How does he do that?
With his dark hair rumpled, the soft cotton outlining his impressive chest and his expression as sulky and imperious as it had been the night before, he looked good enough to eat. Or certainly nibble.
Relax, pheromones, and get a clue. He doesn’t want you.
‘Actually, I think it might be you,’ she shouted back. ‘He looks almost as sulky.’
‘He?’ came the distinctly unimpressed reply. ‘That thing has a sex?’
‘Yeah, I’m gonna call him King of the Grumps—sound familiar, Your Moan-esty?’
His brows rose, but then the frown was back. ‘I’m hungry. How about you come in here and make me some breakfast?’
‘Not until you ask me nicely.’
‘Stop being contrary,’ he demanded, as if she were one of his subjects. ‘You must be hungry after all your...’ he paused just long enough to be deliberately insulting ‘...hard work.’
How could he even sound suggestive when he was disparaging her perfectly good snowman? And why had her pheromones gone into party overdrive at the words ‘hungry’ and ‘hard work’?
That was so wrong. On so many levels.
‘Cook your own breakfast,’ she said. She’d wanted to cook for him last night, but she was through sucking up to him. Sulking Leo might be sexy as all get out, but that didn’t mean she was going to put up with his ‘I’m the King of Everything’ behaviour.
‘Now who’s sulking?’ he said and turned to go back into the cabin.
Her temper spiked and, grabbing a fist full of snow, she flung it as hard as she could.
Much to her astonishment, because she’d always been a terrible pitcher in high school, the missile hit its mark, smacking into the back of his head and showering him in snow.
Oops.
He turned slowly, flicking the already melting snow off his damp T-shirt, the sulky frown now catastrophic. ‘Are you mad?’
The giggle burst out of her mouth, part amusement, part shock, mostly hard-partying pheromones. ‘You have a problem, King of the Grumps, come get me?’ she said, then bent to grab some more ammunition.
Big mistake.
A freezing ball thudded into her chest, soaking the front of her camisole as soon as she straightened. And suddenly six feet four of enraged King was heading her way, stocking his own arsenal en route.
She shrieked and started pitching from behind the snowman.
It was a declaration of war.
Ten minutes of screaming, yelling, running, slipping, sliding, and some actual snowball-throwing later, and Leo scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder.
‘That’s it, I’m putting you out of action,’ he declared as he headed back to the lodge, but she could hear the laughter in his voice.
She stuffed her last snowball down the back of his T-shirt.
‘You little witch!’ he roared, and shuddered violently, nearly shaking her off his shoulder.
She shrieked some more as he hefted her up the porch steps.
They were both breathless, laughing, covered in snow—well, she was covered, he was mostly dry, because her surprise pitching skills had totally deserted her as soon as war had been declared. He carried her into the lodge, scattering snow and ice onto the polished wooden floors. Then dumped her onto the large couch.
‘It’s payback time, Princess,’ he growled. And the partying pheromones joined forces with the giddy beat of her heart as his gaze dropped lower.
Even wet and sweaty and flushed she is irresistible.