Page 4 of Buttercup and the Beard

There’s a thunk and a crash on the other side of the door, and just as I’m about to raise my hand to pound against the door, it swings open, a gust of heated air blowing past me. I very nearly sway toward it like a moth to flame when the grumpy snarl stops me in my tracks.

“Jem? What in the fuck are you doing out in this weather?”

Boone Calhoun, the mysteriously sexy park ranger, is my unwitting savior—he just doesn’t know it yet.

3

BOONE

The cold and miserable brunette standing on my porch is letting all the damn hot air out. Someone knocking on the cabin door after dark in a snowstorm means one of two things—lost tourist or stupid teenager that got stuck in the snow.

But finding the town mistress of all things coffee behind the banging that startled the shit out of me is not what I was expecting.

“Jem? What in the fuck are you doing out in this weather?” I can’t help the snarl in the words. Not at the sight of her bundled up against the elements, in soaking wet pants, shivering uncontrollably with blue lips and an emergency heat blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

“Come on. Get in here.” I reach out and wrap my hand around her wrist to drag her into the house and slam the door shut. Yanking her by the arm over to the roaring fire I have going, I pull the heat blanket and her jacket off to scoot her as close as I dare to the open flames.

The throw blanket from the back of the couch is snatched up, and I toss it around her shoulders.

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.” I limp my way back to the bedroom of the cabin and grab a pair of sweatpants, a long-sleeved thermal shirt, and a pair of wool socks before hobbling my way back to her.

Dropping the clothes on the living room table, I take her hands in mine to pull her gloves off, then start to warm them up in my palms, ignoring the spark of awareness from touching her.

I’ve known Jem—the hot barista and manager at Ally’s bakery—almost the entire time I’ve lived in town. She’s never struck me as the type of idiot that would get caught in a blizzard, even one that’s so late in the season.

“What happened?” I ask, noting that some of the color is coming back into her cheeks.

“Driving home from Alta…didn’t know it was supposed to snow.” Her speech is slow like she’s lethargic or extremely exhausted, which I guess she’d have to be depending on how far she walked through the storm.

“Hang on a second.” I make a quick trip to the kitchen, snag a glass, and pour a healthy swallow of whiskey into it.

“Here, drink this.” I press the glass to her plump lips, ignoring the way her throat bobs as she swallows. Her hands wrap around mine, helping to hold the glass steady.

Once she has the shot down, she goes right back to the fire, raising her hands in front of it and scooting closer.

“I brought you some dry clothes. Go ahead and get changed,” I say, pointing to the clothes on the table. “Bathroom is down the hall and to the left.”

Instead of her grabbing the clothes and shuffling off to the bathroom, she knocks the breath from my lungs when she reaches for the hem of her T-shirt and whips it over her head. Red lace cups her tits lovingly, the floral pattern on the material just enough to obscure her nipples from view.

Jesus God in heaven, the woman is stacked. Plump curves and graceful lines make up her torso, and my hands clench with the undeniable need to touch. Her breasts would be the perfect handful. The smooth skin velvety against the texture of my tongue. The wide flare of her hips a perfect handhold to yank her against me as I sink deep into her to feel the sucking ripple of greedy inner muscles.

The spit in my mouth dries up faster than the desert after a rainstorm, and about three seconds too late, I manage to whip myself around to give her my back.

“Or change here; that’s fine too.” I blow out a hoarse breath, willing my now granite-hard dick to chill out. I reach down and rearrange myself so she doesn’t get her own eyeful once she’s done changing.

“If you think I’m moving an inch from this fire after being out in that hellhole for the last few hours, you’re out of your mind. Don’t be a prude; it’s no worse than seeing me in a bikini.”

Which I’ve had the pleasure of seeing. Though I won’t say that now.

The sound of a zipper scratches against my nerves until my shoulders strain from the urge to peek over my shoulder at her.

Do her panties match her bra?

Okay, creeper. Knock that shit off.

She’s obviously freezing and in distress, so she definitely doesn’t need my perverted thoughts right now.

The sound of rustling fabric quiets, but I don’t turn around until she says, “Okay. All covered. It’s safe to look.” I can hear the eye roll in her words, and turning, I find her cozied back up by the fire. Her long brown hair hangs down the back of my shirt, and she has the sweatpants rolled at the waist to account for the differences in our height. I can’t help but think that she looks good in my clothes.

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