Suddenly I’m very aware that I’m not looking my best, and when he gets out of his truck, I pull off my gloves and quickly finger-comb my long, thick hair, trying to drag out the tangles that I’m sure are everywhere. But my fingers keep catching on the tangles, and I finally give up, because he’s opened my door and I don’t want him to think I’m trying to look good for him.
You’re putting men in your past, I remind myself as I think about being dumped by my ex and how I don’t want to go through that again anytime soon. It’s time to focus on your new life and the career you’re going to jump-start when you reach Reno.
The man slides one arm under my knees and the other behind my back and lifts me out of the car like I’m a small child. Granted, I'm only five foot three, but I'm no child. I'm a twenty-three year old woman who has lived on her own since she was eighteen. Okay, my parents helped me out now and again, but I didn’t live at home while going to college, so I’ve mostly been on my own.
I don’t particularly enjoy the feeling of being helpless, but I can’t say that I mind having this handsome stranger carry me in his strong arms through a foot of freshly fallen snow.
We reach the porch and he sets me down while he fishes a set of keys out of his pocket, then he unlocks the door. He pushes the door open, then scoops me up and carries me inside. The place isn’t much warmer than it is outside and I begin shivering again.
The man sets me on a couch, then gazes at me.
“Why’s it so cold in here?” I manage to say through my chattering teeth.
Four
DRAKE
I stare at the woman and wonder what’s possessed me to bring a complete stranger into my sanctuary. Even Rachel doesn’t come here often—of course that’s more due to how busy she is rather than because I haven’t invited her. Still, I know nothing about this woman. For all I know, she’s a raving lunatic—after all, she was wandering down the highway in the middle of a snowstorm. Who does that?
“I don’t mean to harp on this,” she says, “but is it possible to turn up the heat?”
It’s then that I realize how cold it is, which is not how it usually is when I arrive. “I don’t live here full time,” I say. “The pilot light on the furnace must have gone out since I was here last.”
She nods, but continues to shiver.
“I’ll get you a blanket,” I say, then I dash up the stairs to the linen closet and grab a thick blanket before carrying it back to her and draping it across her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she says with a smile, and I’m drawn in by her hazel eyes and realize I’m curious about this woman.
Rattled by my thoughts, I conjure a mental picture of Rachel, but find I don’t want to think of her just then. Needing something to distract me from this unexpected attraction, I say, “Let me check on that furnace.”
Not waiting for a reply, I go to the utility room and relight the pilot light, gratified to hear the whoosh of the furnace kicking on. A moment later I head back towards the living room, wondering if the woman—I don’t even know her name—will still be there.
Maybe she’s just a figment of your imagination. All that hard work has you seeing things.
But there she is, sitting on my couch, huddled under my blanket.
ASHLEY
“The furnace is working,” he says as he walks back into the room.
I look at his face and think, If I hadn’t sworn off men, I might want to get to know you. He looks like he’s a few years older than me, and he is really hot.
He stands beside me and gazes down at me. “I’ll get some firewood from out back and get a fire going.”
I glance at the cold fireplace behind him, then meet his gaze and think how lucky I am that he came along when he did, even if he did almost run me over. “That’d be great.” I snuggle into the blanket, and as I remember my earlier fantasy that a good-looking man would drape a warm blanket over me on a cold day, a stupid grin forms on my face. Stop it, I scold myself. You’re off men, remember?
As he looks at me, a puzzled expression comes over him, but then he turns and walks out. He’s back moments later with an armload of wood, which he immediately sets in the fireplace. Before I know it, flames are licking the logs and the chill begins to leave my body.
“I have a few groceries in my truck,” he says as he turns to me. “I’ll get those unloaded, then maybe I can take a look at that ankle.”
As I watch him walk out the front door, I’m a little taken aback by his offer and wonder if I should let him check my ankle. After all, I don’t even know the man’s name. Does he know anything about injured ankles?
Once he’s brought in his groceries, he comes back into the living room and takes off his coat, revealing the button-down shirt he’s wearing beneath it. The sleeves strain against his biceps, and I force my eyes to meet his as he kneels on the floor in front of me.
“Are you feeling warmer?” he asks.
I nod, thankful my damp clothes have begun to dry.
He smiles, which brings out his dimple. “Good. I didn’t want to have to explain to the sheriff why I have a frozen dead girl in my house.”
I laugh, but think, Serial killer. For sure. I smile, hoping he’ll spare me for a while longer. At least until I can feel my toes, which have resisted the heat from the fireplace as well as the warmth from the blanket.
“Do you mind if I take a look at your ankle?”
I stare at him for a second and think, Here I am, holed up in the house of a complete stranger, and I don’t even know his name.
Wondering if I’ve gone crazy, I blink, then say, “What’s your name?”
He laughs. “Yeah, sorry. I guess we should introduce ourselves.” His smile grows. “I’m Colton. Colton Drake. But everyone calls me Drake.”
I hold out my hand like this is a job interview. “I’m Ashley Spencer.”
He shakes my hand. “Nice to meet you, Ashley.”
