Maggie
I was supposed to be afraid of this guy. That was what he wanted me to be anyway. Why else would he be looming over me as if he wanted to do me bodily harm?
But I wasn’t buying it. Let’s go over the evidence.
Wile E. Coyote sweats.
Enough concern to pluck me out of my car like a
wilted vegetable.
Back to the Wile E. Coyote sweats.
Also, possibly the kindest, softest, most intriguing brown eyes I’d ever seen. Surrounded by a frame of inky lashes. Such a heavy fringe that snow kept gathering on them until he grew impatient and blinked it away.
But that was neither here nor there.
“First of all, there are most likely no serial killers in Turnbull or the surrounding towns. That’s extremely improbable, given the size of the population.”
“So are your dumbass statistics, but I didn’t call you on them, did I?”
I wasn’t pouting at being called a dumbass. Lord knows I’d been called much worse. As the youngest of six, I’d gotten used to verbal abuse at a young age. I almost enjoyed it.
Just because I looked small and defenseless didn’t mean I was. I tended to sneak up on people like a bunny.
Aww, she’s so cute and fluffy—CHOMP.
“Then again, you’re not making any effort to assist a stranded traveler, so maybe you are planning to Ted Bundy me. Where’s your fake cast, huh?” I gave his arms in the sleeves of his surprisingly thin coat a glance before pretending to search the snowbanks around us. “Where’s your VW Bug with the passenger seat taken out?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Ted Bundy. One of the most famous serial killers of all time. Don’t you people respect the titans in your field?”
“What people is that, exactly?”
His bored tone was making me feel stupid. So much for going toe-to-toe with this giant behemoth. He didn’t find me amusing and he obviously had no intention of helping to free my vehicle.
So time for plan B.
“I’ll just get my bread.” There was no helping my clipped tone as I stomped back toward the ditch. Not that I could even be sure he’d heard me. With the howling wind and the crunch of my boots on the snowy, uneven ground at the side of the road, maybe he hadn’t heard a word I’d spoken.
Then his big hands clamped around my upper arms and he hauled me back as if I’d been on the verge of falling into a fire pit. “Hold it. What bread?”
“Kindly unhand me.”
He made a low noise in his throat and without looking back at him, I knew he’d done that cocked brow thing again. Pretty hot. I couldn’t move one eyebrow independent of the other, so I tended to appreciate skills in others that I did not possess.
“You have no reason to try to get back in that car.”
“Yes, I do. I need my bread before it gets cold.” I sighed. “Well, any colder than it already is. My hot bag can only do so much.”
“Your hot bag? Woman, you make no sense.”
“Stop calling me woman, and it’s an insulated bag to seal in warmth. I used it to protect Mrs. Pringles’ bread. It’s her favorite, pumpkin chocolate chip.” I craned my neck to look up at him, intending to shove his big paws off me, but his head was tilted and his lips were parted, revealing just a hint of bright white teeth.
And those dark assessing eyes were searing right through every damn layer of my clothing.
“Kindly unhand me,” I repeated, not missing the slight chatter of my teeth. I wished I could blame the cold. It was so much worse than that.