Too Close For Comfort

Cyd turned to Jeffrey. “Time to get out.”

But time played a trick on her.

It stopped.

Or maybe it had stopped minutes ago, somewhere on the sled ride from the landing strip to this lodge while their bodies had been molded together in this one-person basket. Yes, it had stopped then, wrapping the world around them, creating a place where only the two of them existed.

That’s when she’d tried not to notice how nicely his body conformed to hers. Tried not to admire his strength, or how his arm had wrapped around her, holding her close, as though protecting her.

Nobody, especially no man, needed to protect Cyd Thompson.

But she hadn’t budged from Jeffrey’s embrace.

And, if she were perfectly honest with herself, she still didn’t want to budge. Which irked her as much as excited her. Maybe it was because she was accustomed to fighting the elements and competing with the guys. Add to that her role as head of the household since her dad died, and Cyd Thompson was a one-woman force who bowed to no one.

But at this precarious moment, Cyd felt all those attributes turning on her. Sharing that tight space with Jeffrey, she’d felt his power, sensed his manliness. And dammit all to hell, the experience left her feeling…womanly.

He’s a city slicker, she reminded herself. Out to destroy your world.

She turned and boldly met Jeffrey’s gaze, ready to say something “rough around the edges.”

But she got lost in his eyes.

They looked like Jordan’s. A deep reddish brown, intelligent. But Jordan’s eyes didn’t flash with specks of green and gold. And Jordan sure didn’t look back at her the way Jeffrey did, with a mixture of surprise and interest.

Interest?

She shifted in the basket, too aware of his solid thigh muscle molded against her hip. A city boy with muscles? Her mind reeled with how he came by those…and worse, her imagination joined the free-for-all and flashed an image of what he probably looked like naked. All muscle and sinew and dark, curly hair…

City Boy. Big business. End of the world.

“I said it’s time to go!” she barked, grabbing the edge of the basket and blowing out a gust of air as though that would also blow out these crazy thoughts.

But she made a serious mistake when she paused and glanced into Jeffrey’s face again.

He still had that look of interest, but this time she also saw…amusement?

“What’s so funny?” she snapped.

He blinked in exaggeration. “Just wondered why you’re taking your time.”

“It’s cold.”

“But you live in Alaska. You’re used to it.”

He had a point. But before she could muster some sassy response, he spoke again.

“But I don’t mind if you want to stay wrapped around my body. I like it. It’s keeping me warm.” He grinned. A sexy, “gotcha” grin that did funny things to her insides.

Had to be the basket. Throwing two bodies into a space that was supposed to only hold one had messed up their equilibrium. Had created a world where body heat got mistaken for something more.

And that look in Jeffrey’s eyes told her he felt that “something more,” too. Time to get her footing back, literally. Time to take control, let him know who’s boss.

“Time to get out,” she said, or meant to say. Her words had escaped on a breathy stream of air. And she may have forgotten to say the last two words. Which meant she’d just whispered a suggestive, “Time to…” to this hunk of big-city hot love.

Heat surged to her cheeks.

Jeffrey’s eyes did a slow perusal of her face, taking it all in. Then he nodded. A slow, knowing nod. Damn the man. Not breaking eye contact, either. As though willing her, no defying her, to admit that this sizzling, out-of-control moment was happening.

Well, she’d break this crazy moment, now.

Maneuvering herself to get out, her cheek brushed against Jeffrey’s. Ooooo. He smelled deliciously spicy and musky. No northern guy smelled like that.

Stop smelling, keep moving.

She hoisted herself up to a crouched position. When the hell is he going to break eye contact? It was a matter of pride, but she wanted him to be the first. Had to be the first.

“Problem?” Jeffrey asked, his voice spicier than that damn cologne he wore.

She was hunched over, her butt in the air, her feet still in the basket. “You always stare like that?”

“Like what?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Well, you’re staring at me, too, you know.” He winked.

With a huff of indignation, and anger because she was breaking the all-important stare-down, Cyd hurled herself out of the basket and landed with a splash in a hole of snow and slush.

She turned, her hands fisted on her hips, waiting to see how Mr. City Slicker landed on the icy snow with those plushy leather shoes. She just prayed he hit a hole big enough to sink him knee-deep in wet snow. What a shame, it would mess up those fancy slacks, too.

Jeffrey, still staring at her, cocked an eyebrow as though reading her mind and accepting the challenge. He stood—giving her an eyeful of his six-foot-plus being—swung one leg, then the other, over the side of the basket. He landed in slush, without the messy splash she’d made, and stepped neatly onto a path of crusty snow.

“You’re gonna need boots,” she said sharply, turning and trudging toward the door of the Mush Lodge.

“Wait,” called out Jeffrey.

She barely turned, her feet still walking. “What?”

“I have a problem.”

About time he admitted it. Feeling more in control, she turned. “What is it?”

He stopped, his feet spread apart, a lazy grin creasing his lips. “Don’t know your name.”

“Thompson.”

“I know that one. Do you have a first name, or do you go by one name only. Like Cher and Madonna do.”