2. Geneva

2

GENEVA

By the time we reach the clearing, my stomach has stopped churning which doesn't make a lick of sense. I'm on the run because my life is in danger. My car is stuck in a snowbank. I've blinded a stranger whose only crime was being a good Samaritan. And I'm going to sleep in the very same stranger's cabin.

I should be on my way to the closest Emergency Department for treatment of an acute bleeding ulcer and to get a mental health evaluation.

But I'm not.

For the first time in my life, I feel safe.

It's probably due to the abnormal size of the man beside me. He's huge— as in gigantic. His hands are the size of baseball mitts, and his boots —I swallow as I steal another peek— are humongous. Because I don't want to be rude, I'm not going to look at the crotch of his pants to see if the old adage is true. But if it is… damn.

His face is pretty impressive, too. He's ruggedly handsome with chiseled features and a strong jaw covered in dark stubble that matches the thick brown waves that cover his head.

I snap my eyes back to the windshield. My life is in chaos. I'm living on a diet of panic and fear. And now I'm inspecting the stranger beside me like he's a Grade-A slab of beef. I must be suffering some sort of bizarre PTSD response.

Up ahead, I don't see a small log cabin. I see a two-story home that looks more like a converted barn with big windows. "I thought you said you lived in a cabin."

"I do."

"That's not a cabin." I scowl. I knew it! All men are liars. It's in their chromosomes.

"It is a cabin. I designed it myself."

"It has two floors." I squint. "And two porches."

"It also has a hot tub. What's your point?"

"It's not a cabin," I huff.

"It's my damn house. I can call it whatever I want."

"Are you always this grouchy?"

"Yes," he growls. "Park the damn truck, will you?"

"Fine." I glare at his profile. "Where do you want me to park?"

"Beside the shed."

"You should have a garage." I ease forward over the snow. "Shoveling must take you hours."

"You don't say." He turns my way. "Lucky for you, I have two shovels."

I ignore the shovel comment and cringe at the sight of his swollen eyes. "Are you in pain?" I turn off the engine.

"Yes." He blows out a long breath. "But it's burning a bit less now."

"Good."

"What perfume did you douse me with anyway?"

"I didn't douse you." I sigh. "I sprayed you."

"Trust me, you doused me. It's in my eyes, my mouth, my throat. That's not a spraying, sweetheart. It's a damn dousing." He grunts. "Name of your lethal weapon?"

"Happy."

"Happy? You've got to be effing kidding me."

"No, I'm not kidding. It blends bergamot, red grapefruit, Hawaiian wedding flowers, and spring mimosa. I love it. It's a delicate, flowery scent with a soft, fruity aroma. Not too--"

"Save the infomercial speech, will you, please? I need to empty the truck, start a fire, and shove my face into a bucket of ice water."

"I'm really sorry…" I squeak. Out of nowhere, my throat tightens, and tears roll down my cheeks.

"Are you crying?" He snaps.

"Well… umm… sort of." I swipe away tears. I've harmed an innocent man. My life is in shambles. I have seventy-three dollars and ten cents to live on because I can't risk accessing my debit account. And now a man the size of the Chrysler Building is barking at me.

"Stop it." He barks again.

This time, his tone is so harsh I jump, and what was a few tears turns into a rainstorm.

His hand fumbles across the front of the glovebox until he finds the latch. "God damn it," he mutters, then grabs a package of tissues and thrusts them into the air. "Here."

I rip out a tissue. "You don't have to be so mean."

He drops his head back, rubbing his temples. "This has turned out to be a real shit day."

"You can say that again," I sniffle.

"This has turned out to be a real shit day." He almost smiles as he peels one of his eyes open. "So, how about we start over? My name is Archer Bentley. What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Geneva." I swipe at my nose. "Geneva Thayer."

"Nice to meet you, Geneva. Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

"Can you cook?"

"Yes."

"Good. Cause I'm starving. Let's unpack the truck, and I'll show you around the kitchen." He opens the door, and a gust of frigid wind snaps across my face.

For half a second, I'm sure he's joking. But as I watch him climb out of the truck without saying another word, I realize the man is dead serious. Maybe he didn't bring me up here to truly help me. Perhaps he's going to chain me to the stove and turn me into some sort of cooking sex slave. "Wait!"

"What?" He drops the tailgate.

"I will not be your concubine."

He hoists a large bin onto his shoulder. "Come again?"

I tip my head back, ignoring the heavy snow sticking to my face. "I'm not going to be your sex slave," I yell into the wind.

"You're not?" He shuffles past me. "That's a pity. Because from what I can see of you, sweetheart, you'd make a good one."

"That's it. I'm leaving." I spin around to look for the tire tracks to follow them down the mountain. Dear God! The fast-falling snow already covers them.

"You'll never make it, sweetheart!" Archer calls out as he enters his "cabin."

My teeth start to chatter as I watch his massive frame disappear into the warmth of his home. I hate that he's right. There's no way I won't end up being a meal for a bear or freezing to death in this storm. Resigned to whatever fate awaits me, I grab a handful of shopping bags and walk into Archer's house, ready to dance with the devil.