I figured he wouldn’t mind if I used the downstairs bathroom; he definitely gives off a ‘Fend for yourself’ kind of vibe, which is fine by me. I flip on the light and jerk back at the sight before me in the mirror. My face looks like it’s sunburned; the wind and brutal cold have done a number on my skin. Hey, suck it up girl, at least your ears and nose aren’t falling off from frostbite right now! I’ve always been cautious when I ski, wearing multiple, quality layers, knowing it’s the best way to trap body heat.
My hands get so cold. I remember Aldo laughing at me this morning over coffee at the tiny inn. He and Ben watched in disbelief as I broke open a pair of HotHands hand warmers and slipped them into the zippered pockets of my gloves. The air-activated warmers are likely the reason my fingertips are still okay at the moment. I lean in and wash my hands before pulling off my Spyder wool top layer, leaving me in only a fitted baby-blue long-sleeved top. Next up I tackle my disastrous hair. There’s no brush in sight and I’m not in the mood to ask Mr. Cordial, so I do the best I can, unraveling the disheveled plaits and finger-combing the mess into some semblance of order. I pull the length over one shoulder, letting the thick mass hang down below the left side of my chest.
I wonder how he sees you ….
I push the thought away, deciding that it’s irrelevant. The guy’s fairly anti-social and who knows if he might be in a relationship or not. Still, he’s fascinating to watch. The entire space seems to vibrate with his energy whenever he’s near. I’d like a closer look at him because the full beard and long hair unfortunately hides a lot of what’s visible. His powerful body, even fully clothed, is beyond impressive. He looks as if he might build canoes … after chopping down the trees by hand. My sex begins to throb at the thought of him on top of me, driving into me with that toned body ….
“Oh!”
The sharp rap at the door makes me nearly jump out of my skin.
“Yes?”
Hell! That came out as a high-pitched squeak …. Get your shit together.
“You okay?”
“I’m good, just washing my hands. I’ll be out in a sec.”
“Made coffee. Dogs are fed. Starting dinner.”
I turn off the faucet and take a deep breath before opening the tall wooden door.
Oh my God ….
I have to crank my neck back to look up at him. This is the closest he’s gotten to me yet, and best guess? The top of my head is directly in line with his pecs.
He must see my shocked expression because he tries to crack a joke, saying, “How’s it going down there?”
I smile and say, “Fine, thanks.”
He gives me a once-over and asks, “What are you, five feet two?”
“Five feet three and a half, thank you very much.”
He snorts in amusement and says, “Damn, you’ve got enough attitude packed in you for a six footer.”
He’s funny. I like that.
“I’ve been told that on occasion.”
He grins, looking far nicer, saying, “I bet. Hey, all the shampoo and shit is in my upstairs bathroom. Whenever you want, I can take you up there and you can shower or whatever.”
Thoughtful.
“I’d like that. Thanks.”
His eyes roam my face, and under his hot male scrutiny I can feel my palms grow damp and my breathing more shallow. Nervously I change the subject because the effect he’s having on me is beginning to show.
I stare down at my socks for a second to collect myself before glancing back, asking, “So, coffee?”
“Yeah. Right this way.” His baritone voice is a quiet rumble as he turns and walks down the hallway.
I exhale and follow behind him, struck by his lingering scent that mimics the mountain air blended with a spicy undertone of some sort. It’s blatantly masculine and makes me want to get closer so I can smell it again.
How odd. I’ve never been this curious or turned on by a man. I’ve dated several guys but it’s never led anywhere serious. A couple of months of sexual fun at most. Not one of them had one tenth of the sex appeal Roark has … without even trying.
* * *
Fuck, try not to ogle her so much. She’s gonna think you’re some kind of barbarian.
When I went to check on her and the bathroom door opened, I was struck dumb. Her shining hair was pulled over to the side, exposing her flawless neck, and I felt my primal instincts roar to life. All I wanted to do was lick and kiss her there. I probably scared her half to death. Who the fuck knows? Maybe she thinks I’m some sociopathic hermit who hides out in his cabin in the mountains plotting to send mail bombs like Ted Kaczynski or some bullshit. Nah, I’ll talk to her over dinner, lay it all out, so hopefully she gets to know me a little better and isn’t afraid to fall asleep under my roof tonight.
“This is quite a place, really stunning. Have you lived here long?”
