Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77611 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77611 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
CHAPTER FOUR
“Hello?” I groan as I sit up and look around groggily, pushing my now-stiff hair out of my eyes. When did I lose my hat? “I’m here! I’m over here and I need help!”
After my outdoor concert, what emerges is more of a raw, rattling croak than a shout.
“On my way.” The response echoes in the air around me. I have no idea what direction it’s coming from. “Keep singing. Or talk to me.”
The voice is deep and male, and it might have rung my city-dweller alarms if I weren’t too relieved to care. It’s not like I can run away, and there’s a chance he’ll take me back to his lair and warm me up before ordering me to put the lotion on my skin.
He's not a serial killer, you idiot.
“I’m talking.” I struggle to my feet, leaning heavily on yet another tree. It’s a good thing there are so many around, since my body doesn’t feel like standing at the moment. Even my good leg is shaking. I search for a shape moving through the gloom, but the snow is falling harder than it was before. “If you can see anything, I’m the one in red, wearing boots that weren’t made for walking.”
“What were they made for?”
He must be close. His voice is strong and smooth and all manner of hot.
Hot?
Sure. What could be hotter than not talking to myself anymore?
“For drinking hot toddies in front of a roaring fire while looking adorable,” I answer punchily. “Connor told me to bring hiking boots, but I wore these instead because I never hike and wasn’t planning to start this weekend. I twisted my ankle.”
I close my eyes and imagine a toasty fire and a toddy. Why am I so exhausted? “I should lie down.”
“Do not lie down.” The command jolts me awake.
“Keep talking. Don’t lie down,” I croak. “You’re pretty bossy for someone who hasn’t found me yet.”
“Why aren’t you wearing a hat?” Audible Orgasm asks from right behind me. I don’t even jump, that’s how tired I am. Have I mentioned his voice is dreamy? And familiar?
“Hat?” Good question. I was just wondering the same thing. “I had one, but then a tree m-mugged me and punched me in the face.”
I force my surprisingly heavy eyelids open, turning my head to get my first look at the man behind the voice. He’s wearing a sheepskin jacket, a navy-blue knit cap and a matching scarf that covers the lower part of his face. He’s plastered with the hard-falling snow as well, but I can still tell he’s good-looking. (It’s a gift I was born with.)
Which means he can’t be my rescuer. I’d know, because the last time I was rescued—after I borrowed Val’s truck and it broke down on the side of the road—it was by an older gentleman with a Red Sox hat and three teeth to his name. That name was Corky and he smelled of Tiger Balm and old feta cheese, but he was still my hero. That’s who I expected. A park ranger version of Corky.
What I can see of this bundled up man looks more like the dragon I was just thinking about. He has lovely brown eyes and possibly the same eyebrows, though I can’t be sure. Either I’m really tired or snow mirages are a thing.
“Too bad.” I laugh drowsily, watching my breath fog and drift around his shoulders. “I was hoping you were r-real since I don’t think I can find my way out of h-here on my own.”
“You’re here.”
The mirage is suddenly right in front of me, close enough to touch and thankfully blocking most of the wind. “I heard you singing but I… How did you know where I was? How did you get here?” he asks gruffly.
How did I get here? Stupidity, maybe. A bad sense of direction. Guilt because I was getting busy while my friend was in fear for her life. “I’m a spy. Don’t tell anyone.”
He’s staring hard at my eyes.
“You have unusual eyes. Beautiful.”
I’m about to break the weird stare-down with the mountain man who might be my pub beast’s Yeti cousin when he goes on the offensive, taking my head in his gloved hands and running his fingers roughly over my scalp, despite my feeble attempts to push him away. Damn it, did I actually find the only blizzard-loving serial killer in existence?
I lean as far away from him as I can. “Back off, man. What are you doing?”
“I’m checking to see if you’ve hit your head.” He sounds aggravated. “Your face is bleeding and you look like you’re in shock. You might have a concussion.”
When he reaches for me again, I engage in a weak one-sided slap fight I might be embarrassed about later. “I hit my f-face, not my head. I don’t have a concussion.”