by Shirley Jump
Steam curled in twin vicious clouds from under the hood, spreading outward in a mysterious burst that spelled certain doom for the engine. Sam sighed. “Well. That doesn’t look good.”
“Let me take a look under the hood.”
“I thought you said you weren’t good with cars.”
“I’m not, but considering we have zero options here, I figure I can’t make it any worse.” He gestured toward the windshield. “Pop the hood. Maybe I’ll get some mechanical vibes from the engine.”
Sam pulled the latch for the Jeep’s hood, then waited inside while Flynn got out and went around to the front of the car. When the worst of the steam had cleared, Flynn leaned in to look at the engine. One minute passed. Two. She heard him tinker with something.
Finally, Sam climbed out of the Jeep and joined him at the front of the SUV. “Did you find anything?”
“Radiator fluid is fine. But your oil is low.” He held up a dipstick.
Furious gusts of wind blew into Sam and Flynn, and snow drifts skittered across the highway in white sheets. Sam shivered and raised her voice over the howling storm. “I don’t think that’s the problem. Do you?”
“No.” Flynn slid the long skinny stick back into place, then leaned farther inside. Another chilly thirty seconds passed. “I’m no expert, but I’d say that’s your problem.” He pointed into the dark depths of the engine.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Right there.”
Sam moved over, until her shoulder brushed against his, and despite the cold and the bulky layers of her coat, a jolt of electricity ran through her. For a second, she forgot about the engine. Awareness of the man beside her slammed into Sam like a tidal wave.
“Do you see the problem?”
Oh, yes. She did. All six foot two of him.
“It’s right there,” Flynn said.
Get a grip, Sam.
They were stuck in the middle of nowhere, with a blizzard bearing down on them. This was not the time to go off on a hot man tangent, not when she had a major hot car problem.
“Uh, is it that what you’re talking about?” Sam pointed at a frayed belt buried deep in the engine.
“Yep. Like I said, I’m no mechanic, but even I know a broken belt is a problem. Whichever belt this is, it’s an important one.”
The snow continued to fall, building up so fast, the engine was already covered with a fluffy white blanket. Flynn ran a hand over his hair, mussing the straight lines, and sending a spray of flakes to the ground. “We need to get out of the storm.”
They hurried back inside the Jeep. Sam shuddered and rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “It’s getting cold out there.”
“And we can’t stay in the car. It’s not running and it won’t hold whatever heat it has for very long.” Flynn flipped out his cell phone, held it up toward the angry gray sky, then let out a curse. “Is there anywhere around here that has a cell tower?”
Sam gave him a smile. “We were driving toward civilization, if that helps.”
“Well, we’re going to need something approaching civilization or we’ll become Popsicles pretty soon.”
Sam looked out the window. The blizzard had picked up steam, and no cars were on the road. She should have checked the weather forecast before deciding on this impromptu shopping trip. Clearly, it had been a bad idea. And now, they were stranded, with nowhere to go.
Then, a little way down the road, she spied a familiar orange sign, tacked to a light pole. Serendipity, or a miracle, Sam didn’t question which it was.
“My father used to hunt in this area when I was a little girl,” Sam said. “I never went with him, but I know he and his friends used to stay overnight sometimes. That means there must be a hunters’ cabin out here somewhere.”
Flynn cupped a hand over his eyes and peered out into the white. “That’s the problem. It’s somewhere.”
“It’s better than staying here and freezing to death.”
“True.”
“Riverbend is twenty miles behind us. The next town is thirty miles south. Either we find the cabin or hope someone else was stupid enough not to check the weather before getting on the road.”
“What are the chances of that?” Flynn asked. He took one more look down the road, in both directions. Empty, as far as the eye could see, visibility closing to almost nothing. “Well, you told me to be up for an adventure. I guess this is it.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT TOOK THEM CLOSE to an hour to find the rustic cabin, nestled deep in the woods off the highway. By that time, Flynn’s shoes were ruined, and the snow had soaked through his gabardine pants, all the way to his knees. His coat, which had seemed warm enough for the season when he bought it, turned out to be little protection against the biting winter wind.
But then again, when he’d bought the cashmere coat, it hadn’t been with the intention of traipsing through the woods, searching for a hunters’ cabin.
Sam was better prepared for the weather, in her thick parka and boots. Still, her face was red and she looked ready to collapse by the time they spied the small wood structure.
“Finally,” Sam said, the word escaping with a cloud of breath. She hurried forward, pumping her arms to help her navigate the deep snow. “I can feel the heat already.”
He grabbed her sleeve. “Wait. We should gather some dry wood so we can start a fire.”
Sam drew up short. “Of course. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. Maybe there will be some over there—”
“No. You go inside and I’ll get the wood.” He gestured toward the cabin.
She gave him a dubious look. “You are hardly dressed to go gallivanting through the forest looking for firewood.”
“I’m not letting you go gallivanting through the forest, either,” Flynn said as they continued through the woods, stopping when they reached the stoop of the cabin—if the few slats of wood under a one-foot overhang could even be called a stoop.
“Oh, I get it. This is you playing the gentleman. I’m supposed to wait inside, because I’m the girl, is that it?”
