Page 3 of Mountain Mens' Curvy Obsession

But I’m warm. And the warmth is slowly thawing me, revealing every ache.

Before my eyes peel open, I know my right leg is broken. The knee, the ankle, part of my thigh and hip. I don’t know how it happened.

I barely remember getting here.

Where is here?

“Retrograde amnesia,” the first man mutters. “So, no pressure? Seriously? Doc, given the circumstances, there’s an urgency we do need to consider—Doc? DOC! Fuck.”

“What?”

“The line went out.”

“Try calling him again,” the third man says.

I hear the sound of fingers tapping on keypads. “I can’t. Chance is right. The blizzard must’ve taken the tower out.”

Footsteps thud softly around me.

I sink into a warm mattress, wrapped in blankets and fur. I let my burning fingers run over the surface. It’s smooth and silky, almost like cuddling a giant cat. Opening my eyes slowly, I look around.

“What did he say?” the man I think is Chance asks Booker.

Yes, I recognize Booker. I recognize them by their voices, actually. I don’t have a name for the giant yet, though. Hell, they’re all big. Tall as oaks, with broad, muscular shoulders and piercing green eyes. They’re definitely brothers. I can see it their cheekbones, the shape of their lips, the burnt caramel brown of their hair.

“It sounds like a traumatic head injury, but we need to ask her certain questions to make sure,” Booker says. He glances my way and sees that I’m awake. “You’re awake.”

“Am I?” I whisper, my throat raspy.

The mountain fetches a glass of water and slowly comes to the side of what feels like a comfortable bed. “Here, drink this,” he says.

I’m parched, aching all over. Every move I make hurts everywhere. He notices me wincing as I reach for the glass and decides to bring the glass down to my lips, letting me sip slowly. I welcome the cool liquid down my throat with each gulp.

“Easy, easy,” he says, his voice low, almost a purr that makes my core rumble. “You’ve been through a lot.”

“Do you know where you are?” Booker asks. His brown, wavy hair is a tad longer than Chance’s, tufts of it left to fall over his forehead.

I shake my head.

“Do you know what happened?” Chance follows up.

I shake my head again. “Who are you?”

The brothers give each other a startled stare. “You called it,” the mountain tells Booker. “Or, better yet, the doc called it.”

“Do you know your name?” Booker asks me.

My head hurts. There’s so much noise swirling between my ears, a ringing that comes and goes, ebbs and flows, making it increasingly hard for me to focus. I feel the sweat beads trickling down my temples. Instinctively, I bring a hand up. There’s blood.

“Ouch,” I manage as I touch my bandaged temple.

“Go easy,” the mountain urges me. “Tell us your name.”

“You kept calling me Anya,” I say to Booker.

He gives me a confused frown. “You don’t remember your own name?”

I think about it for a moment. Snippets of places and people flash before my eyes, but I can’t knit them together into anything coherent. “No. But you know me?”

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