She’s looking all around the open-concept kitchen that offers a generous mountain view. This room was one of the reasons I bought the place.
“Appreciate it. I closed on it about seven months ago but have only come up a handful of times since. I’ve been busy wrapping up some business, including the sale of my condo back in Edmonton. Thankfully that’s behind me now. I plan to live up here full-time.”
“I don’t blame you. Even in the midst of this blizzard, it’s outstanding. I love how modern everything is, and the wood is so unusual. When was it built?”
“Only two years ago. Got a deal on it—some couple from Seattle thought they wanted to build a wilderness retreat. From what the realtor shared, this was too much for the wife to handle. Way too remote.”
“I see. You said Edmonton …. Are you Canadian?”
“Nope. Might as well be, though. Town I’m from in Minnesota is called Roseau; it nearly touches the Canadian border.”
I pour her a mug of coffee, slide it across the black granite island and say, “You mentioned Montana. That where you call home?”
“That’s right, Bozeman proud.”
“Never been there.”
“It’s cool. Lots of people spend their time outdoors. Mountains aren’t far, good hiking and skiing just a car ride away.”
“That so? Why are you up here, then?”
She stirs the milk and sugar around in her drink and replies, “My younger cousin and I are very close … his name’s Aldo. We’ve been ski buddies for as long as I can remember, maybe since the age of ten. Anyhow, about six years ago we began travelling the globe for the best powder. We save up all year and so far have been anywhere from Sweden to Argentina. Two years ago his best friend joined in. Kind of like the three amigos, I guess. We’re always trying to push the envelope, so to speak. Aldo decided we had to try heli skiing. It sounded amazing and none of us had ever been to Alaska, so here we are. Arrived yesterday morning and thanks to you, I’m still sucking oxygen.”
“That you are, short stuff.”
“Hey, watch it.”
“Oh, I am.”
She understood exactly what I meant because a sexy blush sweeps right across her face, and she shifts restlessly from foot to foot.
I ease up, asking, “What do you do for a living back in Montana?”
“I run my own business.”
I sip my coffee and ask, genuinely surprised and curious, “Oh yeah? What kind?”
“I have a virtual store on eBay. I sell ladies and kids pre-owned clothing—mostly designer.”
“And there’s money in that?”
“I do all right. I started it in high school, first selling my own stuff then graduating to things for friends. It kind of exploded from there. I’ve held off on college but would eventually like to get a degree in biology. For now, I’m slammed in my day-to-day operations, but the great news is, I can run my business from nearly anywhere, as long as there’s an internet connection, a place to store and purchase inventory, and a nearby post office.”
“Wow, that’s really cool. Never thought anyone could have that sort of job. Where do you get your inventory?”
She smiles and it’s gorgeous. “That’s classified, big guy.”
I laugh and she continues, “No, just kidding. Actually I travel around every other month to consignment stores and Goodwills looking for hidden gems. It’s like the ultimate treasure hunt. I love what I do.”
“Do you have a store front?”
“I do. Nothing fancy; it’s a tiny space on South Grand Avenue.”
“What’s it called?”
“Pinnacle Couture.”
“You’re young to be an entrepreneur.”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“You look younger than that.”
“Maybe it’s my vegan diet.”
“You’re shitting me, right?”
She bursts out laughing, “Yeah, I am. Had you there, though. Actually, I’m kind of a carnivore.”
“Good. Because you might starve up here otherwise.”
“Oh, I’d manage. Now we’re on the topic, how old are you?”
“Twenty-eight, and before you say anything, I know I look far older than that.”
She downs another gulp and tilts her head, “Why do you think that is?’
“Dunno. Being on the ice from the time you’re six years old takes its toll.”
“Ah, so you’re a hockey player?”
“Was.”
“Oh. I won’t pry.”
“Appreciate it. Long fuckin’ story. Sick of telling it, actually.”
“When you want to tell me more, I’m around.”
I grin across at her and can’t help but stare, finding her more and more attractive with every passing second. The outside rings of her irises are rimmed in a dark sapphire color that fascinates me.
“So, what’s on our ‘arctic fest’ menu tonight?”
“I have two steaks thawed. That’s as far as I’ve gotten, actually.”
“Not a gourmet, huh?”
“You just nailed it, sweetheart.”
“Well, you told me that you have food, so I’ll take it upon myself to make us something. You just step back and prepare to be amazed.”
