Page 2 of Mountain Man Grinch
“You always this charming?” she asks.
“Only when I have company.”
Her mouth curves, slow and knowing. “Lucky me.”
I should walk away. Instead, I watch the towel slide down her curves, the wet denim clinging to her thighs, the blush climbing her cheeks.
And that smell—plum and vanilla and trouble.
Focus, Grimshaw.
“Anyone follow you here?” I ask, switching back to business.
“Don’t think so,” she says. “Lost them in the fog. Nearly lost myself, too.”
“Yeah, pogonip’ll do that.”
She tilts her head. “Pogo-what?”
“Pogonip. Freezing fog. Gets into your lungs. Kills people sometimes.”
“Oh, you mean the snow fog?”
I nod.
She blinks. “Festive.”
I grunt. “Told you. I don’t do festive.”
Gus sneezes. She coos. I die a little inside.
“No pets,” I warn.
Her eyes go wide. “Outside? In this cold? You trying to get us both arrested for animal cruelty?”
“I’m trying to keep my cabin from smelling like dog perfume.”
“You mean life?” she snaps. “You probably Febreze the woods.”
“Only the corpses.”
She startles, then laughs—a bright, ridiculous sound that shouldn’t exist in my cabin. For a second, I almost forget she’s a McGregor and therefore classified under “professional hazard.”
She wipes at her eyes, breathless. “You’re not half as scary as you think you are.”
“That so?”
“Uh-huh. You’re just ... grumpy. Like,chronic conditiongrumpy. You should look into medication. Or caroling.”
“Caroling?” I echo, horrified.
She shrugs, curls damp against her coat. “It’s therapeutic.”
“Lady, I’ve been shot at, bombed, and stranded behind enemy lines. None of that compares to forced singing in public.”
Her lips twitch. “You hate Christmas, too, huh?”
“Guilty.”
