who’d been living on the sunny West Coast, fared the frosty elements just as he approached the side road that—“Fuck!”
Sam swerved, narrowly missing the car that barreled out of Fox Lane, fishtailed across his path, and rolled on to its side. Adrenaline spiking, he braked and catapulted out of his truck. At least there were no other cars on the road. It could have been worse. Still, who drove that fast on ice when coming up on an intersection?
He assessed the situation while crossing the road. The four-door rested on the passenger side, face down in a snowbank. He had to scale the chassis to get to the driver’s side. He smelled gas. Not necessarily ominous, but no reason to take chances. He wretched open the door and spied a woman curled in a ball and plastered against the passenger window.
Her long dark hair covered her face and she was swaddled in a long furry coat. He couldn’t tell if he knew her. She was alone and she wasn’t moving. Heart pounding, he reached in to key off the ignition. “You okay, miss?”
She groaned and stirred. “I think so.” She shoved her hair out of her face—a beautiful, unfamiliar face—and palmed the side of her head. Wincing, she shifted and grappled on the floor then, cell phone in hand, started texting.
What the—
Perched precariously on the upended side of the car, Sam tempered his frustration and stretched out his arm. “Give me your hand.”
“Just a sec.” Focused on her phone, she continued to thumb in a message.
“You better be texting 911.”
“A client. Hold on.”
Leaning in, Sam nabbed the phone and tossed it over his shoulder.
“Are you crazy?”
“I was wondering the same thing about you, lady.” On the other hand, her sky-blue eyes were glazed and her hands were trembling. Maybe she was in shock. Sam swooped in and hauled her out. It wasn’t that far of a drop to the ground, but she squirmed and Sam lost his footing. He shifted, taking the brunt of the fall as they hit the road hard.
Sam lay there a second, more stunned by his reaction to the woman in his arms than the bone-jarring impact. He’d never been much of a talker, but he was speechless. Even though they were both dressed in layers, he was well aware of her curves.
And her face
. She was gorgeous. Model gorgeous. Like one of those fantasy chicks in the bathing suit issue of
Sports Illustrated
. Her lush mouth incited a rush of wicked thoughts and a raging hard-on.
Her blue eyes widened and Sam knew she felt the enormity of his desire pressed against her belly. “What are you, a pervert?” she asked while rolling off of him.
Assuming that was a rhetorical question, Sam pushed to his feet and watched as she scrambled around in search of … ah, yes. Her phone. “Let me guess,” he said as anger loosened his tongue. “You were texting while driving.”
“Thank God,” she said while dusting off her screen. “It still works.”
The woman was oblivious. A drop-dead gorgeous flake.
And she’d come straight from the direction of the Rothwell Farm.
Hell.
Frowning, Sam took out his own phone. “Yeah, Leo? Sam McCloud. Need a wrench, maybe a tow. Swamp Road across from Fox Lane. Car flipped in a snowbank. No. No injuries. Thanks.”
Miss
Sports Illustrated
glanced over and held his gaze. “Sam McCloud? Rocky’s cousin?”
He jerked a thumb behind him. “There’s a stop sign at the end of that road, Ms. Day.”
“I tried to stop but the road was slick and—”
“You were texting.”
“It was important.”
“As important as your life?”
She glared as if he’d just issued the gravest insult. Her phone rang and she shoved back her bountiful hair to press the high-tech cell to her ear.
That’s when Sam noticed the goose egg swelling at her temple. He moved in to inspect the damage just as she started yakking to some guy named Chico.
She slapped at Sam’s hand, trying to push him away, but not losing a conversational beat. “I told you before, Chico, you
Sam swerved, narrowly missing the car that barreled out of Fox Lane, fishtailed across his path, and rolled on to its side. Adrenaline spiking, he braked and catapulted out of his truck. At least there were no other cars on the road. It could have been worse. Still, who drove that fast on ice when coming up on an intersection?
He assessed the situation while crossing the road. The four-door rested on the passenger side, face down in a snowbank. He had to scale the chassis to get to the driver’s side. He smelled gas. Not necessarily ominous, but no reason to take chances. He wretched open the door and spied a woman curled in a ball and plastered against the passenger window.
Her long dark hair covered her face and she was swaddled in a long furry coat. He couldn’t tell if he knew her. She was alone and she wasn’t moving. Heart pounding, he reached in to key off the ignition. “You okay, miss?”
She groaned and stirred. “I think so.” She shoved her hair out of her face—a beautiful, unfamiliar face—and palmed the side of her head. Wincing, she shifted and grappled on the floor then, cell phone in hand, started texting.
What the—
Perched precariously on the upended side of the car, Sam tempered his frustration and stretched out his arm. “Give me your hand.”
“Just a sec.” Focused on her phone, she continued to thumb in a message.
“You better be texting 911.”
“A client. Hold on.”
Leaning in, Sam nabbed the phone and tossed it over his shoulder.
“Are you crazy?”
“I was wondering the same thing about you, lady.” On the other hand, her sky-blue eyes were glazed and her hands were trembling. Maybe she was in shock. Sam swooped in and hauled her out. It wasn’t that far of a drop to the ground, but she squirmed and Sam lost his footing. He shifted, taking the brunt of the fall as they hit the road hard.
Sam lay there a second, more stunned by his reaction to the woman in his arms than the bone-jarring impact. He’d never been much of a talker, but he was speechless. Even though they were both dressed in layers, he was well aware of her curves.
And her face
. She was gorgeous. Model gorgeous. Like one of those fantasy chicks in the bathing suit issue of
Sports Illustrated
. Her lush mouth incited a rush of wicked thoughts and a raging hard-on.
Her blue eyes widened and Sam knew she felt the enormity of his desire pressed against her belly. “What are you, a pervert?” she asked while rolling off of him.
Assuming that was a rhetorical question, Sam pushed to his feet and watched as she scrambled around in search of … ah, yes. Her phone. “Let me guess,” he said as anger loosened his tongue. “You were texting while driving.”
“Thank God,” she said while dusting off her screen. “It still works.”
The woman was oblivious. A drop-dead gorgeous flake.
And she’d come straight from the direction of the Rothwell Farm.
Hell.
Frowning, Sam took out his own phone. “Yeah, Leo? Sam McCloud. Need a wrench, maybe a tow. Swamp Road across from Fox Lane. Car flipped in a snowbank. No. No injuries. Thanks.”
Miss
Sports Illustrated
glanced over and held his gaze. “Sam McCloud? Rocky’s cousin?”
He jerked a thumb behind him. “There’s a stop sign at the end of that road, Ms. Day.”
“I tried to stop but the road was slick and—”
“You were texting.”
“It was important.”
“As important as your life?”
She glared as if he’d just issued the gravest insult. Her phone rang and she shoved back her bountiful hair to press the high-tech cell to her ear.
That’s when Sam noticed the goose egg swelling at her temple. He moved in to inspect the damage just as she started yakking to some guy named Chico.
She slapped at Sam’s hand, trying to push him away, but not losing a conversational beat. “I told you before, Chico, you
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