“Sassy as fuck.”
“Excuuuuse me?”
Her hands are planted on her hips and she’s fighting a losing battle not to laugh at my comment. Her eyes drift down to my hands—my ring finger in particular—and her tone changes. She asks, more of a statement than a question, “You’re married.”
Here we fucking go ….
My thumb brushes back and forth across the cool metal of the titanium-and-steel band as I answer her honestly, “Not anymore.”
“You must like the ring, then?”
“Never gave it much thought.”
“I won’t press—”
I cut her off, blurting out, “She’s dead.”
Suddenly, it feels like the ceiling is crushing down on both of us. Her hand begins to shake, sloshing her coffee onto her socks and the floor. I turn around, toss her a towel and grind out, “I can’t talk about it.”
* * *
Dead?
I grip the towel in a stranglehold and wonder how our lighthearted conversation suddenly turned bleaker than the storm bearing down on us tonight. Deciding it’s best to leave it alone, I walk over, bend down, and pet each dog. They are splayed out on the glossy floor within wagging distance of each other. How sweet. I stroke Gauge’s thick fur one last time, stand and rinse my hands before walking to the fridge. I glance right. Roark’s back is to me, and it looks like he’s seasoning the steaks, but honestly, the last thing I feel is hunger.
Opening the refrigerator door, I hear him say apologetically, “Sorry. It’s been a couple of years, but it’s still hard to discuss.”
Hearing the pain in his voice, I look over my shoulder to reply tenderly, “Hey, it’s okay; you don’t have to say another word about it, Roark, really.”
He’s so young. I wonder if they had kids? How horrific. Finding me half-dead must have really freaked him out. No wonder he was acting so bizarre earlier. Then I was skittish and uptight …. I’m going to make a monumental effort to make it up to him, starting now.
I do my best to change the heartbreaking subject. “You weren’t kidding about having plenty of food. What do you think about a romaine salad with goat cheese, dried cherries, and pecans? And I can make mashed potatoes.”
I’m juggling all the ingredients in my arms, trying not to drop them before I get to the island, when he says, “Sounds tasty. Glad one of us can cook. Was kind of hoping you were a Lucky Charms and red meat kind of girl.”
“Oh, I can destroy a box of Lucky Charms, so don’t be surprised if you wake up to find your box of marshmallow yumminess empty and in the trash.”
He turns, plated steaks in hand, and says, “I like you, Sabine. You’re different.”
“You know my name?”
Then it hits me, I guess he’d have to know my name, since he talked to the police.
He glances down shyly at first but quickly recovers. “Yeah, I make a point of finding out the names of hot chicks that crash on my sofa.”
“You’re a tease.”
“Oh, I definitely can be.”
My breath hitches because his eyes turn hungry, nearly predatory. His sexual assessment causes a rush of serotonin to surge through my body, making my sex pulse wildly beneath my leggings. I’m longing to feel firsthand what he just verbalized.
He’s gripping the plate tightly as he grates out, “How do you like your steak?”
“Rare,” I manage to reply.
“Good, me too.”
I nearly double over with relief when he strides across the room, sets the plate down on a round table, and grabs a black parka off the wall hook. He slides it on, pulls up the hood, and before I can question his choice to go out onto the snow-covered porch, he’s already gone, braving the wind to fire up the massive stainless-steel grill.
Men and their food, of course. I should have known this man would never let a little thing like a full-on blizzard keep him from preparing his steak the way he likes it.
I’m searching around for a cutting board when the door opens again, allowing the bitter wind to rush into the kitchen. He closes it quickly, stomping the snow off onto the wide red mat.
“Roark?”
He halts, pushing back the hood of his parka to lock eyes with mine.
“Yes?”
“Can I, ah, borrow a pair of socks from you? I’m sorry, but I stupidly spilled coffee on mine. They’re really soaked.”
“No problem. Follow me. Good for you to see where you’ll sleep tonight anyhow.”
Suddenly a wicked vision of us tangled together in a masculine wood-framed bed explodes in my mind.
Get a grip, Sabine!
He pulls off his ice-and-snow-encrusted boots and walks past me, eyes averted. I follow along, curious to know what the rest of his home looks like.
