My truck’s not quite on its side, but it’s off the road. Stuck in a ditch. Not driveable. My purse has slid to the far right. Looks like it spilled its contents out onto the floor. I would have to shift my weight in my seat to get my seat belt unbuckled, then crawl over the seats to get my phone. Not that my phone will do any good. I never get cell service here.
The cold is already seeping into my cab—hell, it never left. The snow is already accumulating on my windshield.
What the heck am I going to do?
At least it’s quiet here. Peaceful. I’ll have a beautiful view as I freeze to death.
“Adele.” Someone barks and rips my truck door open.
It's Rafe. He's still shirtless, and he looks like something out of my fantasies. Hair wild, jaw clenched, every muscle taut with movement. His eyes flash green. For a moment his eyes look a lot like that wolf’s.
“Hang on,” he growls. “I’ve got you.”
I tamp down the insane joy I feel at seeing him.
“I’m okay,” I say. My voice is so calm. “No need to—”
There's a tear as he rips my seat belt with his bare hands. I didn't know seatbelts could tear like that. Mine must be dry rotted or something. I really need to do more maintenance on this car.
And then I’m in Rafe’s arms. His muscles bunch and flex right before my eyes.
“It’s okay, baby,” he murmurs.
Baby.
I wouldn’t have thought of him as the endearment type. We certainly weren’t at that point, despite our mutual attraction, but hearing it makes something in me turn soft and gooey. Pivoting as if my weight is nothing, he climbs out of the ditch. Just like that, he’s standing on the road, me in his arms. He makes no move to put me down.
I give into the urge and snuggle close. He’s so warm. Even without a coat. How does he stand the cold without a coat?
He lets me snuggle. He must understand I’d never do this normally, but right now there are extenuating circumstances
“Are you hurt?” he asks. “Did you hit your head?”
“No.” It’s true. I’m not hurt at all. The accident was stupid, but I’m incredibly lucky.
My ride is not so lucky. My poor truck looks so sad, wedged in the snow.
“Hang on,” Rafe says. He’s already striding up the road. “I’ll get you home.”
“What about my truck?” My teeth are chattering but not only from the cold. There's sweat running down my back. My adrenaline is surging.
“Deke and Channing will take care of it,” he mutters.
“How do they know I had an accident?” Not that I’m complaining. I would’ve sat shivering for hours, hoping someone would happen to drive past and see me.
He pauses. “I had a feeling.”
“A feeling? So you drove after me?” No, wait, there’s no sign of his car. “You ran? All this way?”
“Had to make sure you were safe,” he mutters, almost too low for me to hear.
I bite my lip to hide the happiness that spreads through me. He hasn't said, I told you so yet. For that, I'm grateful. He's marching, no, jogging back up the road where we came.
“You can say it,” I tell him. “You can say I told you so.”
“It’s my fault you got in the accident.”
What? “No it’s not. I’m the one who drove off the road.”
“It’s my fault you left.”
“That’s not… No.” He can’t possibly think that, it’s ridiculous. I stare at his beautiful face. His eyes are fixed on the road, his dark brows knotted, the blade of his jaw iron hard. A piece of the Rafe puzzle falls into place. He’s the Sarge, the leader of his posse. Yeah, he orders everyone around, and it’s annoying, but it’s because he takes everyone’s well-being as his responsibility. He’d probably do anything to protect his team. He’ll lead the way, but he’ll also eat last.
I know exactly what he’s like because I’m the same way.
“Rafe, you're not responsible for me.”
He doesn’t say anything, but I can sense him fighting not to argue.
I can’t stop my grin. I’m giddy with this new knowledge about Rafe. “I can hear you disagreeing.”
“It’s my job to keep you safe,” he says in that way of his. That I know what’s best, and that’s final manner I found so annoying. Now it’s warming me from the inside out.
“I’m an adult, I can make my own decisions. I can leave on my own. And when I get into an accident, I can own it.”
“Fine,” he says.
“Fine,” I repeat, pretending to be snippy. “So it is my fault.”
“Sure, baby. It’s your fault.”
“As long as we’re clear.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I touch it, push it up into a real half smile.
We’re arguing, but we’re smiling. Is arguing our thing? Oh my God, is this how we flirt?