Page 112 of Snowed In

Not awkward. Not at all.

Arms crossed over my chest, clutching my useless phone, I pinch my eyes closed like I’m playing dead. Solid plan.

Why is he shifting? Doesn’t he know I can feeleverything? How is a straight guy being so nonchalant about touching another man like this?

“You have enough room?” he asks.

Crap. He just rolled. The other way was definitely better. Cramped as hell and awkward, but better. Now we’re ass to ass.

“Barely,” I croak, paralyzed by the firm ass now pressed up against my much squishier one.

“Well, that’s good,” he adds, adjusting his side of the blanket.

Ten minutes ago, I was so cold I couldn’t feel a damn thing. Now I feel every jostle of his body like I’m part of it. I am one with the jostle.

“How is that good?”

“It means we’re close enough that the cold air won’t get between us.”

I don’t think you could get a drop of water between us. I’m officially familiar with all the muscles in his back… and ass.

“This…this isn’t going to work.”

His spine flexes against mine, telling me he lifted his head. “Are you still cold?”

Before I can come up with a response, his ass squishes tighter against mine. The zipper resounds again, straining to claim a few more teeth to lock us in this sleeve of unbrotherly love that shouldn’t be. And seriously,whyis he so warm?

“N-no. I…I’m better.Good. I’m good-better.”

What. The crap. Was that?

“Liar. You’re still shivering so much you’re stammering.”

Crap, he just scooted closer. That’s not going to help my stammering. It’s official; I haven’t been touched in so long that Ronny Carmichael is affecting me.

How ridiculous. Hisbodyis affecting me. Nothim.

“Give it a minute,” he assures me. “We’ll warm up enough to get some sleep.”

Is that concern I hear? Who is the firm ass in this sleeping bag with me, and what’s it done with Ronny?

He’s kidding himself if he thinks I can fall asleep like this. Slinking my hand out through the opening, I glance at my phone. Nosignal bars and it’s only been eight minutes. This will be the longest night of my life.

Tucking my hand back in the unnatural bag of warmth, I pinch my eyes closed, trying to blot out the sensation of the soft leg hair pressed against mine. I hate how it makes him feel… cuddly. He’s not cuddly. He’s… prickly. Freezing temperatures won’t make me forget all his snarky comments over the last two years.

‘You sure you got that?’

‘Looks like you could use some help there?’

‘Do you really cut your joints like that?’

Discreet condescension masked as helpfulness. I see you, Ronny. I’ve got your number.

He must have slipped and hit his head while climbing out of that ditch. It’s the only explanation for his offer to keep me from dying a frigid death.

I try to stretch in microscopic movements, but no matter how covert my attempts are, I can’t retreat fromThe Ass. How am I supposed to fall asleep with buns of steel smashed up against mine?

Snaking my hand toward the opening again, I check my phone in vain, hoping for a rogue moment of signal. Maybe Sal messaged, realizing we didn’t make it back to the shop and will send help. Maybe Henry has the intuition that something must be wrong and doesn’t think I ghosted him for ourholidatemeetup.

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