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Vicious rain pelts the roof, the cabin walls, the bathroom window. Lightning flashes, dazzling the mountainside, and my whole body shivers at the recent memory of how icy that rain was—like a million needles digging into my skin. How quickly my clothes soaked through, and how easily the wind blew me left and right. Like a dried leaf tossed on the breeze.
In all my life, I’ve never felt so vulnerable.
I fumble for the shower, cranking it on and praying for it to heat up fast. I’m shivering so much beneath this towel, it’s like my skeleton is vibrating, and these vivid memories of the storm aren’t helping.
So… maybe Flint was right.
It was dumb to go out in the storm; dumb to worry so much about a man who thinks I’m just a tourist. I mean, I might as well have declared my love for him through a loudhailer, it was so freaking obvious in that moment. Who did I think I was, crashing down the mountainside like that in search of my man? A female Rambo? What was I gonna do when I found him?
And Flint didn’t want it. He bundled me back inside the cabin like a badly-behaved child, and scolded me for going out in the storm at all.
Yes! Stay mad.
Mad… and confused.
My jaw is tight as I step under the hot shower spray. At first, the stinging drops are almost too much to bear, so intense against my frozen body, but I force myself to stay in the warmth until feeling prickles back into my skin. I come back to life slowly, still shivering as I turn slowly beneath the shower, giving myself an angry pep talk. Need to keep this rage alive.
Because Flint is a jerk. Even if what I did was risky; even if I don’t know the mountain trails as well as a local yet. Even if Flint was clearly scared for me, so anxious to get me safe again that he could barely speak, he’s still a jerk.
Probably.
But by the time the bar boss knocks on the door, I’m slumped against the shower tiles, too exhausted by my freshly broken heart and too annoyed with myself to move, possibly ever again.
The door opens a crack—just enough for Flint to speak through the gap. “You okay in here? Getting warmed up?”
A sigh gusts out of me, but I can’t bring myself to answer. Speaking a single sentence would be a gigantic effort.
There’s a pause, then the door creaks open wider by another inch. Flint’s next question comes louder, like he needs to call for me across a great distance rather than this cozy little bathroom. “Mari? You okay?”
Nope. No, I’m not.
And when Flint curses and flings the door completely open, I’m too tired and sad to even bother covering myself. I just stare at the bar boss, buck-ass nude, my chin wobbling with the effort not to cry.
“Marigold.” Flint looks stricken, lunging for the shower cubicle. When he yanks it open, warm droplets start flecking his new set of dry clothes, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s staring at me, scanning every inch of me with worried eyes, trying to figure out why I’m slumped against the shower wall and limp with despair. “What happened?”
“I’m not hurt,” I mumble, but Flint’s not listening. He yanks his t-shirt over his head and steps into the cubicle, jeans and all.
Strong hands stroke down my shoulders, my arms, my waist, so much colder than the shower as they pat me down for some invisible injury. The shock of those icy fingers wake me up again, make me stand straight against the tiles, because shoot, Flint hasn’t warmed up at all. Even with dry clothes on and the log burner out there, his hands are cold enough to steal my breath.
And—enough.
Enough of this.
Enough trying to stay mad. Enough letting my exhaustion drag me down. Flint is cold, damn it, and even if he just unknowingly broke my heart, I still want him safe and warm. Nothing else really matters.
Suddenly all business, I drag him fully under the shower, reaching up to angle the spray at his chest. A red flush spreads across his skin where the water makes contact, and then I’m fussing over Flint and Flint’s fussing over me, and all the while there’s barely room in this cubicle for all our limbs.
“You’re hurt,” Flint’s saying, still working his way over my body, squeezing gently as he goes. The storm rattles the walls, but we’re safe inside this cocoon. “Tell me where you’re hurt.”
Meanwhile I’m yanking at his belt, determined to get his legs warm too. “Take these off. Who showers with their jeans on?”
“Marigold.”
“It’s like you want wet clothes.”
“Marigold.”
“God, this belt is stiff. Help me, will you? I’m a poor idiot tourist and I can’t work your rugged back-country clothes.”
