Stranded (2 page)

“What are you doing walking around out here in this weather?” he scolds. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to walk along this road when no one can see you?”

What kind of a stupid-ass question is that?
I want to ask, but I’m shivering so much, and my teeth are chattering so hard, that I can’t form the words, so instead I just glare at him.

The man sighs. “You don’t have to speak. We need to get you warmed up first.” He reaches out to touch my coat, but I recoil. “You’re soaked.” He glances behind him, in the direction he’d been driving before he spun around. “My house isn’t far. We’ll go there and get you warmed up.”

After a moment he’s gotten his truck turned around and we head down the road. As he drives, he glances at me, which makes me suddenly wonder if I’ve been rescued by a serial killer.

He turns up the temperature on the heater, then turns the fan on full-blast, but I’m still not getting any warmer. I’m sure my soaked clothes have something to do with it. 

Ten minutes later he turns off of the road, although I never saw a road to turn onto. Nevertheless we keep on going, and when the truck starts to slip on the icy road, I see him do something with his truck—I guess turn on his four-wheel drive—and we’re able to move forward.

After another fifteen minutes, a house, which I assume is his, comes into view. He shuts off the engine and turns to me. I stare at the man sitting next to me, then look at the house. The heat of the cab has helped my shivering some, but I still don’t seem to be able to get warm.

“We’re here,” he says.

I look at him, but I don’t know what he expects me to do. I feel like I’m freezing to death, not to mention that I can’t walk on my bum ankle.

“Do you want me to carry you?” he asks.

“I don’t think I can walk,” I say, hating that I feel so helpless.

“I can help with that.” He smiles, and that changes the whole look of his face. Where before he looked like he had a permanent scowl, when he smiles, his straight white teeth are framed by perfectly shaped lips, and he even has a dimple on one of his cheeks.

Suddenly I’m very aware that I’m not looking my best, and when he gets out of his truck, I pull off my gloves and quickly finger-comb my long, thick hair, trying to drag out the tangles that I’m sure are everywhere. But my fingers keep catching on the tangles, and I finally give up, because he’s opened my door and I don’t want him to think I’m trying to look good for him. 

You’re putting men in your past,
I remind myself sternly.

He slides one arm under my knees and the other behind my back and lifts me out of the car like I’m a small child. Granted, I'm only five foot three, but I'm no child. I'm a twenty-three year old woman who has lived on her own since she was eighteen. Okay, my parents helped me out now and again, but I didn’t live at home while going to college, so I’ve mostly been on my own.

I don’t particularly enjoy the feeling of being helpless, but I can’t say that I mind having this hot stranger carry me in his strong arms through a foot of freshly fallen snow.

We reach the porch and he sets me down while he fishes a set of keys out of his pocket, then unlocks the door. He pushes the door open, then scoops me up and carries me inside. The place isn’t much warmer than it is outside. In other words, I begin shivering again.

The man sets me on a couch, then looks at me for a minute.

“Why’s it so damn cold in here?” I manage to say through my chattering teeth.

He gazes down at me. “You’re going to have to take off your clothes.”

Chapter Three

“Like hell I am.” I scoot into the corner of the couch, as far from him as I can manage.
I didn’t get rescued by a serial killer
,
but by a serial rapist
. I move back a little further, but then a red-hot poker of pain radiates up my leg, and I bite back a scream.

He frowns. “If you don’t, you’ll freeze to death.”

Tears of pain pool in my eyes, and I squeeze my eyes closed, but that only makes the tears leak out and run down my face.

He squints at me. “Are you crying?”

I shake my head and speak through gritted teeth. “It’s my ankle.”

“Well, why don’t you let me help you?” He steps toward me.

I want to move out of his reach, but I have nowhere to go.

He kneels next to me, but doesn’t touch me. “You need to get out of those clothes. They’re soaking wet. You’ll never warm up as long as you’re wearing them.”

I look at his face and think,
If I hadn’t sworn off men, I might want to get to know you.
He looks like he’s a few years older than me, and he is really hot. 

