Frosted (4 page)

Considering a call to Mr. Bradshaw, she decided instead to push forward. Once she found the main trail, she’d be fine, right? She’d just go slowly, following the trail markers until she found herself back at the resort.

Plant, slide. Plant, slide. Plant, slide, skid, fall.
Ouch!

She felt her left ankle twist inside the boot before the sensation sluiced up her leg in a bolt of hot, white pain. Her ski hadn’t released when she tripped, and when it nosedived into the snow, her ankle had turned.

She lay stunned and breathless, sprawled in the snow for a moment before shaking her head and forcing herself to sit up as best she could.

“Oh, God!” she yelped, feeling the wet snow seep through the back of her jeans as she reached forward to release the binding. She pressed hard. Nothing. She pressed again. Nothing. Her twisted ankle was trapped and she couldn’t release the boot.

Reaching forward, she took the ski between her hands and righted it, wincing with pain as her ankle twisted back into a more natural position. She gasped and bit her lip, knowing that the ankle was going to start swelling in the tight boot. Her breathing quickened as the snow blew into her face and her butt felt increasingly wet and cold.

Rolling to her side, she lined up her skis and used her poles to push off, but it took several tries to stand upright, as her left ankle could barely hold her weight. She whimpered, feeling hot tears sliding down her now-cold cheeks, and used all of her strength to force herself up.

“Oh, my God!”
she panted, gasping with pain as she shifted her body weight to her right side. The throbbing on her left side was so acute, her mouth watered and she felt her stomach threatening to revolt. Hot tears slid down her cheeks and she tried to find equilibrium, but the pain was so sharp, she feared falling again. Willing herself not to panic, she wound the pole strings around her wrists, hopped to a nearby tree, and leaned against it, catching her breath before pulling her phone from her pocket. She had used all of her strength to get to the tree—there was no way she was going to be able to ski or walk back to the Recreation Center.

Grateful for an Edge signal, she had just started to dial Mr. Bradshaw’s number when the sound of a motor broke through the white noise of snow and wind. It was coming closer and closer in fits and stops, as though the driver was following an uncertain path, unsure of where to go. As it got closer, she heard someone calling her name, “Grace! Grace? Grace!”

“I’m here!” she screamed, hopping to rotate her body around the tree and shout in the direction of the motor. It cut for a moment, and she screamed again. “I’m here! I’m here! Help!”

The motor revved up again, and a moment later, she saw Mr. Bradshaw cut through the snow on a snowmobile, headed right for her.

Never—no, not ever in the entire course of her entire life—had Grace been so happy to see someone.

He pulled up beside her, his blue eyes at once worried and relieved as he hopped off the snowmobile and approached her with purposeful strides. When she didn’t move toward him, his eyes dropped to her legs, focusing on her left leg, which she held slightly bent and an inch off the ground.

“What happened?” he asked, finally reaching her. He pulled off his gloves and cupped her cheeks with his warm, bare hands, looking into her eyes, searching her face. “Are you okay?”

Her lips parted in surprise and for a moment all of the pain in her left side momentarily vanished as she registered how tenderly he was touching her. Her words were breathless. “I—I twisted my ankle.”

He winced, dropping his hands and squatting down in front of her. He released the right ski, then reached for the left binding and tried to release the ski, but it wouldn’t budge.

“God damn it,” he hissed, trying again. “This is my fault. I thought I had fixed it.”

Every time he tried to release the binding, it jostled the boot and made fresh tears well in her eyes. She whimpered softly and his face whipped up. “I’m hurting you?”

“N-No. Yes,” she sobbed, leaning back against the tree and pulling her bottom lip into her mouth. “Please just get it off.”

“Wait here.”

He took her loose ski and sprinted over to the snowmobile, leaning it against the small vehicle. Opening a side compartment, he took out a screwdriver and ran back to her.

“Brace yourself,” he cautioned, then knelt down and jammed the screwdriver into the binding. With a soft click, it finally released.

Grace ignored the darts of pain shooting mercilessly up her leg as Tray took the second ski back to the snowmobile, cursing under his breath. When returned to her, his face was worried, but determined.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he ordered when he got close.

Her eyes widened. “I’m sure I can hop over to—”

He didn’t let her finish. He took her wrists in his hands and pulled them around his neck, her poles hitting his back as they drooped over the edges of her gloves. Without saying another word, he lifted her into his arms, then turned back toward the snowmobile.

Grace had two thoughts:

One,
I’m in Mr. Bradshaw’s—no, Tray’s arms.

Two,
he smells like fresh air, leather and pine, just as I knew he would.

