Frosted (a novella)

Chapter 4

He pulled up beside her, his blue eyes at once worried and relieved as he hopped off the snowmobile and approached her with purposeful strides. When she didn't move toward him, his eyes dropped to her legs, focusing on her left leg, which she held slightly bent and an inch off the ground.

"What happened?" he asked, finally reaching her. He pulled off his gloves and cupped her cheeks with his warm, bare hands, looking into her eyes, searching her face. "Are you okay?"

Her lips parted in surprise and for a moment all of the pain in her left side momentarily vanished as she registered how tenderly he was touching her. Her words were breathless. "I—I twisted my ankle."

He winced, dropping his hands and squatting down in front of her. He released the right ski, then reached for the left binding and tried to release the ski, but it wouldn't budge.

"God damn it," he hissed, trying again. "This is my fault. I thought I had fixed it."

Every time he tried to release the binding, it jostled the boot and made fresh tears well in her eyes. She whimpered softly and his face whipped up. "I'm hurting you?"

"N-No. Yes," she sobbed, leaning back against the tree and pulling her bottom lip into her mouth. "Please just get it off."

"Wait here."

He took her loose ski and sprinted over to the snowmobile, leaning it against the small vehicle. Opening a side compartment, he took out a screwdriver and ran back to her.

"Brace yourself," he cautioned, then knelt down and jammed the screwdriver into the binding. With a soft click, it finally released.

Grace ignored the darts of pain shooting mercilessly up her leg as Tray took the second ski back to the snowmobile, cursing under his breath. When returned to her, his face was worried, but determined.

"Put your arms around my neck," he ordered when he got close.

Her eyes widened. "I'm sure I can hop over to—"

He didn't let her finish. He took her wrists in his hands and pulled them around his neck, her poles hitting his back as they drooped over the edges of her gloves. Without saying another word, he lifted her into his arms, then turned back toward the snowmobile.

Grace had two thoughts:

One, I'm in Mr. Bradshaw's—no, Tray's arms.

Two, he smells like fresh air, leather and pine, just as I knew he would.

Resisting the urge to snuggle closer to the patch of exposed skin on the side of his neck which peeked out between his scarf and hat, her heart beat a primal rhythm as he carried her effortlessly over to the snowmobile. To her immense disappointment, it ended all too soon.

"Spread your legs," he barked through the whipping wind.

Her breath caught from the unintentional eroticism of the demand, but she spread them in time to be deposited unceremoniously onto the back of the snowmobile. Working quickly, he removed the poles from her wrists, picked up the skis and fastened her equipment to the back of the vehicle with a bungee cord. Climbing onto the snowmobile in front of her, he turned his neck, leaning back to place his lips as close as possible to her ear.

"Wrap your arms around my waist and hold on. It's coming down too hard to get back to the rec center. We'll go to the West Mountain Warming Hut until it clears up. There's a first aid kit there. You ready?"

"Yes!" she said, reaching around him and clasping her hands together around his chest. She could feel the rock hard expanse of muscle beneath her hands, and without thinking, she leaned forward and laid her cheek against his back as he turned over the engine and started off through the woods.