Page 3 of Snowed in with the Mountain Man

She pulls out her phone and shows me a list. It's long. Too long for tonight.

"Top priorities," I say. "Storm's moving in fast."

Something in my tone must register because her shoulders straighten. "Roof repair supplies. The bedroom ceiling is leaking in at least four places. And something for the broken windows. And maybe a space heater? There's a fireplace, but I don't know how to use it, and—"

"Gas or electric?" I interrupt, moving toward the hardware section.

"What?"

"Your stove. Gas or electric?"

She blinks. "Gas, I think? It's ancient."

"Good. Power will go out." I grab a tarp, roofing sealant, and weatherstripping. "How'd you get here?"

"I drove from Vancouver. My Chrysler's outside."

I glance out the window at her little city car. It might as well be made of paper for all the good it'll do in what's coming.

"Not that. How'd you get to the cabin? Road's been washed out since spring melt began."

Her eyes widen. "There was a dirt track? It was rough, but I made it."

Stubborn. And lucky. That track turns to mud soup in any real precipitation.

I grab more supplies: a kerosene heater, matches, batteries, flashlights. She follows, asking questions about each item. Smart questions, actually. Not what I expected.

"Do you know how to use a caulk gun?" I ask, holding one up.

She shakes her head.

"Like this." I demonstrate, and she steps closer. The scent of her—something floral mixed with coffee—hits me like a physical force. My body responds instantly, a rush of heat surging south. Christ. It's been years since a woman affected me this way. Years longer since I've done anything about it.

Her fingers brush mine as she takes the tool, sending electricity up my arm. "Like this?"

Her grip is wrong. Without thinking, I reach around her, adjusting her hands. The contact is brief, but it jolts through me like lightning striking a pine. I step back quickly, my jeans suddenly uncomfortable.

"You'll need these too," I mutter, grabbing a heavy-duty flashlight and extra batteries.

She nods, studying my face. I turn away before she reads too much. Women like her don't look at men like me—not seriously. I've seen it before. City folks come up for adventure, maybe a fling with a mountain man, then return to their real lives.

The radio crackles. "—immediate winter storm warning for Darkmore Mountain and surrounding areas. Heavy snowfall expected to begin within the hour, with accumulations of eight to twelve inches overnight. Temperatures will drop to fifteen degrees Fahrenheit with windchill factors reaching—"

Her face pales. "That can't be right. It's April."

"Mountain weather doesn't follow calendars," I say, adding a double sleeping bag to her pile. "You have food? Water?"

"Some groceries in my car. I was going to unpack, then this—" she gestures at the supplies.

"I'll help you load up." The words surprise me as much as her. I don't offer help. Don't get involved. But the thought of her alone in that broken-down cabin during a spring blizzard...

I ring up her purchases, wincing at the total. She doesn't flinch, just hands over a credit card. As I pass her the receipt, our fingers brush again. This time, I don't imagine the slight tremor in hers, the way her pupils dilate just a fraction.

Stop it, Calloway. She's too young, too different. Too temporary.

Outside, snow falls more heavily now, fat flakes coating the ground. I load her supplies into her trunk while she cranks the engine.

Nothing happens.

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