Page 2 of Snow Much Trouble
He's tall, probably six-two, with dark hair that looks like he ran his fingers through it just to make it look adorably disheveled, which instantly annoys me. He has broad shoulders filling out a navy hooded sweatshirt. He's got the kind of jaw that could cut glass and eyes that are either green or hazel. It's hard to tell from this distance, but they're definitely trouble.
“Um, excuse me? Hi?” My voice cracks slightly, which I will absolutely blame on the mountain air.
“Didn’t expect company,” he drawls, lifting the bottle. “But I’m not opposed.”
"I think you might have the wrong cabin."
He glances around the kitchen. “Nope. Been here before half a dozen times, at least. I’m definitely in the right cabin. Who are you?"
"I'm Lauren Scott.” A heartbeat too late I think maybe I shouldn’t tell the strange, very large man my name.
Not that it matters. He’s in my cabin. I step out from behind the door into the great room, grateful I'm wearing my festive red sweater and not the pajamas I was about to change into.
"I'mstaying here for the weekend," I add, very firmly.
He sets the bourbon bottle down on the counter with careful precision. "Well. I’m staying here for the weekendalso.”
Now that I’m closer to him, I can see his eyes are definitely green. “Who are you, exactly?”
“Dylan Lennox. Pleasure to meet you. Even if you are crashing my weekend in the cabin.”
“I’m not crashing anything! Jolene Hart told me I could stay here.”
“Chance Rivers told me I could stay here.”
He looks annoyingly sexy leaning against the counter like this is his cabin, his bourbon, his world, and I’ve just wandered into it.
“There must be a mistake,” I say, tugging at my scarf. “Jolene promised me this cabin.”
He just smirks. “Funny. Chance promised it to me. Like I already said.”
A standoff brews, hotter than the gas fireplace in the kitchen that I fired up five minutes ago. My cheeks warm. Dylan Lennox needs to move on down the mountain.
This is supposed to be my writing retreat. My shot at finally pulling together a Christmas song good enough to pitch to Miranda Leigh. The weekend where I prove that Rusted Truck publishing house didn’t make a mistake in signing me to be one of their staff songwriters. That I’m not just the girl writing quirky music about honky-tonk dive bars, but a songwriter who can create a major hit for a major star.
Instead, I’m staring down Bourbon Boy, who looks like trouble wrapped in a hoodie.
Which…he chooses to peel off in this exact moment.
When he tugs it up and over his head, his T-shirt underneath gets caught in the sweatshirt and rides up, revealing rock solid abs.
Damn it, those are nice abs. Definitely trouble. He’s also not saying anything.
Instead, he tossed his hoodie over the back of a barstool at the kitchen island and pulls two glasses down out of the kitchen cupboard.
I cross my arms and try to look intimidating, which is probably impossible when I'm a curvy five-foot-four and wearing a sweater with a sequined snowflake on each breast. I only wore it because I thought I was going to be, you know,alone. "So what do we do now?"
He sets the glasses down and runs a hand through his hair. I was right about the finger-combing. He gives me a charming smile. "We should start with a drink."
I march into the kitchen and eye the bottle. "Is that Pappy Van Winkle?"
His eyebrows shoot up. "So you know bourbon?"
"Somewhat. My ex was obsessed with the stuff. Besides, Pappy is almost an urban legend at this point." I lean against the opposite counter and give him my best skeptical look.
It has sunk in that he’s probably rich. Maybe famous, though probably not, because I don’t recognize his name. But if he’s friends with Chance Rivers, who is Jolene Hart’s husband and one half of their power recording couple Hart-Rivers, then he knows some folks. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad but it does have me very dang curious.
"So what's your story? Are you some kind of bourbon collector, or do you just like to travel with ridiculously overpriced alcohol?"
