Page 19 of Falling for the Recluse

Gavin pulls my parka hood more securely over my head and tightens the Velcro fastenings. He helps load my equipment into my backpack, then hitches the straps over his shoulders despite my protest that I can carry my own stuff.

“Let’s go.” He takes my hand, hurrying me back over to the ridge toward the field house.

The sky is getting darker by the second—much darker than regular nighttime in the Northern Hemisphere. Whitecaps ripple over the ocean’s surface and the waves splash higher and higher. The penguins are all hurrying to take cover.

I know the weather in Antarctica can change in the blink of an eye, but I hadn’t known storms could come in so fast. Faster than you can outrun them.

Faint panic rises in me. Our walk here took over forty-five minutes. In a storm, it’ll take even longer. And the wind—the most dangerous part of an Antarctic storm—is getting stronger, buffeting across the beach, the rocks, the glaciers.

A sharp gust pushes me sideways, edging under my hood. Ice shards sting the upper part of my face. My hand breaks away from Gavin’s, and I stumble. The rocky ground rushes toward me. He clamps his arm around my waist, hauling me up right before impact.

“Hold on to me.” His voice is almost a shout in the increasing wind. “I won’t let you go.”

I don’t have to be told twice. Right now, he’s the only secure element in what is becoming a whirlwind of a storm—no, a blizzard.

The fog is so dense I can’t see more than two feet in front of me. Icy snow swirls in a vortex around us. I’d taken my sunglasses off to use my camera, and I didn’t have a chance to put them back on. The gusts of snow are blinding, and the temperature has dropped at least twenty degrees.

I try to keep my hand clamped around Gavin’s, but the cold penetrates my gloves and numbs my fingers. He’s there, though, solid as a mountain. His arm comes down over my shoulders, and he pulls me into his considerable warmth. Ice rains down and coats the rocks. My boots slip over the jagged surfaces. My leg muscles ache.

We keep going. Snow stings my eyes. My face—which has been cold all day—now feels frozen. I lose track of where we are and how long we’ve been slogging through the storm. The whirling snow blocks any view of the field house. If I were alone, I’d be so turned around I might end up walking right into the ocean.

My foot slips on a boulder, and I twist my ankle. I gasp and stumble off balance again. Gavin grips me harder, almost pulling me off my feet. He’s the only thing keeping me upright against the fierce wind. He shouts something else, but I can’t hear him past my hood and the howling wind.

Finally, the rocky incline levels off, and the blurred outlines of the warehouse and garage appear through the fog and white gusts. Relief bursts through me, propelling me a few more steps.

Gavin grabs me around the waist, shoving me in front of him toward the house. He reaches past me to open the door. The blast of warm air makes my head spin.

I stagger inside, heaving gasps into my aching lungs and blinking to clear my vision.

“Get your parka off and warm upnow.” Gavin slams the door, his breath coming fast as he unfastens my parka and pulls it off me. “Sit down.”

He pushes me toward the bench in the foyer. I sink down gratefully. I was too cold to shiver outside, but now the reaction hits me like a punch. My teeth rattle.

“Fucking hell, I’m so sorry.” His voice is hard. He yanks off his parka and goes down on his knees to unlace my wet boots.

A part of me registers that his hands are shaking, his muscles tense with anger. I’m unable to make sense of his apology. He can’t control the weather.

He tugs off my boots and socks, then rises to unzip my coveralls, taking all my outerwear off me with quick efficiency. I’m starting to thaw, the blood rushing back to the surface of my skin and my breath easing in my throat.

“You need to be dry.” Gavin pushes my damp hair off my forehead and throws my clothes in a pile. “Get over by the stove.”

He shoves his boots off, and we go into the workroom, which is warmer than the foyer. He stokes the fire in the potbelly stove and gestures to the sofa.

“Sit and put your feet here.” He plants a stool close to the stove.

“Gavin, I’m okay now.” I touch his leg. “You have to warm up too.”

He stalks to the kitchen, his whole body lined with restless energy. When he returns, he hands me a mug of hot cocoa and steps back, hands on his hips and his expression dark.

“Drink,” he orders.

I close my fingers around the mug and take a sip. The chocolate slides deliciously down my throat, and heat spreads through my chest.

“I’m fine.” I pat the sofa cushion next to me. “Sit down, please. Why are you so upset? It was a freak storm.”

He frowns, deep lines carved on either side of his mouth. Tension grips his shoulders.

I set the mug down, seized with a desire to ease whatever is gnawing at him. I reach over and grab his hand, tugging him to sit on the sofa. He’s taken off all his outerwear, and he’s already so warm that I can feel his body heat in the scant space between us. He probably didn’t feel the cold much at all, and of course, it wasn’t his first storm by any means.

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