He glanced over at me. “I think you learned that lesson.”
“So do I. I floated long enough for you to snag me and drag me out of the river. Which, I might remind you, was a little rough. You’ll have to work on that.”
“Anything you say,” he murmured. He was looking out of the windshield, not at me. That voice. A woman could build an entire fantasy franchise on less, and the concussion had apparently fired my quality-control department, because I let myself start the first installment right there in his passenger seat.
I looked out the windshield and tried to be a normal person who was not sitting six inches from the most distractingly attractive man I’d ever encountered while soaking wet with only one shoe. But I continued to be chatty. “You’re aggressively economical with words.”
“And you’re not. You argued with a river.”
“I was scared.”
“Most people get quiet when they’re scared.”
I tossed my head and regretted it at once. A tiny wave of dizziness washed over me. Not much, but enough to make me feel slightly off-balance.
Or maybe that was because I’d almost drowned and agreed to spend the night with Bigfoot.
I glanced down and sighed. Great. My t-shirt was still practically transparent, and my hard nipples were poking at the fabric trying to break free. My breasts were big. Bouncy. And he’d had this view since the moment he’d taken off my life vest.
I crossed my arms over my chest, hoping he wouldn’t notice the move. But he did. His eyes dropped briefly. His hands flexed on the wheel. I pretended not to notice.
We rode the last few minutes in a silence that was, unexpectedly, not uncomfortable. Which was its own kind of dangerous. Comfortable silence with a man I barely knew while concussed on a mountain in Montana was not what I’d had in mind when I’d booked a brave adventure weekend. But here we were.
The cabin came into view through the trees, and I understood immediately why he’d chosen it. It sat like it had grown there, low and dark-timbered, tucked against the mountain with the easy permanence of something that belonged exactly where it was. A covered porch ran the length of the front. Firewood stacked with suspicious neatness along one side. No decoration. No nonsense. Entirely him.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, before I could think about whether or not to say it. He didn’t answer, but the line of his shoulders eased a fraction. I was starting to understand that silence from Garrick wasn’t the same as nothing. It was — compressed. A lot going on in a small space.
He parked, got out, and was at my door before I’d processed that we’d stopped. Before I could say anything, he lifted me out. I looked at my feet with my one shoe still missing and simply enjoyed the ride. I couldn’t recall ever being picked up by a man before. My entire body approved of the arrangement and put in a request for more.
“You carry women around often?” I asked, studying his face.
“No.”
“Good.”
He looked down at me. “Why good?”
“Because I’d hate to find out this is part of your regular customer service package.” The concussion was making me honest. More honest than usual, which was already more than was probably safe.
Inside was exactly what the outside had promised. Spare. Clean. A stone fireplace taking up most of one wall. A couch. A table. A kitchen at the back. No clutter, no photographs, no soft edges. I liked it on sight and found that slightly alarming.
Almost as alarming as the fact that I liked him.
He sat me on the couch and disappeared. I sat still and tried to take stock of myself for the first time since making the very bad decision to step onto that raft. Wet clothes. One shoe. Headache that came and went in slight waves.
And I was in a stranger’s cabin.
A stranger who had fished me out of a river and carried me to help.
And agreed to let me stay with him. At least for the night.
“I’m Amy,” I called out. “In case you were wondering who you fished out of the river.”
He returned to the living room carrying a stack of folded clothes in his hands. “Garrick.”
“Garrick. That’s a good name.”
“I’m glad you approve.”