Page 30 of New Hope, Old Grudges

“I also have precious cargo.” His eyes quickly ran a path from my head to my toes then back again. “And this weather means emergency trips only.”

“Thisisan emergency trip,” I argued, ignoring the ‘precious cargo’ and the way it made me feel.

Brody’s features were instantly covered in concern. “Why? What’s wrong?” he rushed from his chair to kneel at my knees as if he were about to examine me.

I pushed out from my own chair quickly in order to get out of his vicinity. “Nothing’s wrong with me … physically.” I walked to the window to examine the weather. It looked very bad.

“You did this!” I turned around to begin pacing, as if he were to blame for the weather.

“Will, will you sit down?” he watched me pace with a crease between his brows.

I ignored this and continued to trod his cozy rug in my oversized and annoyingly warm socks, staring at the snow coming down outside. The peaceful fall of the flakes was infuriating. It might’ve been serene and calming if I were in a cabin alone with a hot drink, a bunch of cookies and a stack of books.

Not with the man who tormented me in high school who I still hated.

The man who was far too handsome for his own good.

And had saved me from certain death.

Then dressed me in soft clothes that took the chill from my bones and smelled nice.

“Why did you bring me here to your house? Why didn’t you take me home after you found me?”

“My place was closer,” he hiked up a shoulder. “Weather was packing in. My main goal was getting you safe and warm. You need to sit.”

I stopped pacing to glare at him. “I need to do whatever it is I want to do because it’s becoming increasingly clear that I’m stuck here with you.”

The corner of his mouth turned up in a playful smirk. “I don’t bite.”

A surge of desire shot through me. I did not need to think about him biting right now. Or his mouth.

“I need wine,” I declared, spying the wine rack beside a bookshelf. I strode toward it purposefully, grabbing a bottle opener after yanking open a drawer in the sideboard and rifling through it.

I held up the bottle. It had a French label.

“Is this expensive?” I asked Brody, who was still watching me. Not giving him a chance to reply, I slammed it down on the sideboard. “I hope it is,” I said, tearing into it without looking at him.

There were wine glasses lined up neatly behind the glass door of the sideboard. I distractedly thought about how organized and nice it looked, wondering whether an old—or current—girlfriend had decorated. I couldn’t imagine Brody shopping for long-stemmed red wine glasses or lining them up just so.

I sloshed the wine into the glass, spilling a little and not caring.

“If you drink that,” he nodded to the wine, “I’ll have to keep my eyes on you for the rest of the night.”

My mouth went dry, and somewhere else got decidedly wet.

“What are you talking about?” I huffed, clenching the stem of the glass.

“You may have gotten mild hypothermia.” He walked toward me, getting another glass from the cabinet. His warm body brushed up against mine as he did so, his scent overwhelming and intoxicating.

Brody intentionally pressed his torso against mine, fingers brushing where I was still clenching the bottle.

I jerked, releasing my hold then stepping back so he could pour his own glass of wine.

“You’re not supposed to imbibe alcohol if you have hypothermia,” he continued. “But I can only guess at how me trying to take that glass from you would go.”

I held on to it harder. I wasn’t overly attached to wine, but I wasn’t about to let Brody tell me what to do.

I must’ve shown that on my face because he chuckled. The sound was warm and pleasing.

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