Page 9 of A Cozy Holiday
“Jamie Wilder!” I yell, taking the salted porch steps two at a time. I pound on the door with one hand, then both, burning my frozen fingers. I’m met with silence. I wait five seconds before slamming the doorbell five times in rapid succession. I hear the chime behind the door, but there’s no movement.
I press my face to the window next to the door and peer through the glass. It’s pitch-black inside. The temperature out here has dropped a few degrees, and snow has started drifting from the sky. Panic pricks the back of my neck, and I bang on the door frantically.
“Open up, Jamie Wilder. If that is even your real name!” I say, shivering. “If you like watching women suffer, I swear to God, I will make you regret it. You have no idea what I can do with a scalpel.”
Still nothing.
In a last-ditch effort, I flip over theHappy Holidayswelcome mat hoping for a key but am met with zilch.
I exhale hard, blowing air into my closed fists to keep them functioning.
Fine.
I stomp back toward the sad little shack I apparently have no choice but to break into. In those twenty paces of pure anger,I curse Jamie. I curse Craigslist and Parker. I curse the snow, wine, and my own stupidity.
Still muttering threats, I climb the dilapidated porch steps, determined to kick the door down. But before my hand can touch the knob, my shoe hits a patch of ice, and my foot slips out from under me. Instinctively, my arms pinwheel for balance, and I latch onto the railing for dear life just in time to hear a sharp, splintering crack before the railing gives out. I land flat on my back on a frozen bush, blinking up at the gray sky while I gasp for air.
I’m about to move when I hear a lowwhooshdirectly above me.
It’s a full sheet of snow, I realize just before it slides off the roof and buries me alive.
Chapter 3
#MountainDaddy™
I haveno idea how long I’d been lying here, contemplating my inevitable demise, when a male voice asks, “Need a hand?” and a strong arm yanks me out of the bush.
I scramble to my feet, furiously sweeping snow off my face with my arms. I blink rapidly, trying to clear the snow-induced fuzziness from my vision, and finally get a good look at my rescuer.
I’ve never been rendered speechless before, but the man—nay, mountain—before me is unfairly attractive. My eyes scan upward, admiring his denim-clad thighs, his Carhartt jacket and loose Henley with two buttons undone, the thick, brushed mustache that hugs his upper lip, and the curly, almost-black hair that spills out from under a snow-dusted cowboy hat.
No, my eyes are not, in fact, mistaking me. He is wearing a cowboy hat in the Northeast.
This man is dangerously close to the one I pictured while tipsy-emailing last night. Which is deeply, terribly inconvenient. Especially since he’s a reindeer killer.
“You look different than your photo?” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“Just…your hair is shorter than in the photo. It looks nice.” He reaches forward, dusting snow off my jacket. He smells like espresso.
“Don’t try to compliment me.” Especially when my black, chin-length bob is probably giving Lord Farquaad vibes. I fold my arms and take a careful step onto the porch until I’m face-to-face with him. “You must be Jamie. You could’ve warned me about the snowmobile.”
“Yeah, I could have.”
“Don’t agree with me.”
“Would you prefer I argue?”
I throw my arms up. “I don’t know. I am freezing. My bunny has fainted again, and I really need a hot shower—”
“Is your rabbit okay?” He glances at Jubilee’s cage.
“She will be. She just does that sometimes.” I point my finger at him. “But don’t try to change the subject. Explain yourself.”
“A thank-you would be nice for the rescue.”
“I didn’t need rescuing. I was perfectly fine.”