Five
ASHLEY
He helps me remove my boots and I see that my toes are white.
That can’t be good.
Drake obviously thinks the same thing, because he gets to his feet and says, “I’ll be right back.”
I watch him go up the stairs and a few moments later he’s back with a pair of thick wool socks—men’s socks. He hands them to me.
“Are these yours?” I ask as I take them from him, then realize what a dumb question that is.
They’re men’s socks. Who else would they belong to?
“Yeah.” He smiles. “Is that okay? It’s all I have.”
Interesting. Does that mean there’s not a woman in his life?
Then I remember I’m focusing on me and my career—not looking for a boyfriend. “Yeah,” I say. “They’re fine. Thank you.”
I pull them onto my feet, and the thick, cushiony socks immediately begin to warm my toes. “Ahh,” I say without thinking, then my face heats with embarrassment. I look up at Drake and see him smiling.
“I’m glad that helped,” he says with a grin.
Feeling foolish, I nod and shift my eyes towards the fire, then look up and see him watching me.
“Sorry it’s so cold.” He gazes at me a moment. “How are you feeling?”
“A little warmer, but my ankle is throbbing.” I don’t want to be a complainer, but he asked, and I'm hoping he has something for the pain.
“Let me see if I have some ibuprofen or something.”
“Thank you.” I add a smile to show him how much I appreciate his help.
He leaves the room, and when he comes back he has two steaming mugs and a bottle of ibuprofen. He holds out one of the mugs, as well as the bottle. “These should help.”
Smiling with gratitude, I take the mug and the bottle, then after popping two pills into my mouth, I sip some of the hot liquid to wash them down. The hot coffee warms me. That, plus the blanket and thick socks, helps tremendously, and I actually begin to feel warm.
Drake sits on the floor between me
and the fire. “So, Ashley Spencer, what were you doing standing in the middle of the road during a blizzard?”
“I was only there by necessity.” I take another sip of the hot brew. “My car went off the road and got stuck, so I had to get out.”
He sips his drink as he watches me and I find it hard to look away from the intensity of his green eyes. “Where were you headed?” he asks.
I really don’t want to get into my life story. “North.”
He chuckles. “Okay.”
“Maybe we can call a tow truck and have them pull my car out of the ditch.” And then I can be on my way.
“Not tonight we can’t.”
He wants to keep me hostage. Great. “Why not?”
“Number one, no one wants to go out in that storm unless it’s an emergency. And number two, there’s no cell service out here.”
“Oh.”
“If it’s all right with you,” he says as he sets his mug down. “I’d like to take a look at your ankle.”
I hesitate. Is this just an excuse to touch me? Or does he really know what he’s doing? The throbbing of my ankle decides it for me. “Okay.”
He kneels on the floor next to the couch and pulls the blanket away from my foot, then rolls my right sock down and gently touches my ankle.
“Ouch,” I say, surprised at how tender my ankle feels.
“I think it’s just a sprain,” he says. “But we should apply the R.I.C.E. method.”
“What’s that?”
“Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation.”
“How do you know so much. Are you a doctor?” The idea excites me. My own private doctor.
He laughs. “No. I just do sports a lot and I’ve had to deal with this type of injury before.”
“Oh.” Bummer.
“Now that you’re not freezing, we ought to put some ice on your ankle.”
I’m glad he has a clue as to what to do. “Whatever you say. You’re the expert.”
A short time later he has my right foot propped up on a stack of pillows with an ice pack wrapped around my ankle.
“We’ll leave it on for twenty minutes or so, then we’ll remove the ice and wrap your ankle.” He gazes at me a moment. “Is there someone we need to contact? You know, to let them know you’re okay?”
Is he trying to trick me? “I thought you said there’s no cell service.”
“There’s not, but if you need to contact someone I’ll do what I can to help you out.”
Then a new thought comes to mind. Is he asking so he’ll know that he can off me and no one will miss me? I decide to play it safe. “Yeah,” I lie. “My boyfriend’s expecting me to get to his place in a couple of days.” My reason for giving this answer is twofold. One, if he thinks someone is expecting me he’ll be less likely to kill me. Two, I figure the two day timeframe will buy me enough time to get out of here before he feels obligated to get a phone number and call my fictitious boyfriend, which would brand me a liar.
I think I see a look of disappointment flash across his face, but it’s gone so fast I could be mistaken. Or maybe I did see disappointment, which means my lie has put him off his plan to kill me and add me to his list of victims.
Bad for him. Good for me.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
I haven’t eaten in hours and I'm famished. “A little.”
“Would you like me to fix you something to eat?”
I half-grin. “It’s the least you can do after nearly running me over.”
A look of irritation fills his eyes, but he covers it with a laugh. “It’s your own fault for standing in the middle of the road.”
“Yeah, yeah. Blame the victim.”
He frowns as he leaves the room.
Six
DRAKE
I open a can of tuna and think about the woman—Ashley Spencer—sitting on the couch in my living room. She’s cute—long blonde hair, hazel eyes, enchanting smile—and I hold back a laugh as I think about her parting words.