“Well…yeah.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I have no doubt that you can. And that I can take care of you, too.” This woman could sure be stubborn when she wanted to be. It was probably what made her such a good business owner, what had gotten her through those difficult years when she was young, but damn it, he wasn’t going to let her go running off in the woods alone.
Sam laughed. “You, take care of me? I probably have more survival skills in my left foot than you have in your—”
He put a finger to her lips, and when he did, he became acutely aware that they were alone in the woods. That it had been twelve hours since he’d kissed her. And how very much he wanted to kiss her again. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do. So why don’t you go inside, and let me do this?”
She considered him for a long moment, then shrugged concession. “Do you want my boots?”
He grinned. “I think your feet are just a bit smaller than mine.”
“All the more reason why I—”
“I’m not arguing this.” He’d take care of her whether she liked it or not, not out of some macho need to be the guy, but because she was the kind of woman who deserved to have a man take care of her—and the first woman to tell him she didn’t. Flynn reached forward and pulled open the cabin door. The outside light spilled into the cabin, illuminating part of the interior. “Let’s go inside, and I’ll light a candle or something for you, then I can go looking for firewood.”
Sam started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Apparently, you don’t have to go far, Superman.” She pointed inside the small, musty building. Against the wall, a pile of wood had been stacked in a pyramid. “But at least I know you would have taken care of me, if I needed you to.”
He would have, even if he’d had to go back into the woods barefoot, but he didn’t say th
at. She might be great at the helm of her bakery, but out here, he knew what to do.
“Well, that’s a start. I’ll get a fire going, then load us up, in case we’re stuck here for a while.” Flynn stomped the snow off his shoes, then crossed to the fireplace. He rubbed his hands together to bring some feeling back into his fingers, then laid the kindling in the cold cavern. Flynn found a box of matches on the mantel, and a few moments later had a tiny flame licking at the edges of the small sticks.
He kept his back to Sam, feeding the flame, one piece of wood at a time. It was far easier to do that than to consider the fire brewing behind him.
One he hadn’t counted on when he’d first arrived in Riverbend. One he hadn’t counted on at all.
It wasn’t the flames that had Sam amazed so much as how fast Flynn MacGregor coaxed them from the wood. Of all the people she would have listed as least likely to be able to build a fire, he would have topped the list. And yet, here he was, stoking the fire and building it gradually, like he’d been a Boy Scout all his life.
Flynn MacGregor. The same man who’d walked into Riverbend wearing expensive leather shoes and a cashmere coat. The one who’d hated small-town life, and seemed like he’d never been more than five minutes outside of a city. And here he was, bringing in wood from the forest, laying it by the fire to dry, then expertly tending to the fireplace, warming the tiny cabin so fast, Sam could hardly remember being cold.
Well, it was Christmas. The season of miracles, after all.
The cabin was small, about a fifteen foot square, and not exactly five-star accommodations. Rough pine walls had been nailed together enough to block the weather, but not so well that they kept out all drafts. There was no insulation, no drywall. Nothing fancy that would make anyone mistake this hunting cabin for anything more than a temporary stopping place. A kitchen table and two chairs sat on one end of the single-room cabin, and a threadbare cushion covered a log-framed couch on the other. Against the far wall, a set of bunk beds with plastic mattresses, apparently made for sleeping bags instead of fine linens, waited for weary hunters. In the kitchen, a shelf of canned goods sat beside two pots and a couple of spoons. Sam suspected she wouldn’t find much more than a few forks and knives in the single drawer beside a rudimentary dry sink.
As Flynn worked on the fire, she grabbed a few jarred candles from the shelf, then lit them and set them around the room. She also found a hurricane lamp and after a lot of fiddling, got it to light.
Okay, so the whole atmosphere was oddly romantic, but Sam ignored the flickering flames, the soft glow. They were here to get out of the storm. A temporary place to get warm. Soon, the storm would stop and they could make a plan.
When Flynn was done, he swung the sofa around to face the fire. A cozy sitting place, just for the two of them. “It’s not the Ritz, but it should do until the storm blows over.”
“It’s great. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
They were quiet, the only sound in the room coming from the crackling of the logs and the occasional soft thud of a snow chunk falling from the roof. For the first time, Sam became aware that they were alone. Totally alone.
And as much as she hoped otherwise, it could be hours. Many, many hours, until the storm ended and she could get a tow truck to pick up the Jeep. That meant they’d be stuck here, for an indefinite period of time.
“You should come over here and get warm.” Flynn took off his damp coat and draped it over the arm of the sofa. “And take off whatever is wet, so you don’t get sick.”
“I’m fine.” Way over here. Bundled up. Not so tempted to kiss him then.
Flynn crossed to her and placed a palm against her cheek. The touch warmed her, not just because of body heat, but because every time Flynn MacGregor touched her, he seemed to set off some kind of instant thermal jump inside her. “You’re freezing. Come on, sit by the fire. And don’t argue with me.”
Sam’s protests were cut off by Flynn taking her hand and leading her over to the sofa. She stood there, her palms outstretched to greet the heat emanating in waves, still a human marshmallow, until Flynn slipped between her and the fire and began to unzip her coat. “What are you doing?”