We climb a wide-planked staircase that has a turn in it at the midway point. The banister is made out of a cool, twisted dark powder-coated metal, and I realize that even in this remote location, the luxurious pad must have cost over a million. He either played a lot of hockey or hit the pros. I stare up at him and notice for the first time how he favors his right knee, hesitating when it comes to putting all his weight on it. The injury wasn’t apparent when he was simply walking around the house. He seems too young to be retired. Maybe it was the injury? I know next to nothing about men’s hockey except that it’s a blood sport on ice. Its violence is shocking. I never stick around when my dad has the NHL games on—far too much gore and aggression for me to stomach.
“Two bedrooms up here. You can take your pick.”
“I won’t take yours. The guest room works fine for me.”
Leading me to the closed door, he opens it and steps inside, flipping on the light.
I’m right on his heels, gushing, “Wow, it’s fantastic.”
The hulking log bed has a king-size, thick mattress that’s covered with both a fluffy white duvet and a folded quilt depicting a moose in the forest. The jewel tones accentuate the stunning wood details. Over in the corner is an overstuffed scarlet-red chair and ottoman. The entire scene looks like the ‘cabin chic’ version of a Pottery Barn vignette.
He points to an interior door. “There’s a full bath in there. It connects to my bedroom. Sorry there’s no private shower upstairs, but if I hear you in there, I’ll stay out. There are no interior locks.”
“It’s perfect. I love the room. It’s a lot nicer than the hotel room back in Skagway, but I won’t lie, I’d do just about anything for my suitcase right now.”
“I bet. Come to my room and I’ll get you those socks. I have a hoodie you can wear, if you need it.”
“You know, you’re very thoughtful for such a big guy.”
He stops inside the bathroom and turns to me, asking curiously, “Big guys aren’t normally thoughtful?’
“I haven’t known many, but those few were fighters—you know, bullies I guess.”
“Insecure probably.”
“Maybe so.”
He’s watching me closely as he says in a softer tone, “You make it easy to be nice to you.”
He reaches out to touch my sleeve but stops, letting his hand drop like a dead weight at his side.
He turns away, and I watch him disappear into his bedroom.
* * *
I’ve never second-guessed myself so much around a woman in my entire fucking life. Maybe it’s her petite size that has me on alert; I don’t ever want to hurt her. I stare at the back of my hands, hands that have brutally harmed so many, caused countless trips to the hospital. Rough hands that have no place on a delicate woman like her.
I reach into my dresser when her angelic voice calls out from behind me, “Any pair will do.” My heart skips a beat. She’s followed me in here.
I grab a wool pair that still has the tags hanging from it. Closing the drawer, I open the one below it and pull out a gray American Giant zip-front hoodie and a white tee. I put the socks on top and turn to her. She’s in the corner, touching one of my hockey sticks leaning in a tall metal umbrella stand. Her hands move along the edges of the marred wood. Without looking at me, she asks, “Which one’s your favorite?”
I toss the items on the bed and move in close behind her, placing my hand atop her silky one, wrapping both of our fingers around the stick, “This one.”
Her breathing immediately changes, becoming shallow and fast as she asks in a whisper, “Why?”
Because your hand is touching it and I’m touching you.
I say aloud, “Because it was the first stick I used against the Calgary Flames. Good stick.”
“Wait, the Flames, aren’t they … NHL?”
“Yep.”
“Wow, I never thought I’d meet a hockey pro on a ski trip.”
“Stranger things have happened, sweetheart. I’m learning that fact every day. Come on, the grill is ready. Need to get the steaks on if we want to eat. I’m starving. How ’bout you?”
“Ravenous, actually.”
“Well, let’s take care of that.”
Reluctantly, I release her hand and turn around to give her the clothes, saying, “No way any of my sweatpants will fit you, but these will have to do while your clothes are in the wash.”
“Thank you, Roark.”
Damn, every time my name rolls off her little pink tongue, my cock turns to iron.
“No problem.” There’s no disguising the edge to my voice.
We head back down and I can’t wait to get outside. I need the distraction of the bitter air to calm my raging hormones.
I put the steaks on and bounce up and down to keep warm. It’s been over a year since I’ve fucked anyone, and even then, I was so obliterated and drowning in grief that I can hardly remember the act. No, the last time it was meaningful was so long ago that it almost seems like some fucking dream now.
I appreciate the fact that Sabine is quick on the uptake, backing off when she hits a nerve. I hate displays of emotion, always have. The uncomfortable feeling that comes with fucking, ‘sharing’ makes my skin crawl.