Blame the victim.
With a shake of my head, I mix mayo with the tuna, then spread it on two slices of bread.
If I hadn’t come along, she would still be walking along the road. Maybe even frozen in a snow bank.
That last thought makes my heart hitch, which surprises me. I don’t even know this woman, so why should I care? But there’s something about her…
Knock it off. She has a boyfriend.
Disappointment splashes over me, taking me by surprise.
Not used to feeling this way, I shove all emotion aside and think about the project I’m planning on working on this weekend.
ASHLEY
A short time later he’s back carrying a plate with a sandwich. He holds it out to me. “I hope you like tuna fish.”
That is about my least favorite canned food, but I'm so hungry I'm willing to eat nearly anything. I take it from his outstretched hand. “Thank you.”
He sits on the floor with his back to the fire, facing me.
After a few bites I notice he isn’t eating anything. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
He shows off his gorgeous smile, and his dimple appears. “I ate earlier.”
“Oh, so you’re just going to watch me eat?” I take another bite and wonder what kind of fetish that means he has. I’m not surprised, of course. All serial killers have some sort of fetish. Then it occurs to me that maybe he’s poisoned the tuna fish and I consider making myself throw it up. Hunger gets the better of me and I keep eating.
His smile grows. “Yep.”
Five minutes later the power goes out. Some natural light still filters in from outside, but with the grey cloud cover, not much gets through. And the only sound—besides me chewing—is the crackling of the fire.
“So much for using the furnace,” he mutters.
At the thought of no heat, a shiver races through my body.
“Don’t worry,” he says, obviously noticing my reaction. “The fire will keep us warm.”
The thought that he’s watching me that closely does something funny to my insides and I focus on the food in front of me. I eat the entire sandwich, then realize I need to use the bathroom and ask him where it is.
He points to a hallway off of the living room. “It’s down there.”
After setting the ice pack on the couch, I lift my foot from the stack of pillows and gently set it on the floor, careful not to jar it, then sit on the edge of the couch.
“Are you sure you should walk on that?” he asks.
I'm not sure of anything, except that I need to go to the bathroom. Bad. “Uh . . . I don’t know.”
“I can help you.” He smiles, deepening his dimple. “If you want.”
I'm not in the habit of bringing strange men with me into the bathroom, and prefer to go on my own. “I think I can do it.” But I'm not sure if that is strictly true. Putting all my weight on my good foot, I push myself to a standing position, but the moment I try to put any weight on my hurt ankle, I lose my balance.
Drake dashes to my side and grabs me by the arm, keeping me from toppling over.
“Thanks,” I say as my face burns with embarrassment.
He looks at me with eyebrows drawn together. “Why don’t you let me help you?”
“I can manage.” That is doubtful, but I’ve had enough of playing Miss Helpless. I'm an independent woman, dang it, and I will get to the bathroom by myself, even if I have to crawl.
He steps back. “If you say so.”
Giving him a sideways glance, I take a tentative step away from the couch. When I put the slightest bit of pressure on my bad ankle, pain jolts through me, but I'm determined to show this insanely hot man that I don’t need his help.
Hobbling forward, I make slow but steady progress toward the hall he pointed to.
“Are you doing okay?” he calls after me.
“I’m fine,” I call back, but that is so far from the truth. Any throbbing that’s diminished due to the ibuprofen has now
come roaring back, but I can see the bathroom, and I know I can make it.
Thirty seconds later I'm there. Fortunately the bathroom window lets in enough light for me to see what I'm doing, and after taking care of business, I balance on my good foot and wash my hands, then stare at my reflection in the mirror. I'm a mess. My hair, tangled. My eye make-up, smeared. My face, pale. Yuck. I frown at myself, then decide to do what I can to fix myself up.
First, I splash water on my face, but the water is icy cold and I gasp as it touches my skin. I grab the towel hanging next to the sink and pat my face dry, then after hanging it back up, I open the medicine cabinet to see if there is anything in there I can use to fix my face and/or hair.
Nope. Just an unopened bar of soap. But then I think What the heck? After splashing more water on my face, I open the soap and wet the bar, then rub it between my hands, creating a nice sudsy handful of soap. I squeeze my eyes closed, then massage the suds into my face, taking special care to rub it under my eyes where my mascara has smeared. Then I rinse off my hands and my face.
After drying my face, I look in the mirror and I’m pleased to see that the smudged mascara has vanished. And as a bonus, the cold water has brought some color to my face. Hopeful my luck will hold out, I open the cabinet doors under the sink to see what I can find.
“Are you okay in there?” Drake says through the door, then knocks for good measure.
His voice startles me and I feel like he’s caught me doing something wrong. Well, technically I probably shouldn’t be snooping through his medicine cabinet and vanity, but a girl has to do what a girl has to do. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” His voice sounds uncertain, but I hear him walking away.
I take a look in the under-the-sink cabinet. Spare toilet paper—good to know—cleaning supplies, and a trash can, but nothing else. I straighten and mutter, “I guess I’m done in here.”
Drake and Ashley: The Complete Story Page 2