He takes off his coat, and underneath it he’s wearing a button-down shirt, but that doesn’t hide his muscular biceps. He holds up the coat. “At least let me put this on you.”

I don’t resist as he drapes it over my tucked up legs and up to my shoulders. The way his coat covers me makes me feel small, but his body has warmed the coat and it feels wonderful. After a few moments my brain must have begun to thaw, because I begin to understand that I really
do
need to take my clothes off if I ever hope to get warm.

“Does that help?” he asks as he watches me.

I nod. “Do you have a blanket or something? I guess I’ll take off my clothes.”

He smiles, deepening his dimple and lighting up his face. “Good. I didn’t want to have to explain to the sheriff why I have a frozen dead girl in my house.”

Serial killer. For sure
. I smile back, hoping he’ll spare me for a while longer. At least until I can feel my toes.

“I’ll be right back.” He leaves the room, and a moment later he is back with a blanket.

I take it from him, noticing how soft it is, and remember my earlier fantasy that a good-looking man would drape a warm blanket over me on a cold day, and feel a stupid grin form on my face.
Stop it
, I scold myself.
You’re off men, remember?
 

“Do you want some privacy?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Okay. I need to get the groceries out of my truck, then I’ll get some wood so we can get the fire going.”

I wait until he leaves, then I toss his coat onto the seat next to me, and take off my jacket, then my shirt—it’s not completely wet, but the hem is soaked. I leave my bra on—I'm not planning on getting completely naked—and reach for my boots. But that’s when I realize I have a problem. I'm able to take the boot off my left foot, but my right ankle is hurting too much for me to remove my boot myself.

Not knowing what else to do, I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and wait for the man to return. 

I don’t even know his name. Here I am, taking my clothes off in the house of a complete stranger, and I don’t even have enough self-respect to find out his name first.
 

Frowning, I snuggle into the blanket, but my wet jeans keep me from feeling very warm. Especially in this cold house.
Why is it so damn cold in here?

Ten minutes later the man comes back holding an armload of wood. He sets the wood on the hearth, then turns to me. He looks at my coat and shirt on the couch, and my one boot on the floor, and then he looks at my right foot. “Do you need some help?”

“My ankle hurts. I can’t get it off.”

He kneels in front of my right foot and gently pulls on my boot.

“Ow!”

He stops, then stares at me. “Sorry.”

I bite a corner of the blanket, and nod.

“Here goes.” He works the boot, tugging gently as he twists it slightly, until it finally pops off.

I release a loud breath of relief.

“Let me take off your socks.”

“Okay.”

That is simple and a moment later my feet are bare.

“Wait here,” he says as he stands.

As if I could move.

A moment later he comes back with a pair of thick men’s socks. I expect him to put them on my feet, but instead he sets them on the couch.

“You should probably take off those wet pants.” He gazes at me a moment. “I’ll start some coffee while you . . .” His words trail off, and he walks out of the room.

I look at my feet and see that they are very white. And they feel numb. I know that isn’t good. Eager now to get warmed up, I set the blanket aside, unzip my jeans, then hitch my thumbs into my waistband. But when I try to pull my jeans off, they don’t want to move. They were form-fitting when I put them on this morning, but now they are soaked through and it is like they are glued on. 

Well, that’s just great
. I know I have no choice but to ask the stranger for his help.
I really need to find out his name
. Tucking the blanket back up around my shoulders, I call out, “I need some help.” 

A moment later he walks into the room. 

“I can’t get my jeans off.” My face turns five shades of red. “They’re too wet.”

A smirk turns up one corner of his mouth.

Too cold to care, I lift the blanket so that it covers my top half and just touches the top of my jeans.

He walks over and kneels in front of me, then reaches for my pants.

“Hold it,” I say.

His hands freeze midway to my waist, and he looks at me with a question on his face. “What’s wrong?”

“If you’re going to undress me, I should at least know your name.”

He grins. “Colton. Colton Drake. But everyone calls me Drake.”

I hold out my hand like this is a job interview. “I’m Ashley Spencer.”

