Page 3 of Mountain Man Grinch
“Figures.” She looks around, taking in the spartan furniture, the bare mantle, the complete absence of anything red or green. “This place looks like the Grinch had a panic attack at REI.”
I chuckle under my breath. Can’t help myself. She’s funny as hell, and the last thing I need right now. But a favor’s a favor, and Army Rangers are loyal to their comrades through thick and thin. Still, McGregor’s gonna owe me—big time.
I point down the hall. “Guest room’s that way. Boots by the door. No pets, no lip, and absolutely no Christmas.”
She smiles like a cherub planning arson. “So ... you’ll be expecting a tree, then.”
“Woman—”
“Kidding,” she says, holding up her hands. “Mostly.” She digs in her purse, produces a ridiculous Hello Kitty keychain, and drops it into my palm. “Car’s down the hill. Thanks for schlepping my stuff, Mr. Grinch.”
Before I can object, she kicks off her boots and socks and curls up on my couch like she owns it—cross-legged, barefoot, and utterly infuriating.
“Might wanna hurry,” she adds, gazing at the window. “Another storm’s coming.”
Of course there is. Because fate’s got jokes.
“Just FYI, Mateo says all McGregors have two things in common—Mexican fire and Scottish stubbornness. Apparently, I inherited both in dangerous quantities.”
Of course, she did.
McGregor.Hell of a name in these parts. Wolfe mentioned a cartel sniffing around again last month. If they’re poking at Mateo’s family? Bad timing for her to be up here alone.
I shove my arms into my coat, muttering curses about McGregor, women, and the cruel sense of humor of the universe.
And as I step out into the cold, one thought keeps circling like a vulture.
I’m going to strangle Mateo McGregor …ifI don’t fall for his cousin first.
Chapter
Two
ARIELLE
The grumpy mountain man stomps through the door like it owes him money, disappearing into the white.
The boom rattles the windows. I flinch, heart hammering, eyes stinging.
Gus climbs out of my purse and into my arms. I hold him tight and breathe, trying to process everything since sunrise—bullets, fog, and one infuriatingly hot man with a jawline that could cut glass.
Mateo was right about one thing. Davin’s a pain in the ass.
A six-foot-plus, muscle-stacked, tanned, black-haired, bearded, Army Ranger-shaped pain in the ass.
“Thought I was Mateo’s fave cousin,” I tell Gus, kissing his velvet ears. His big eyes stare back, still shell-shocked. “Never thought he’d curse my Christmas with the weightlifting version of Ebenezer Scrooge.”
Gus pants happily.
“Those bad men tried to shoot us, buddy. But we lost them in the fog. Just like James Bond. Or maybe Lara Croft—way better wardrobe.”
The joke lands flat. I’m still shaking. Tears would help, but no way I’m doing that in front of Mr. Grinch.
Hot or not, he doesn’t scream “emotional support human.”
The fire crackles. Heat finally seeps through my frozen jeans. My teeth stop chattering long enough for logic to kick in.
Shower. Clothes. Sanity.