Resisting the urge to snuggle closer to the patch of exposed skin on the side of his neck which peeked out between his scarf and hat, her heart beat a primal rhythm as he carried her effortlessly over to the snowmobile. To her immense disappointment, it ended all too soon.

“Spread your legs,” he barked through the whipping wind.

Her breath caught from the unintentional eroticism of the demand, but she spread them in time to be deposited unceremoniously onto the back of the snowmobile. Working quickly, he removed the poles from her wrists, picked up the skis and fastened her equipment to the back of the vehicle with a bungee cord. Climbing onto the snowmobile in front of her, he turned his neck, leaning back to place his lips as close as possible to her ear.

“Wrap your arms around my waist and hold on. It’s coming down too hard to get back to the rec center. We’ll go to the West Mountain Warming Hut until it clears up. There’s a first aid kit there. You ready?”

“Yes!” she said, reaching around him and clasping her hands together around his chest. She could feel the rock hard expanse of muscle beneath her hands, and without thinking, she leaned forward and laid her cheek against his back as he turned over the engine and started off through the woods.

With his back as a shield, Grace was finally spared the constant bite of snow against her cheeks and she closed her eyes. Despite the sharp pain in her ankle, she took a deep, calming breath for the first time since she hung up with Miss Meyers, terribly grateful for the timely arrival and solid strength of her rescuer.

***

Ten minutes later, Tray pulled up in front of a small log cabin with a dark green sign that read “West Mountain Warming Hut.” The snow was falling so thick by then, Grace was impressed that he’d been able to find the small building at all.

He cut the motor and threw his leg over the snowmobile to stand up. Cupping his hands on either side of her ear, he yelled, “Stay here for a minute. I’ll be right back to help you.”

When he leaned back, his fingers moved to the zipper of his coat, and before Grace could protest, he unzipped it and shrugged out of it, throwing it over her shoulders and pulling it together under her chin. It was heavenly warm and her eyes fluttered closed from the clean, masculine smell.

He fussed with the side compartment of the snowmobile beside her hip for a moment, finally pulling out a long cord with several jangling keys. Walking to the door, she watched as he tried one after the other in an attempt to unlock the door. Thank goodness the sixth or seventh key worked, and he pushed open the door of the little log building.

Turning back around, he returned to her and without him having to ask, she roped her arms around his neck so he could lift her from the snowmobile and carry her into the hut. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the paucity of light, but she gradually made out a leather couch facing a massive flagstone fireplace in the center of the small room. To her left was a bank of windows with two or three bistro tables with two chairs at each, and to her right was a kitchen or snack bar area flanked by two doors. There was no light other than the white of the snow outside through the windows, no lights and no hum of electricity. It was a spare, tight space, but nothing had ever looked so inviting in all her life. Tray walked around the sofa, gently depositing her on it before going back to shut the door.

“I’ll get it warmed up in here.”

“Please take your coat back,” said Grace, pulling it from around her shoulders.

“No, Grace.” His hand landed on hers, gently stopping her. “I’m so angry with myself, I could punch something. I should’ve checked that binding again before letting you go. Instead I got…well, distracted. Please keep the coat until I get a fire going.”

With an angry, sorry expression still darkening his handsome face, he turned away from her, taking logs and newspaper from a large pile beside the fireplace and fashioning a fire in the grate. A few minutes later, a cheerful blaze snapped and crackled before them. The instant warmth was welcome. Grace’s ankle, however, was aching fiercely. She sat up straighter and reached down to unbuckle the boots.

“Let me do it,” said Tray, kneeling beside the couch and unsnapping them open. He pulled the right boot off, setting it against the couch beside him, before looking up at her. “I’ll go slow, okay?”

She winced, but nodded.

He reached into the left boot and pulled the tongue out as far as it would go then gripped her leg carefully before tugging.

Grace whimpered softly, clenching her eyes and gasping from the pain.

“Should I stop?” he asked, cringing with worry.

“Pull it off!” she sobbed. “Please.”

She gritted her teeth as he gave the boot a good yank, falling backward as her foot finally slid free. It took Grace a moment to process the searing pain and open her eyes again. When she did, she could immediately see the difference between her two ankles. Even under two layers of socks the left one was considerably bigger.

Tray reached for her hand, which was gripping the edge of the leather couch like a claw, and squeezed it gently. “Hold tight, Grace. Let me get the first aid kit. Least I can do is find some Advil for the pain and wrap it up for you.”

“Thanks,” she said softly, willing herself not to cry. He already felt so bad, she couldn’t bear to do anything that would make him feel worse.

