“Hey! We’re stuck out here and need help,” I yell, just in case my thudding is mistaken for an oncoming hurricane.
The few seconds that pass seem like an eternity. Eventually, a bolt slides. The door is pried open, and I find myself staring at the six-foot-two figure of a guy.
My jaw drops open.
He seems oddly familiar.
His hair’s dark and curled at the tips; his strong jaw is shadowed, as though he forgot to shave this morning, the dark stubble accentuating his full lips. He’s wearing nothing but tight jeans with the upper button undone, but that’s not what makes it impossible to pry my eyes off of his half-clad body to meet his questioning gaze. It’s his familiar face, the green eyes that are now narrowed in surprise.
“You!” he states. His voice, deep and sexy, sends a shudder down my spine. Something about his tone rings a bell. Where do I know that accent from?
It takes me a few seconds before the penny drops.
My heart skids to a halt as I swear all heat is draining from my body.
Holy. Pearls.
It can’t be. And yet, I know it’s him. Or someone who looks just like him: the rich guy with the expensive car who offered me a handout in exchange for some implied fun between the sheets. The one I brushed off.
What are the odds?
Even though he’s dressed more casually and his hair is a bit longer—past the need for a cut, and styled in a casual mess that demands you run your fingers through it—I see the resemblance straight away. My gaze brushes over his chest.
The same muscular build.
The same features and hard body, all shrouded in a layer of mystery, that have been haunting my dreams ever since he bumped his Lamborghini into my Ford and then offered me a shitload of money because he felt sorry for me.
Club 69.
That’s where we met three months ago.
And that certainly explains his palpable disdain for me.
He can’t take rejection.
For the first two weeks, I couldn’t get him out of my mind. I even started skipping through the gossip pages of various magazines in case he might be someone rich and famous.
Needless to say, I didn’t find his picture, so I forced myself to push him out of my system—Mandy made that part almost impossible.
Of all the places in the world, I had to meet him here—in the middle of nowhere, with no escape route.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I stare at him, my body frozen in shock. I’m so stunned, for a moment I’m rendered speechless as we continue to eye each other.
Meeting him here, in the middle of nowhere, feels surreal.
His chest—all hard muscles—is clearly defined and emphasized by the light bulb dangling over my head. A black snake tattoo adorns his left arm, which is stretched against the doorframe, as though to block my way, while the other is clutching at the door, as though ready to slam it in my face. I look up into eyes the color of storms and realize that’s exactly what he’s considering doing.
“This is private property. You’re trespassing.” His voice is raw and gritty, with a strong accent. No ‘How can I help you?’; no ‘Please come in.’; not even ‘Hi, how are you? Hey, I remember you. You look great, by the way.’
I stare at him, dumbfounded, until I remember that Mr. Expensive Shirt has no manners.
He demonstrated it before, and he’s doing it again. My hands ball into fists, and for a split second, I consider turning around and heading elsewhere. If only he weren’t the only person around. I can’t afford to offend him. Not when he’s the only person who can help us.
I grit my teeth and force myself to take slow, measured breaths.
“I need help,” I whisper, my voice slightly hoarse.
“Say again?”
“Our car’s stuck down the road,” I say and point behind me in a broad circle because suddenly I can’t remember which direction I came from.
His shrug is almost unnoticeable as he regards me in silence. I open my mouth to explain my situation, when he leans against the doorframe, his posture hostile.
“What do you want?”
“Isn’t that obvious? A hurricane’s coming,” I say slowly in case he missed the countless weather and safety alerts. Or the pitch-black sky on an otherwise fine afternoon.
“There are no hurricanes in Montana. Only storms.” He eyes me with a frown, as though he suspects me of making up some bullshit excuse to get inside his home and then burgle him. Yeah, I watch the movies.
“This storm’s the reason we’re in trouble,” I mutter. His gaze travels to my umbrella. I hide it behind my back before he utters a snarky remark and I won’t be able to hold my tongue, after which he’ll most definitely kick me to the curb.
“In trouble?” He sounds unconvinced.
Seriously?
“We got lost and need help.” Maybe even a hot cup of coffee, which I don’t mention because, judging from the deep frown lodged on his stunning face, he doesn’t strike me as the welcoming type.