Page 7 of Big & Bearded on the Mountain

I glance down at her. She’s shivering and her clothes are muddy and torn. There are sticks in her hair and she’s got dirt on her face. Honestly? She looks like a wreck, but she’s still as beautiful as before. Emily’s a gorgeous wreck.

“How are you feeling?” I ask her.

“Fine. I’m totally fine,” she insists.

Clearly, she’s not fine. She keeps shivering and chattering her teeth. Why is she trying to act all cool and casual? I wish she’d be comfortable enough to be herself around me.

I roll my eyes. “Sure, you’re fine. That’s why you’re hypothermic.”

“I’m not. I told you, I’m fine.”

It takes me about twenty minutes to get out of the forest. As I step onto the trail leading to Emily’s rental cabin, relief floodsmy veins. It’s like I can finally breathe again now that I know she’ll make it. I still can’t believe she went out there, but that doesn’t matter now. What matters is getting her inside, cleaned up, and warm.

“You’re doing it again,” she says through chattering teeth.

“What?” I ask, feeling puzzled.

She offers me a weak smile. “Resting Scowl Face. You should be their poster guy.”

I chuckle. Despite everything, she still manages to be funny. I like that. I likeher. Very, very much.

Chapter Five

Emily

Going out there against Brody’s advice was dumb of me, but now that he’s found me and brought me home, I’m glad I did.

After all, I wouldn’t be in his strong arms, pushed against his chest, if I had stayed at home. So I guess there’s an upside to every situation.

Brody takes me inside and gently puts me down on a chair. He grabs one of the blankets off the couch and wraps it tightly around me.

“I’ll be right back.”

He disappears into the bathroom and soon returns with a washcloth and a bowl of water. He grabs a chair for himself, pulls it opposite mine, and scrutinizes my face. Then, he dips the washcloth in the water and dabs it on my face.

It’s only when he lifts it out of the water that I realize he grabbed one of the washcloths I had stuffed inside the bathroom drawer. This one is bright pink and has an image of Winnie the Pooh embroidered on it. I feel mortified. What thirty-year-old woman wants to admit she washes herself with something a three-year-old loves?

I bite back a laugh. The washcloth looks ridiculous in Brody’s giant hands.

“What’s so funny?” he asks with an arched eyebrow.

He dips the Winnie the Pooh washcloth back into the water and wrings it before continuing to clean the scrapes on my face.

“Nothing.”

If I don’t draw attention to the washcloth, he probably won’t notice.

He holds the pink cloth in the air, Winnie the Pooh staring in his face. “Is it because of this?”

“Oh my God, you noticed?”

He laughs, and it’s the most beautiful sound in the world. And the most beautiful sight. His growling expression is gone.

“How could I not? I didn’t even know they made these for grown-ups. Look”, he says, holding it in the air. “The thing barely fits around my hand.”

I give him a playful slap. “That’s because you’re a giant. You can’t fault the washcloth for that.”

He grins. “That’s true.”

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