“Your coat is soaked. I know it’s waterproof, but that doesn’t mean it’s completely impervious to snow.” He slipped his hands under the fabric and over her shoulders, sliding the heavy fabric off. His gaze caught hers, and heat rose in her chest. Desire quivered in her gut, then coiled tight against her nerves. Her breath caught, held. Flynn’s thumbs ran over her collarbone, sending a tingle down her spine.
His gaze captured hers. A second passed. Another.
“What are we doing here?” The words whispered out of her.
“Getting out of the storm.”
“Is that what we’re really doing?”
Flynn released her and stepped away, bending to retrieve her coat from the floor. “Yes. That’s all.”
Sam moved closer to the fire, running her arms up and down her sleeves, warding off a chill she didn’t feel. Behind her, Flynn pulled one of the kitchen chairs closer to the flames, and draped her jacket over the back, leaving it to dry in the heat. She expected him to join her at the fire, but he paused for a long second behind her, then she heard his footsteps recede.
A moment later, he was in the kitchen, going through the canned goods, pulling one after another off the shelves until finding whatever he was looking for.
Sam remained where she was, trying to calm the turbulent waters in her gut. What was it with this man? Was it just that he was a stranger? A sexy city guy who offered something new and different? Or had she simply been cooped up with that mixer too long?
Every time she was near him, she forgot the hundreds of reasons she shouldn’t get involved with him. Most of all, she forgot reason number one. When Flynn drew near, when his gaze captured hers, she lost track of her goals—with the business, this article, her future, her family—and that was reason enough not to get distracted by him.
Flynn brushed past her, a pot in one hand, and a long-handled contraption in the other. He set up the handled thing near the fire, then attached the pot, swinging it out and over the flames. They licked eagerly at the bottom of the pan, heating whatever was in there as easily as they had Sam.
She watched him cook, stunned, speechless. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, because a few minutes later, he swung the pot back, took it off the handle and brought it back to the kitchen.
Well. She hadn’t expected that. Flynn cooking?
“Spaghetti surprise,” Flynn said, returning and holding a plate out to Sam.
She bit back a laugh at the sight of canned spaghetti topped with crushed saltines. “You are very inventive, Mr. MacGregor. I had no idea you could do all this, or come up with a recipe for dinner, based on what was in there.”
“Hey, I had to be inventive when I was—” He cut off the sentence. “There wasn’t much to work with in the kitchen.”
What had he been about to say? What personal tidbits was he leaving out? Every time she got close, he seemed to shut the door on himself. Because he didn’t want her to get to know him? Or because there were things about himself that he didn’t want to share?
She had no right to criticize him, Sam realized. She’d yet to tell him the truth about her grandmother. Heck, she’d yet to tell the town the truth about her grandmother, the same customers who patronized Joyful Creations every day, and asked about Joy just as often.
Sam thanked him, for the food, but deep down inside, she was even more grateful for the diversion.
They took seats on opposite ends of the sofa and began to eat. The odd dish turned out to be far more appetizing than it had looked. “Where did you learn this particular recipe?”
Flynn picked at his dish, but didn’t take another bite. He let out a long breath, then put his plate down on his knee. He hesitated, as if warring with himself about the answer, before finally speaking. “Foster care.”
At all.
“Let’s just say not all the places I lived were the best, so I learned how to take care of myself. And sometimes, I was taking care of my brother, too.”
“Sometimes?”
“Not every foster family wanted the two-for-one deal.”
The words slammed into Sam. She may have lost her parents when she was young—far too young, she’d always thought—but she had grown up in a happy, two-parent home, first with her parents and then later with Grandma Joy and Grandpa Neil. She’d always had grandparents around, a town she’d known all her life, lots of people who loved her. Stability.
She’d never had to live with strangers. Never had to concoct spaghetti surprise.
Sam laid a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry, Flynn.”
He shrugged. “I turned out okay. And I learned some cooking skills.”
At what price? Sam looked at Flynn with new eyes. Knowing his past, or at least the little he had shared so far, explained so much. The way he’d reacted to Riverbend. The way he held himself back from people, didn’t engage, didn’t connect. All along, she’d faulted him, thinking he was disagreeable, only after the story, when he’d simply been someone who probably hadn’t had a chance to find a home. To find people to connect with. Sympathy rode through her in a wave, and she made a vow.
A vow to give Flynn MacGregor the best darn Christmas ever. Assuming, that was, that he let her. And they ever got out of this cabin and the storm.
“What happened to your parents?” she asked.
He made a face, as if he didn’t want to talk about the subject, then let out a long breath. “I’ve never talked to anyone, besides Liam, about my childhood.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know if that meant he didn’t want her to ask, or if he meant the opposite. She simply waited, allowing Flynn to call whatever shots he wanted.
“It’s not an easy topic for me.” He picked at his food, but didn’t eat, as if the twist of noodles on his plate held some answers she couldn’t see. Before them, a log split, the fissure hissing and spitting sparks. “My mother was…not the most responsible person on the planet. She never knew who my father was. Mine or Liam’s.”
