Page 3 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
Her eyes widen. “You have aportable sleigh?”
I grunt. “It’s a cargo sled.”
“Same thing,” she says, already grabbing boxes and passing them to me. “Oh … careful, that one’s fragile.”
I glance at the label:Holiday Intimates Collection.
We pack fast, wind whipping against us. She’s surprisingly strong, bossy in the best way, tossing commands like she’s running a retail boot camp. By the time we’re done, snow dusts her dark hair and her cheeks are pink. She’s still wearing a big Santa jacket.
I tie down the last strap and nod toward the passenger seat of the snowmobile. “Hop on.”
She hesitates. “Is it safe?”
“Safer than staying here.”
Ruby bites her lip, then swings a leg over behind me. The Santa jacket flares as she settles, and before I can think, her arms circle my waist.
Warmth. Soft curves. A whiff of vanilla.
I clear my throat. “Hold tight.”
“Oh, I plan to,” she shouts over the roar of the engine.
We take off into the storm, snow flying, the sled gliding behind us. She leans closer with every bump, her laughter catching in the wind. By the time the cabin lights come into view, I’ve decided one thing for sure:
I don’t know who Ruby Garland is, but she’s already too much for my quiet world.
Chapter 3
Ruby
The cabin comes into view like something out of a snow-globe fantasy—log walls, soft golden light glowing through the windows, smoke curling from a stone chimney.
My first coherent thought:Of course, this gruff guy lives in a postcard.
Beckett steers the snowmobile right up to a wide porch before cutting the engine. The sudden silence feels huge after all that roaring wind. For a second, I just sit there, breathing, watching snow drift down in lazy, sparkling flakes.
I let go of him and wonder if he has bruises from how tight I was hanging on. Then he’s already off the machine, turning to give me a gloved hand to help me disembark.
Beckett moves with amazing efficiency that screamsman who fixes things without being asked.He starts unhooking the sled we towed behind us — my precious, temperature sensitive cargo, safe and sound.
“You’re fast,” I say, tugging one of the lighter boxes toward the porch. “Do you moonlight as Santa?”
He grunts. “Only when I’m rescuing stranded elves.”
“Ha, ha.” My breath comes out in puffs. “For the record, I’m a full-sized woman with a small-business.”
“Good to know,” he mutters, hauling the rest like it weighs nothing.
When I follow him up the steps, I catch my first close look at his place. The cabin is magical with its massive cedar beams, double front doors, stacks of chopped wood lining one side.
He unlocks the door and steps inside without ceremony. Warmth spills out, wrapping around me.
A low, throaty bark echoes from inside the cabin. A blur of dark fur bounds into view, tail wagging like a snowstorm in motion.
“Easy, Ranger,” Beckett says, crouching to rub the dog’s neck. The shepherd mix (big, shaggy, gorgeous) leans into his touch with the kind of adoration that only belongs to man’s best friend.
The dog trots over to me, sniffing at my boots before sitting politely, like he’s deciding whether I pass inspection.