I head in for a pair of tongs as she asks, “What dressing? For your salad.”
“Anything works.”
“Are we eating in here?”
“Nah, I like to sit on the sofa, by the fire and the TV. Never actually sat down at this table, if you can believe that.”
She smiles. “Okay, no worries. I’ll put the salads out there and find the napkins and silverware.” She pauses. “Oh, and I’m sorry, but the potatoes will have to wait until another night, I need more time to prepare them.”
“Don’t be sorry. If we’re still hungry, I’ll order us a pizza. Those fuckers will drive through anything to make a buck.”
She looks stunned by my coarse comment as I add, “You know I’m being sarcastic, right? Nobody is out in this storm.”
I watch her erupt into a fit of giggles. Jesus Christ, she’s so damned cute, it’s killing me. I don’t remember the last time I made a woman laugh. It’s refreshing.
The wind is howling when I rush back out, and even though the deck is fully covered by the other deck above, I have to fight to keep the steel cover open. It’s a balancing act not to drop the steaming meat as I hurry back inside, kicking off my boots in the process.
She’s already sitting on the sofa, lit beautifully by the glow of the fire. I sit beside her and place a steak on her plate.
“I poured us water,” she says. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted anything else.”
“Water’s good. Got some bourbon and I think a couple bottles of wine if you want some.”
“I might take you up on a glass of wine later.”
“Good night for it. Drinking in a storm is always fun.”
“That will be a first for me.”
I chew then swallow a bite of my juicy steak before replying, “No? Even with all your skiing adventures?”
“Sure, I’ve partied in a snowstorm before, and even headed out to nightclubs and bars, but I’ve never actually been snowed in while drinking, especially not with company … sounds rather intriguing.”
“Know some pretty fun drinking games that might keep us entertained.”
She laughs. “Oh, I bet you do, naughty man.”
Mmm … I’d love nothing more than to show her my up close and personal version of ‘naughty.’
I reach for my phone and turn on the Sonos system. One Republic’s “Counting Stars” begins flowing out of the surrounding speakers.
We eat for a few minutes in comfortable silence. Finally I say, “Good salad. You cook much back home?”
“Yes, I enjoy it a lot. Learned from my grandma, or ‘Nonna’ as I call her. She’s a phenomenal cook.”
“What nationality are you?”
“Take a guess.”
I set down my salad bowl and shift to really look her over.
“Gonna take a stab and guess, French?”
She shakes her head. “Close. I’m actually second-generation Northern Italian, from Milan, or Milano as they say in Italy. How about you?”
I shrug. “Thibault is French. Other than that, a bit of Swedish, part Scot. Rest is all mutt.”
“I can see the Swedish part.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You have a really distinct, imposing look about you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, snow angel.”
Her eyes go wide and she practically spits her water across the coffee table before sputtering, “Did you just call me ‘snow angel?’ ”
I wipe my mouth with my napkin and smile confidently. “Yep. Coated with it when I found you, all curled up and lost like some fallen angel. So, yeah, I’m miles away from poetic, but I’m thinking it’s a very appropriate nickname for you. You know, in the rink most of us have one. They’re usually intended to describe your personality, unless it’s just something that rhymes with your name; those can be pretty hilarious. Like one guy on our team—name was Mike Honor—poor bastard was stuck with the name ‘Boner’ for his entire career.”
She shakes her head in amused disbelief. “All right, all right. I get it. Seeing as I’m a guest in your home, I’ll let the new nickname slide … for now, Roark.”
She watches me speculatively and asks, “Wait, so, what was yours?”
“My what? My nickname?”
“Yes. Come on, don’t leave me hanging.”
“Fog.”
Her breath hitches for a second. Then she says, “Because they never saw you coming, right?”
“Been told that.”
“Did you live up to it?”
“Every time my blades hit that ice, sweetheart.”
“You hurt a lot of people?”
“Countless. It was my job.”
“Did it bother you, the relentless violence?”
I shake my head. “Didn’t then. Does a bit now, though. Try not to dwell on it. Got a call a few months back from the older brother of some player I laid out during a really intense game against the Toronto Maple Leafs. Wanted to let me know that he’s still in physical therapy and fucked up from the concussion and broken collarbone I gave him. Told me I was a heartless animal. Yeah, not my best day. Shit like that makes you reflect.”
