Awol Bride. Victoria PadeЧитать онлайн книгу.
if it was all water under the bridge—which it was—why hadn’t she just been indifferent, detached, completely unemotional toward him?
She should have been. Instead, she’d been anything but. The only explanation she had for it was that today had just thrown too much at her. Seeing Conor again had been the straw that broke the camel’s back...even if he happened to be the person who had kept her from dying today.
The person she should have been grateful to.
She chafed at that thought.
Grateful to Conor Madison?
This really was a practical joke on fate’s part—now she had to be grateful to the guy who had dumped her?
Fabulous, she thought facetiously.
But she also wasn’t happy to have behaved so poorly toward Conor.
Not that he didn’t deserve her scorn and contempt. But showing it put her in a position she didn’t want to be in. She didn’t want to be the smaller person. The grudge-bearer.
And she didn’t want him thinking she cared.
So that lashing-out thing wasn’t going to happen from here on, she vowed. Not when it might make him think she hadn’t gotten over him. That their childhood romance had been so important to her that she was still hurt or mad or something. Anything.
Because she wasn’t.
It wasn’t as if she would ever choose to be stuck in a snowstorm, in a small space with him, but since she apparently couldn’t alter that, she wasn’t going to let it be a big deal. She was just going to make the best of it until this all passed.
Then they would part ways again.
But in the meantime he was not going to get to her. He was basically a stranger to her now. A stranger whose company she would have to endure for a little while whether she liked it or not.
A stranger who had grown into one of the best-looking men she’d ever seen...
That didn’t matter, either.
Even if it was the truth.
He’d always been handsome, only somehow time and a few years had done wonders for him. It had taken chiseled features and added some hardcore masculinity and a ruggedness that screamed raw sensuality. It had built even more muscle mass onto his body and turned him into a hunk-and-a-half.
But it really didn’t matter. Not to her. It didn’t have any effect on her. He didn’t have any effect on her.
So move on, storm, she commanded.
Because as soon as it did, she could get out of this place and put Conor Madison back in the past, where he belonged.
When the back door opened she knew it. The sound of the screeching wind wasn’t muffled and a frigid blast of air whipped through the cabin.
Maicy didn’t budge. She just went from looking at the fire to watching for Conor to appear through that door.
Finally, he came into view. Snow and droplets of water dotted dark hair that was in unfairly attractive disarray. The collar of his navy blue peacoat was turned up to frame his sexy jawline, and the coat accentuated shoulders a mile wide now.
But none of it was going to have an impact on her, she told herself.
“You’re awake,” he said when his eyes met hers.
“I am,” she confirmed, forcing her tone to be completely dispassionate and neutral. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten. How do you feel?”
“I’m okay,” she insisted, unwilling to confide more in him.
“I need to know, Maicy,” he reprimanded, so she told him the details, still assuring him she was fine, but adding that she wouldn’t mind a little pain reliever for her headache.
“And I don’t suppose you brought my suitcase from my car when you got me out, did you?” she asked, huddling in the blanket.
“I didn’t,” he said, leaving his coat in place as he brought firewood around the utility table. “I was only paying attention to you—I didn’t even notice anything else in the car. I have my duffel, though. You can wear something of mine when you’re up to changing—something warm.”
“I’d appreciate that,” she said even though she wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of wearing his clothes. And while she was at it, she said, “And I also appreciate what you did getting me here. You saved me. Thank you for that.”
“Any time—” he said before cutting himself off as if he only just remembered that their past made that promise into a lie.
He turned from her to arrange the firewood, and Maicy’s gaze went to his thighs stretching the denim of his jeans to capacity—thick and solid.
“If you’re up to it,” he said as he loaded the bucket, “there are some logistics we should discuss.”
“Okay,” Maicy agreed.
“We’re pretty socked in by this storm,” he began. “Cell service is spotty—at best. I get service one minute, lose it the next. And until this storm quits, I don’t know when we’ll be able to get out of here.”
“Tomorrow—”
“I think that may be optimistic and we have to plan for a little longer than that.”
“How long?” she asked, trying to keep her distaste for that idea out of her tone.
“I don’t know. I just know that we have to conserve supplies, just in case. It’s impossible to tell at this point how long we’ll be here, but better safe than sorry.”
Maicy clenched her teeth to keep from making a snide comment about that being his guiding rule.
“Here’s how it is up here,” he continued. “We’re off the grid. That means no electricity, limited water. The water in the storage tank downstairs is the only non-drinking water, and the only power we have comes from a solar-powered generator. Both of those are at about half capacity. I can get us by for a while with what we have, but only if we’re careful. The water in the tank isn’t for eating or drinking but there’s plenty of bottled water for that. We have a pretty good stock of dried and canned food. The woodpile is high—that’s good. But, for instance, something like taking a shower—”
“No showers?” Maicy said in horror, thinking of how sticky she felt with the blood in her hair and down her neck.
“Yes, showers, but here’s how they happen—there’s a propane tank hooked to the water heater in the basement. I can turn on the gas and heat the water but every time I do that, we’re using up propane and water. So to shower it’ll take half an hour to heat the water. Then, in the shower, there’s a chain to pull to turn the pump on and off. You pull the chain, get wet, stop the water. Lather up. Pull the chain to rinse off. All as quick as possible so you use as little water as you can.”
“Okay...” she said, already missing the long, steamy showers she ordinarily took. But trying to look on the bright side, she said, “So this must mean that there is a bathroom?”
“There’s a room,” he hedged. “Off the bedroom. That’s where the shower is, along with a composting toilet.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s a john that’ll take some explanation, too. But it looks like a regular one, if that helps,” he joked, giving her that familiar one-sided smile that had made her feel better about most anything when she’d liked him.
It still worked, damn him.
“I also stocked the bathroom with candles and some kerosene lanterns, so you’ll have light in there, anyway,” he said.
He was so confident, so sure of