Page 5 of Mountain Man Grinch
Guilt pinches me, but not enough to skip his flannel. It’s cozy. And smells unfairly good. I slide into leggings and the fluffiest purple socks I can find, extra material slouching at my ankles.
When I return to the living room, he’s standing by the window, arms folded, expression carved from granite. Gus growls from my arms like backup.
“Dog stays inside,” I say, before he can start.
“Not a chance.”
“Outside, he’ll turn into a popsicle.”
“Not my problem.”
I open my mouth for a snarky comeback, then notice his gaze drop to the flannel I’m wearing. His pupils darken. Cheeks flush.
My heart trips. “Sorry,” I blurt. “I needed something warm. And you were taking forever with the luggage, so I thought I’d help myself. Didn’t think you would … mind.”
He clears his throat. “Trudging through three feet of snow for two weeks’ worth of luggage might make a man late. What are you packing for? The Oscars?”
I shrug away his questions. “Thanks for hauling it,” I say more softly.
He doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens instead. Stepping forward, he doesn’t stop until he’s directly in front of me, hand coming up to smooth down the collar of the flannel. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“That they shot at you.” His voice drops low. “That you could’ve been killed.”
The crack of gunfire echoes in memory, sharp as ice breaking.
All the breath leaves me. A smart-mouthed reply dies somewhere in my throat. I just stare at him—this scowling, grim man who looks ready to kill whoever aimed at me.
You have to get through this, Arielle. It’s only a few days. McGregor’s friend just has to keep you alive through the holidays. Then, you can disappear.
I shake my head. “How do you?—”
"Bullet holes. Found two. One in the upper right-hand side of the windshield. The other through the passenger side window.”
I shiver, memories washing back over me in slow motion. Excruciating, terrifying.
Davin grimaces, waiting.
But I can’t. There aren’t words.
My heart quakes, lips trembling. Then, the dam breaks as I snuggle Gus closer.
Tears spill hot and messy, unstoppable.
Gus whines, licks my cheek. Davin stands there—arms crossed, unreadable—like a man fighting the urge to cross the line between soldier and savior.
Boots creak. For a second, I swear he’s going to reach for me. I almost feel his warmth—almost admit I want him to.
Chapter
Three
DAVIN
Fuck. Don’t reach for her.
My breath hitches in my throat. The last thing I need is my protectee sobbing. And yet, here she stands crying—silent, wrecked, trembling.