“So it’s expected?’
“What, the brutality?’
She nods hesitantly.
“Comes with the bloodlust of the sport, darlin’. When you’re on the ice, your sole mission is to stop the opponent cold, no matter the cost. You give the pain and you take it, believe me. Every man knows it when he signs that contract. Might as well ink it in your own blood. The violence and aggression is a given. You’re not on board, you leave.”
“Is that why you’re retired—you were injured?”
I stare down at my knee, the scars from the three failed attempts to reconstruct it hidden beneath the worn blue denim.
Her fingers graze the back of my hand. “Hey, I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that. I’m just curious about you. Forget I brought it up.”
I flip my hand over and squeeze hers. “Nah, it’s all right, Sabine, and yeah, it was payback. My official position was right defenseman, but everyone knew I was the enforcer—the one on the team who shut down any shit from the other team, always with extreme violence. We were playing a game against the Detroit Red Wings and two minutes before the halftime buzzer I got trapped in a corner with their center and a winger. The center took a swing at me the same time the winger went for the chop job with the blade of his stick. He was a determined fucker—let’s just say that. I felt the thing shatter, second worst pain of my life. It was ‘game over,’ so to speak, from that point on. You wanna know my biggest regret?”
She nods and I continue, “It was having to be dragged off the ice by two teammates. It was hands down the most humiliating point of my career. Never thought I’d go out like that.
“But … you had no choice! I can’t believe you weren’t at least carried off on a stretcher. That’s barbaric.”
I frown at her comment, “Sweetheart. I’d have to have zero fuckin’ pulse for that shit to ever happen to me.”
“Proud,” she whispers.
Very.
I keep the comment to myself and add, “Took the settlement from the NHL and moved onto the next chapter of my life.”
She shifts closer to me, asking, “So, are you up here taking time off to think about what you want to do now?”
“Nope, I’ve already got the ball rolling with something that interests me. Never been a guy to lounge around.”
She tightens her fingers in mine and probes further, “Well, come on, share.”
“You finished eatin’?”
“I am.”
“All right, not sure if you can see it in the dark, but we can try. Up you go.”
We walk over to the front set of windows. Gauge lifts his furry head and one eye flutters open briefly before he flops back down onto his side in front of the flames with a long groan.
“You were knocked out when I brought you inside earlier, but if you peer out though this corner window, you might be able to see it over there to the left, beside the Tahoe.”
She presses her nose to the frosty glass and says, “A semi?”
“Yeah. You ever see that show on the History Channel called Ice Road Truckers?”
Her head turns, eyes wide as she replies, “No … but I’ve seen the ads for it. Why?”
“Just past my CDL test. I’m scheduled to deliver supplies to a mine north of Fairbanks next week. Picking up the container in Wasilla.”
“Ahh, okay, I get it. It makes total sense. You’re drawn to the challenge and excitement of driving on ice, aren’t you?”
“Guess so. Never really thought about it that way, but yeah. Don’t have to work, but the money’s great considering you’re not taking a physical beat-down on a daily basis. Besides, I’d go insane just hanging around this place. It’s nice and all, but a man like me needs a purpose in life.”
“How did you ever decide to live up here, anyhow? Not many people just up and move to Alaska.”
“Good question. About three summers ago I came up this way with a few guys from the team to fish for salmon. We rented a tricked-out cabin. Best three days I’ve had in a long fucking time. Never been a city guy. To be honest, most people annoy the shit out of me. Remembered the location and wanted to get far away from the world of hockey—too many memories, both good and bad.”
“What about the dogs? What will you do with them when you’re on the road?”
“The Peterbilt’s got an extended cab, so for short trips—ones that might be just a few days—I’ll take them with me; otherwise there’s an in-home dog sitter I met through the realtor that sold me this place. Checked his references—he’s legit and a really nice guy. That doesn’t work out, I can always drop them off with my brother. He’s got three kids that are crazy about them.”
“I think this will be a good profession for you. It’ll get your adrenaline racing, and you’ll get a firsthand view of some jaw-dropping landscapes.”
“Right on. Hey, are you tired?”
“Surprisingly, no. Why?”
“Well … you wanna try something pretty crazy with me tonight, angel?”
Her eyes sparkle with interest, causing my breath to catch in my throat.
Hell yeah, she does. There’s my girl.