.”

  Of course it mattered, he thought, but didn’t say so. He watched her take a cautious sip while he tried to figure out what to say that wouldn’t send the conversation downhill.

  “My mother was a cocktail waitress Dad met while he was at a conference in Las Vegas. They never should’ve gotten married. Probably the stupidest and most impulsive thing my father ever did in his life.”

  “I don’t know about stupid. They had you.”

  She bowed her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she studied the inside of her cup. “Tell me something about you.”

  Jesse snorted. “Hey, you know, I’m just a cowboy. What’s there to tell?”

  “You’re also a pilot.”

  “Nowadays lots of ranchers have small planes or helicopters. It makes sense.” Somehow he sensed her disappointment, which he didn’t understand. She already knew he wasn’t a rocket scientist or an Ivy League graduate.

  “I know you spent time in the air force. Annie told me,” Shea said, then quickly added, “I’m not sure how it came up, but we weren’t gossiping.”

  “What else did she say about me?” he asked calmly, annoyed that he’d bothered because he wouldn’t like the