Crossing in front of the dormant snack bar area, he entered the left door and Grace craned her neck to see where he’d gone. From her position against the side of the couch, she could make out a crowded, disorderly office: a desk that held a radio, files and a messy, faded bulletin board. A large first aid kit hung on the wall beside the board and there were two windows over the desk that looked like they were painted white, the snow still fell so thick and even outside.

Tray returned a moment later holding the first aid kit. Kneeling down beside her on the floor, he grimaced at her foot.

“I bet it hurts.”

“It does,” she said. “But at least I’m not trapped in the snow anymore. Thank you for coming when you did.”

“Of course. I was worried the second you left. I could smell the snow coming.”

“Smell it?”

“When you’ve lived in the mountains for as long as I have, you’ve got a sixth sense about snow. I don’t even listen to the forecast anymore.” He opened the kit and rustled around for an Ace bandage, holding it up and letting it unfurl onto the floor. “I’m going to take your sock off.”

Her cheeks felt hot, and despite the pain in her ankle and the warmth of the fire, the flush was born of a different heat source altogether. She took a deep breath as his fingers pushed up the cuff of her wet jeans.

“What is this place?” she asked, trying to distract herself from his touch.

“Warming hut for skiers,” he answered, focused on his work. “Your jeans are soaked.”

“Why isn’t it open today?”

He ignored her question. “You should take them off and dry them by the fire.”

Wait.
“What?”

“Your jeans. They’re wet and freezing. You need to get them off.”

Take off my pants?

She blinked at him. “Really, Mr. Bradsh—”

“Grace?” His face was serious when he looked up at her. No trace of teasing. “We’re going to be here a while. That snow’s not fixing to let up for another few hours and even then I’ll have to dig out the snowmobile. It could take almost an hour to get back down the mountain and it’ll be cold and dark. You’ll need warm, dry pants.” His face softened. “I have no designs on you, ma’am. I just want you to be safe and warm.”

His words were respectful and polite.

I have no designs on you.

Her heart absolutely plummeted.

She straightened her back as best she could, raised her chin and gave him her well-practiced, frostiest look. “Thank you for your concern, but I’ll be fine.”

“No, you won’t be.”

Grace was unaccustomed to contradiction and her eyes blazed as she quickly retorted, “I assure you I will be completel—”

Holding up a hand to stop her, he shook his head back and forth, and sighed, as though losing patience with a petulant child. “Grace? Take off the jeans.”

Standing up, he headed for an old-fashioned wooden trunk on the other side of the fireplace and flipped it open, removing a plaid wool blanket and placing it beside her thigh on the couch.

“You can cover up with this. I’ll turn my back.”

Standing only a foot or two away, he turned from her and faced the fire while Grace eyed the blanket, wrinkling her nose and furrowing her brows. She was trapped in a small cabin, on a mountain, in the middle of a snowstorm with a man she barely knew to whom she was wildly attracted, who—apparently—did not return the compliment. Now she was supposed to get half naked? She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, and looked up, her eyes smacking straight into Tray’s tight bum in black snow pants.

I have no designs on you.

Angrily, she pulled his coat from around her and shrugged out of her own, throwing both onto the floor in a fit of temper. She dropped her fingers to the button of her jeans, unsnapping and unzipping them quickly and doing her best to shuck them down her legs. She sat up, pulling off the right leg, but winced as the left leg, which was wet and unwieldy, got caught on her ankle.

She whimpered softly, tugging at the wet denim.

“Need help?” he asked, still facing away.

From
you
, Mr. No Designs?

“Absolutely not.”

Her hurt feelings somehow made it easier for her to ignore the pain as she yanked the jeans off and she threw them on the floor beside the couch. Settling back against the side, with her legs straight out in front of her, she unfolded the scratchy wool blanket and tugged it over her body, primly tucking it in on either side of her waist and under her legs so she looked like a plaid mummy from the waist down.

“All set?’ he asked.

“Yes,” she answered.

She knew she was weak for looking up at him as he turned around, but she couldn’t help it. He’d wounded her pride when he told her he wasn’t interested in her. Not that he was an appropriate choice for her on any level—he was the manager of a resort ski shop, for heaven’s sake, and she was Mrs. Harold Edwin Luff III, millionaire widow from Manhattan. It’s just that it had been so long—forever, truthfully—since any man had really and truly captured her interest, made her heart beat faster or her breath catch or her smile come out to play. It had felt so lovely to want, to wonder if he wanted her, to breathlessly wonder at the possibility of
something
simmering between them. Crushing her feelings with his disinterest made her feel foolish and undesirable.

Which is why the look in his eyes surprised her so much when her eyes slammed into his.