Page 20 of Grave Games

Horrified, I glanced down at the best gloves I’d ever owned. “I’ll give them back to you as soon as I’m done digging out my truck.”

“Don’t bother, they won’t fit me. And as long as they’re protecting you from another bout of scary-looking frostbite, that’s all I care about.” He took a step in the direction of my pickup, then stopped with a long-suffering sigh when I side-stepped, blocking his path. “So, what are you doing, Shy? Are you threatening to beat me up? Challenging me to a fight? Offering death by snow shovel? Seriously, what are you doing?”

Um, good question. What was I doing? “I’m defending my territory.”

“It’s a parking lot.”

“Then I’m… I’m defending my truck. And I’ll defend it to my last breath.”

“Cool. Defend away. All I’m interested in is attacking the snow that’s currently burying it.” With that, he strolled over to the passenger side like he didn’t have a care in the world, nor a belief that I’d cave his head in like I desperately wanted to. “I like how you park like a guy—backing in, so you can head out fast.”

“I…” I stared at him as he started to uncover my pickup, when that was the last thing I wanted from him. “Stop. I don’t want your help. Go away.”

“You do know your battery’s probably dead, right?”

Shit, shit, shit… “That’s none of your business.”

“I brought cables. You know, just in case you were in need of a jump.” I watched chunks of snow go flying as he tossed it away from my little pickup, making more progress in a few seconds than I had since I’d gotten there. “It might take a while to get it going, but don’t worry. I’m good with my hands. One way or another, once I jump-start things I’m positive I can get that motor going like it’s never gone before.”

I had to be insane to think he wasn’t just talking about my pickup. “I’m not talking to you.”

“Then,” he went on, “once I finally get things sparked back to life, I’m going to let it warm up nice and slow. No rush. Just let the heat build up naturally until the whole system’s purring. It’ll be a thing of beauty.”

Seriously, was he talking about the truck? Or me? “I’m also not listening to you.”Liar, my brain quietly taunted me. Despite my greatest efforts to ignore him, I still hung on his every word like the idiot I was.

“Things are icy now, and I get that.” More snow flew as he made quick work of digging the passenger side of my truck out. “But you’re a native Chicagoan, Shy, just like me. You know ice always melts in the end. It just can’t stand up against the heat.”

“Shut. Up.”

“Why, Shy girl?” He paused in his shoveling, straightening to his impressive height with both gloved hands propped up on his shovel’s handle. “Was it something I said?”

At my wit’s end and not trusting myself to say a word—because part of me was already feeling the heat—I scooped some snow off the hood of my truck, crushed it haphazardly into a ball and threw it at his smug, perfect face with everything I had.

His look of shock was supremely satisfying.

His last-second dodge was not.

“Oh, so you’re challenging me to a fight, after all? Okay, then.” Looking like a kid at Christmas who got the one toy he’d asked for, he dropped his shovel, scooped up a bunch of snow and headed for me. “It’s on. Winner takes all.”

Eek.

I flipped snow at him with my shovel—most of which he dodged—before backpedaling hard and fast to the driver’s side of my pickup, because he was coming at me like a man on a mission.

And that mission was my annihilation.

In my haste to escape I dropped my shovel, which was good, because it freed up both hands to throw more snow at him. But my snow-throwing skills weren’t the greatest under pressure, so I wound up throwing snow at him without compacting it, which was basically like throwing flour at a runaway train. Then I tried the truck’s door, only to find I’d locked it like the good urban-dweller I was. I let out a growl of pure frustration and backed up some more along the pickup’s small payload, randomly tossing handfuls of snow I scooped from the truck toward his face, hoping I’d at least blind him a little.

Nothing slowed him down.

Retreat was the only thing I had left, so with one last fistful of snow tossed at his face, I half-ran backwards toward the back of my truck, only to stumble over something buried in the snow. My startled squeak echoed in my ears as I fell backward, hoping against hope the snow would cushion my fall. I squeezed my eyes shut in anticipation of the impact, when strong arms came around me and twisted. The impact wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought, since I landed on my side, wrapped up hard against Romeo’s body.

Because he’d saved me.

And now I was in Romeo’s arms.

Right where I didn’t want to be.

Or so I told myself.

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