Page 41 of Suddenly Tempted
“Like maybe you’re starting to thaw?”
She smiled such a big, beautiful, kind smile that it was as if the storm outside had cleared. He couldn’t help himself. He moved towards that smile like a frozen man moving towards the warmth of the sun. Darcy leaned in, too, her lips parted, her tongue wetting them.
“You’re good with words.” His voice was husky. “Or maybe I’m just finding it hard to think with you so close.”
Darcy opened her mouth as if to speak, then quickly shut it again. She shook her head, leaning away.
“We should go to bed.” She stood up from the sofa, dressing gown flashing Devlin a whole lot of leg. “I mean, Ishould go to bed. It’s been a day. We’re tired. It’s bedtime. I should sleep.”
And she darted from the room like one of her favourite rabbits caught in the headlights.
Devlin sat back, resting his head on the back of the sofa. He’d scared her away. He’d been too much. Darcy wasn’t here for a holiday. She’d been forced into a trip she didn’t want to take. She didn’t want him, she’d made that clear. And as he shut his eyes and let the quiet of the outpost envelop him, he wished she’d come back out and fill it with her wonderfully cute, and only a little bit annoying, chatter. He missed it.
Chapter 21
DARCY
You’re an idiot. Pure bone fide, first class idiot. Devlin freaking Storm tried to kiss you and you ran away.
Darcy paced the bunkroom. Back and forth. Back and forth. If nothing else, it was keeping her warm. Not that she needed to be any warmer with the heating on and the fire of shame burning through her heart. She clamped her eyes shut, but the image of Devlin watching her babble on about going to bed was for ever etched on her memory. Like a dog watching its owner abandon it by the side of the road, realisation slowly dawning.
She sat heavily on one of the bunks, head in her hands, feeling tiredness wash over her. And instead of mulling over what an ungrateful little gremlin she was in turning down Devlin Storm — Devlin Storm — because she thought she wasn’t good enough for him, Darcy lay her head down on the pillow, lifted her legs, and proceeded to fall sound asleep.
* * *
It was the sound of the wind trying to take the glass out of the bunkroom window that woke her what felt like moments later. Darcy groaned, rolled onto her back, and rubbed her face. She groaned again when she remembered where she was. The room was empty. Devlin must be out in the living quarters, making himself useful instead of sleeping like she was.
Darcy swung her legs around and sat up, brushing her hands through her hair and freeing it of knots. There was a strange light to the room — blue tinted, like Devlin had a load of screens on. It was only when Darcy stood up and went to check the glass was secure and not at risk of being blown from its frame, that she realised it was the sunlight trying to burst through the snow at the window.
It was morning. And the other bed hadn’t been slept in.
Darcy grabbed her bathrobe and ran to the door of the bunkroom with images of Devlin passed out on the floor by the pool table in the living quarters. She’d been selfish to leave him. No matter how embarrassed she’d felt at turning down his advances, she should have stayed to make sure he was okay. He had a broken arm, and possibly hypothermia. Fearing the worst, Darcy burst through the door, daring not to look. Was he hurt? Would it be worse?
She caught sight of a mop of dark blond hair poking out of the side of the sofa. It wasn’t moving. Darcy threw a hand to her mouth and ran to him, her bare feet squeaking on the lino. Poised to do mouth to mouth and chest compressions, Darcy screeched to a halt to find Devlin sleeping peacefully, not a worry on his face. She watched him, regret snaking in her. At some point between her running away from him and his falling asleep, Devlin had made a little bed for himself on the dated sofa cushions. Covered in a blanket, he looked angelic, his hair mussed and his lips gently parted. A little snore escaped every other breath, not a great hulking rattle, just a reminder that he was there, and he was breathing.
With her own heart still hammering, Darcy edged away slowly. She didn’t want to wake him, couldn’t face how he’d treat her rejection, not yet anyway. After a quick shower, Darcy wrapped herself back in her snuggly robe and snuck through to the kitchen to scavenge for some breakfast. Devlin had rehydrated them both some noodles the night before, but after too long with just snow water and protein bars, she was craving a tonne of fresh fruit and, weirdly, a giant, bloody steak.
“The body knows what it wants,” she whispered to herself, filling the kettle and switching it on to boil.
Did it though?Darcy spooned instant coffee into a mug, staring out of the window at the snow drift the storm had brought in. They were buried quite deep — it was at least waist height out there now — and the winds and snow were still battering the outpost, relentlessly.
Her body had certainly wanted to kiss Devlin last night. And more. She could feel her hormones reacting to the idea of him, even as she stood waiting for the water to heat up. Yet she’d run away at the first sign he felt the same. Why?
The kettle came to the boil and she poured water over the coffee, inhaling the liquid gold smell. Opening cupboard doors, Darcy found the long-life milk portions. Peeling the lids from five of them, she tipped them in her mug and turned her coffee a more digestible colour. Pausing, she heard the rhythmic patter of Devlin’s sleeping breaths and held off making him a drink too. He needed to rest and recover. She wanted to help him heal. And not just physically.
Opening and closing more cupboards as quietly as possible, Darcy found a tin of fruit cocktail, a bowl, and a spoon. Clicking the lid open and peeling it away, she tipped the fruit and syrup out into the bowl and went to sit at the table by the window. Outside was as muddled as her brain. Her thoughts were whirling with Devlin Storm, the man who up to a few days ago, was just a great bundle of ego wrapped in a pretty gorgeous exterior.
Relishing the sweet cherries, peach, and pear segments, the calories and caffeine kickstarted her brain back to life. Darcy ate in comfortable silence, listening to the wind whip around the cabin. She imagined her family and friends laughing at the idea she was here, stranded in a mountain lodge with a world-famous bad boy. Not only would they not believe she would have gone up a mountain in the first place, but Darcy was so far removed from the idea of being with a bad boy, they’d protest that she was hallucinating. Because Darcy Wainwright did not choose the bad boy. In fact, Darcy Wainwright chose which ever option would provide peace and comfort and most of all, a steady blood pressure.
She finished her fruit and drank the juice from the bowl as there was no one around to tell her not to. Watching her mum deal with the loss of her dad had taught Darcy that reckless men led to heartbreak. Why would she choose to put herself in that very situation when she’d seen the damage it did to those innocent bystanders?
Her dad had been reckless, and he’d broken their family. Devlin was reckless and had nearly killed them both. So why was she drawn to him? Why did she feel the need to help him? Why did her body let her down in every single way imaginable when she was anywhere near him?
There was a shuffling sound by the door. Darcy looked up, the bowl still at her lips, to see Devlin standing there in a pair of cotton pyjama bottoms and not much else. He ran his good hand through his hair as the bowl clattered to the table with an ear-shattering clang. A small trickle of fruit syrup dripped from Darcy’s chin, and she wiped it away quickly with the back of her hand.
“Here, sit down,” she said, flustered. “I’ll get you something to eat. Coffee?”
She got up and waved her arms pointedly at the chair she’d been sitting in. Devlin looked winded, his chest rising and falling. The bruising, now fully blossomed on his broken arm, should have been pulling all of Darcy’s attention, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the perfect definition of his chest and his stomach muscles, and the trail of hair that led down to the top of his trousers that were hanging on his hips for dear life.