He shakes my hand. “Nice to meet you, Ashley.” His grin grows. “Now let me take off those pants.”

Chapter Four

My face turns a deeper shade of red. “Fine.” When he grabs the waistband of my jeans, his warm fingers brush against the bare skin of my stomach, sending a shockwave of heat to my core, and I gasp.

He stops as his eyes meet mine. “Are you okay?”

I nod, half-wanting him to touch me more, and half-wanting him to back far, far away.

This time he gets a firm grip, then starts peeling my soaked jeans down my hips. The only problem is, since they are stuck to me, my panties want to go down with them. That won’t do. Not at this point in our relationship. I hold back a giggle at the thought, then remind myself that I’m not interested in a relationship. In fact, I’ve just gotten out of one.

As my jeans slide further down my hips, I reach down and grab the top of my panties to keep them from sliding off too. When he looks at me with a question on his face, I smile. “Those are staying on.”

He grins. “Whatever you say.”

Once my jeans have cleared the halfway point of my backside, I manage to lift my hips so that he can pull my pants past my butt. Once he’s cleared that hurdle, I quickly use the blanket to cover myself, and he easily pulls my jeans completely off.

My bare legs are damp from my wet jeans, and goosebumps rise on my flesh.

“I need to get that fire going,” he says. “And you should put those socks on.”

“If you live here,” I ask as I pull the socks onto my feet—being very careful with my sore right ankle. “Why is it so cold?”

He bends toward the fireplace, setting the logs and kindling on the grate. “I don’t live here full-time.” 

“Oh.”
As if that explains anything.

He lights a starter log, then coaxes the flames until they begin licking the logs, then he turns toward me, still kneeling on the floor. “Evidently the pilot light went out on the furnace. I turned it back on, but it’s going to take a little while to heat the house.”

Now he’s making sense.

“Sorry it’s so cold.” He gazes at me a moment. “How are you feeling?”

“A little warmer, but my ankle is throbbing.” I don’t want to be a complainer, but he asked, and I'm hoping he has something for the pain.

“Let me see if I have some ibuprofen or something. And I’ll throw your clothes in the dryer.”

“Thank you.”

He leaves the room with my clothes in his hands, and when he comes back, he has two steaming cups, and a bottle of ibuprofen. He holds out one of the cups, as well as the bottle. “These should help.”

Smiling with gratitude, I take the cup and the bottle, then after popping two pills into my mouth, I sip some of the hot liquid to wash them down. The hot coffee warms me. That, plus the blanket and warm socks, helps tremendously, and I feel some of my earlier chill seeping away.

Drake sits on the floor with his back to the fire and gazes at me. “So, Ashley Spencer, what were you doing standing in the middle of the road in the middle of a blizzard?”

“I was only there by necessity.” I take another sip of the hot brew. “My car went off the road and got stuck, so I had to get out.”

He sips his drink as he watches me, and I find it hard to look away. “Where were you headed?”

I really don’t want to get into my life story. “North.”

He chuckles. “Okay.”

“Maybe we can call a tow truck and have them pull my car out of the ditch.”

“Not tonight we can’t.”

He wants to keep me hostage. Great.
“Why not?”

“Number one, no one wants to go out in that storm unless it’s an emergency. And number two, there’s no cell service out here.”

“Oh.”

“I’d like to take a look at your ankle though.”

I hesitate. Is this just an excuse to touch me? Or does he really know what he’s doing? The throbbing of my ankle decides it for me. “Okay.”

He kneels on the floor next to the couch and pulls the blanket away from my foot, and gently touches my right ankle.

“Ouch.”

“I think it’s just a sprain,” he says. “But we should apply the R.I.C.E. method.”

“What’s that?”

“Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation.”

“How do you know so much. Are you a doctor?” The idea excites me.
My own private doctor
.

He laughs. “No. I just do sports a lot and I’ve had to deal with this type of injury before.”

“Oh.” 

“Now that you’re not freezing, we ought to put some ice on your ankle.”

“Whatever you say. You’re the expert.”

A short time later he has my right foot propped up on a stack of pillows with an ice pack wrapped around it.