Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Isn’t that the point? I think again. I probably am nuts, certifiable in fact, but clearly, I’m not straitjacket material just yet because my sense of self-preservation lives on. I won’t survive the woods, and there’s nowhere else to hide. I turn and dart inside the cabin, slamming the door shut behind me and locking it before tugging off my fur-lined white hat to let my hair flow in a wild mess around my shoulders. I drop the hat on the wooden dining chair to my right, and my coat follows.
Remarkably calm now, I head to the kitchen and behind the bar that divides it from the living area. I pause at the ceramic sink and illogically take the time to wipe the mess of the spill off my hands, ignoring the sting lingering from the subzero attack on my skin. Somehow, despite this, my hands are unnaturally clammy, and I run them down my jean-clad legs before opening the dark wood of the cabinet above me and surveying the contents inside. After a quick glance, I locate the Folgers coffee can well-hidden behind the filters, instant creamer, and an assortment of spices.
“Good ol’ Folgers,” I murmur before throwing my nerves into the famous campaign song. “The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup.” Yeah, I sound crazy, even to my own ears, but I might be dead soon. What does crazy matter? Besides, the best part of this particular can of Folgers is no longer the coffee, but what my father has replaced it with. I remove the small .22 Magnum handgun from the can and reseal the lid.
With the cold steel in my palm, I silently thank my father for insisting, despite my teenage whimpers of fear and my mother’s equally loud protests, that I learn to shoot the darn thing. Not that I’ve practiced in years, but it has to be like riding a bicycle—you never forget. It better be like riding a bicycle. God. Please don’t let me have to find out.
Footsteps sound on the porch. Still calm, or mostly calm, I walk to my favorite soft leather chair by the fireplace and stuff the gun into the cushion, prickles of awareness tingling on my neck again. A fist thunders on the heavy wooden door, and my heart pounds right with it.
“Ember Thorne,” bellows a deep male voice. “I have a warrant for your arrest.”
Relief washes over me, and while that’s obviously not a normal person’s response to the announcement they are about to be arrested, I know Oliver’s voice, and he could no more arrest me than interest me in another date. My shoulders slump, and I hurry to the door, reaching for the knob, only to feel a hint of that now familiar icy sensation splatter about my palm. A sense of foreboding ripples from the depths of that chill and rips through me, stilling my hand an inch above the knob.
Good grief, I really am losing it. This is Oliver, who obviously coerced my parents into telling him where I am, which wouldn’t be hard. While my father’s opinion of public defenders is low at best, Oliver is climbing the ladder in a strategic way and is quite clearly someone to watch, someone who might even hold office one day. For this reason, my father sees Oliver as powerful and useful, a future son-in-law. Of course he told Oliver where I am. I have nothing to worry about.
Inwardly shaking off my odd reaction, I firmly grip the knob and open the door. “What the heck are you doing here?” I demand. His big body fills the entryway, blocking any view I have of the outside world. I scan him up and down, all six-foot-three inches of hard muscle that, despite our lack of romantic compatibility, has evoked more than a few lust-filled thoughts. “And why are you in Colorado dressed in your best courtroom suit?” His lucky black, pinstriped suit, tucked beneath a stylish trench coat. In contrast, my lucky suit wasn’t lucky at all or I wouldn’t be hiding in this cabin.
Oliver’s winter green, intelligent eyes assess me way too closely. “Why are you ignoring my phone calls? And why aren’t you inviting me in? It’s cold as hell out here.”
“Hell isn’t cold,” I say, because sparring with Oliver is like coffee and Dove milk chocolate—simply a part of who I am. “And that’s what you get for not wearing a coat.”
“Still not inviting me in,” he points out. “You got some hot guy hiding out inside who's officially made me irrelevant and unimportant?”
If only it were that simple. “You’re still the hottest guy in my life.”
He offers me a boyish, charming grin. “Good. Then I still have a chance.”
Every once in a while, he dishes out word soup, and I see something in his eyes that turns a playful comeback into something not so innocent at all. It’s a problem I choose to ignore and pray it goes away. He’s a good friend, and I’m careful with him and us. I don’t want to lose him to a wild sexual urge that overtakes us on some cold, snowy night that ends hard and fast—and worse, forever.