Coming In From the Cold(4)

"True. And thank-you, by the way. I'd be shivering in my truck right now."

"Don't mention it," he said.

Her heart beat rapidly, and she didn't even know why. There was  something intimate about sitting there with him under the sleeping bag.  After only an hour in his company, she had a crush on him. She reached  for the bar under her seat and slid herself back a bit, too. "Now if  only we had a movie and some popcorn," she said. "It would be like any  other night at my house."

"You mentioned food again," he complained. "Cut it out, woman."

"I do make good popcorn. The trick is coconut oil and just the right amount of salt."

"You are killing me right now." His laugh warmed her almost as well as the sleeping bag.





* * *



They fell silent for a little while. Dane listened to the sound of  Willow's breathing, only a few feet away. He tried on the image of  watching a movie at home-a quiet night with a girl like her. It wasn't  very often that he allowed himself to think like this, to marvel at the  strangeness of his life. Half the men in New England were probably, at  this very moment, snuggled up on sofas next to women, watching a movie  on TV. That's what people did during blizzards.                       
       
           



       

People who were not Dane.

Relationships of any kind were off the table for him. So he never  snuggled up to anyone, never tucked his feet onto a coffee table  alongside a woman's, never rolled over in bed to find another warm body  there.

He wasn't a monk, of course. Fucking was different. He did plenty of  that. But because he maintained a strict policy-one-night stands  only-he'd never slept with anyone in the literal sense, never fallen  asleep next to a lover. Not since he was a teenager, anyway. After he'd  truly understood that his life would never have a happy ending, he never  had a girlfriend. He would never be married. No woman would say "I do"  to that-to watching him deteriorate, to wiping the drool off his face.

On the racing circuit there was always a female skier-or fan-willing to  open her legs for him. Dane always stated his terms clearly ahead of  time. And even then, he'd rarely been refused, especially since he'd  begun winning World Cup events. Gold medals were a potent aphrodisiac.  There was one skier in particular-Kelli-with whom he'd shared multiple  one-night stands. And yes, there was such a thing. A few times a season,  when the pressure of the tour got to him, he'd request a second hotel  room key card from the front desk. A Swede, Kelli knew only slightly  more English than he knew Swedish-which was almost none. When he offered  her the card, wordlessly of course, she always took it.

Late in the night-which was around eleven for an elite skier, since  their days began early-she would enter his room silently and shed all  her clothes. They would suck and nibble and slam each other for an hour  or two. And when they were sated, she always disappeared again without a  word.

She was perfect for him.

But now here he was, sporting a hard-on in the seat of his frigid Jeep.  And all because he was sitting beneath a sleeping bag-with a very pretty  girl, but still-like any dope. The racing life was plenty exciting, but  tonight it didn't feel like enough. At that moment, he wanted what  dudes with beer guts and bald heads had. He wanted the pretty girl to  lay her head on his shoulder and ask him to please change the channel or  to bring her a drink.

He shucked off his gloves and rubbed his face with his hands.

"What's the matter?"

I'm stupid, too, he wanted to say. "My blood sugar is crashing," he said  instead. "If we're lucky, you might find a couple of energy bars in the  glove box."

He heard her opening it, then fumbling around inside. "Score," she said. He heard the crinkle of plastic. "Here."

Dane held out his hands in the dark. She found him, and a gloved hand  fumbled two bars into his palm. He dropped the bars into his lap, and  then caught her hand before it moved away. "Hang on," he said, pulling  her glove off, then clasping her hand in both of his. Her skin was soft,  and it was difficult to let her go. "Okay," he said. "You're not too  bad off." He put her glove back into her hand.





* * *



A tingle went up the back of Willow's neck as two giant hands released hers. "What was that for?" she asked, voice husky.

"If your hands aren't cold, then your core is warm enough," he said, his voice low.

"Oh," she whispered.

"It's basic cold-weather safety. Do you want peanut butter or oatmeal raisin?" he asked.

Her cheeks flushed, and she was glad for the dark. "You go ahead and enjoy them," she said.

"No way. I insist on sharing this feast."

"What a gentleman," she remarked, smiling. "Surprise me."

"Good choice, because I can't read the labels." He cracked one package open. "Hold out your hands."

She did, and his found them again. She tried not to be overly conscious  of his touch in the dark as he put an energy bar carefully into her  palm. "Thanks."

He didn't answer. She only heard him open his and chew.

They ate in silence, and Willow tried to stomp out her unlikely  attraction to this stranger. But something in his delivery really spoke  to her. His smoky voice in the dark hinted at secrets. She wished he  would reach for her hands again, and this time forget to let go.

"So," he said after a time. "How was he an asshole?"

"Oh, my boyfriend? He … " He never loved me. "I fell hard, and he didn't.  And I lived that way for two years, hoping things would get better. But  he only wanted a fan club. And a house to live in."

"That's rough," Dane said, his voice a pleasing rumble. Silence  descended on them for a moment. And then he said, "Do you hear  something?"                       
       
           



       

She strained to listen. And between gusts of wind she did hear something-an engine.

Dane turned the key in the ignition, and the car hummed to life. He put  on the hazard lights, the headlights and the windshield wipers. As  Willow watched, a thick blanket of snow was swished off of the glass in  front of her. "Wow," she said as the headlights slowly became visible.  "You weren't kidding about the accumulation."

Dane whipped around in his seat, trying to see out the back, where  another wiper had cleared off the rectangular rear window. "It's back  there," he said.

"Yay," Willow said, but she was a liar. As ridiculous as it sounded, she  wasn't quite ready for their peculiar tryst to end. Her darkened  farmhouse was drafty and lonely.

"We need more light," Dane said, hitting the dome light over his head.  "Getting hit by the plow would not be the best way to finish this  evening."

She spun around to watch, too, and their heads were nearly touching. The  glow of headlamps grew faintly visible. Though it still had to be a  hundred yards away, Willow thought she could make out the yellow-orange  flasher that sat atop municipal vehicles. "He'll definitely stop for us,  won't he?" she worried.

"Sure, unless he's a total dick. Like your ex-boyfriend." Gently, he  knocked his knit hat into her knit hat, just once. Like a special  wintertime fist bump.

She laughed, her eyes fixed on the plow truck. When this was over, she  was going to ask for his phone number. He was quite a guy, Danger  Hollister.





Three





As the light grew brighter, Dane knew he was supposed to feel relieved.  But all it meant for him was safe passage to another lonely night in his  room over on Main Street, keeping company with a copy of Sports  Illustrated and some tunes. Or worrying about Finn, the last person  alive who really knew him.

Then, as Dane watched, the plow truck turned the corner, heading onto another road. "What the … ?"

The dome light was still on, and he turned to Willow, who did not look surprised. "I thought that could happen," she said.

"Why?"

"We're very close to the town line. We're sitting in Westland, and I'll  bet the plow belongs to Hamilton. And he must not have seen us here."

"Or maybe the driver was your ex?"

Those beautiful lips curved into a smile, and she punched him in the arm. "This one's not on me. Maybe it was one of yours."

"Right," he said, his eyes stuck on her feminine smile. He pressed the dome light off again, reluctantly.

Jokes aside, one benefit of being a loner was that he didn't actually  have any ex-girlfriends. The other guys on the circuit had plenty of  trouble with those. He turned off the headlights, and turned the key in  the ignition. The car fell silent.