He assessed the situation while crossing the road. The four-door rested on the passenger side, face down in a snowbank. He had to scale the chassis to get to the driver’s side. He smelled gas. Not necessarily ominous, but no reason to take chances. He wretched open the door and spied a woman curled in a ball and plastered against the passenger window.
Her long dark hair covered her face and she was swaddled in a long furry coat. He couldn’t tell if he knew her. She was alone and she wasn’t moving. Heart pounding, he reached in to key off the ignition. “You okay, miss?”
She groaned and stirred. “I think so.” She shoved her hair out of her face—a beautiful, unfamiliar face—and palmed the side of her head. Wincing, she shifted and grappled on the floor then, cell phone in hand, started texting.
What the—
Perched precariously on the upended side of the car, Sam tempered his frustration and stretched out his arm. “Give me your hand.”
“Just a sec.” Focused on her phone, she continued to thumb in a message.
“You better be texting 911.”
“A client. Hold on.”
Leaning in, Sam nabbed the phone and tossed it over his shoulder.
“Are you crazy?”
“I was wondering the same thing about you, lady.” On the other hand, her sky-blue eyes were glazed and her hands were trembling. Maybe she was in shock. Sam swooped in and hauled her out. It wasn’t that far of a drop to the ground, but she squirmed and Sam lost his footing. He shifted, taking the brunt of the fall as they hit the road hard.
Sam lay there a second, more stunned by his reaction to the woman in his arms than the bone-jarring impact. He’d never been much of a talker, but he was speechless. Even though they were both dressed in layers, he was well aware of her curves. And her face. She was gorgeous. Model gorgeous. Like one of those fantasy chicks in the bathing suit issue of Sports Illustrated. Her lush mouth incited a rush of wicked thoughts and a raging hard-on.
Her blue eyes widened and Sam knew she felt the enormity of his desire pressed against her belly. “What are you, a pervert?” she asked while rolling off of him.
Assuming that was a rhetorical question, Sam pushed to his feet and watched as she scrambled around in search of … ah, yes. Her phone. “Let me guess,” he said as anger loosened his tongue. “You were texting while driving.”
“Thank God,” she said while dusting off her screen. “It still works.”
The woman was oblivious. A drop-dead gorgeous flake.
And she’d come straight from the direction of the Rothwell Farm.
Hell.
Frowning, Sam took out his own phone. “Yeah, Leo? Sam McCloud. Need a wrench, maybe a tow. Swamp Road across from Fox Lane. Car flipped in a snowbank. No. No injuries. Thanks.”
Miss Sports Illustrated glanced over and held his gaze. “Sam McCloud? Rocky’s cousin?”
He jerked a thumb behind him. “There’s a stop sign at the end of that road, Ms. Day.”
“I tried to stop but the road was slick and—”
“You were texting.”
“It was important.”
“As important as your life?”
She glared as if he’d just issued the gravest insult. Her phone rang and she shoved back her bountiful hair to press the high-tech cell to her ear.
That’s when Sam noticed the goose egg swelling at her temple. He moved in to inspect the damage just as she started yakking to some guy named Chico.
She slapped at Sam’s hand, trying to push him away, but not losing a conversational beat. “I told you before, Chico, you can’t punch a member of the paparazzi. I know they’re a nuisance, but they’re necessary.”
“You’re bleeding.” It wasn’t bad, but now Sam wondered if she had sustained any other wounds—possible contusions hidden beneath her shaggy red coat. He pulled a wad of tissue from his coat pocket and gently pressed the compress to her small cut. “Hold this in place,” he told her. “I’m taking you home.”
“In a minute,” she said to Sam then went back to admonishing Chico. Some shit about TMZ (whatever that was) making the guy look like a self-righteous asshole.
Sam eyed her car, in the ditch and out of the way of anyone who might drive by. Leo would arrive within the half hour. Meanwhile, it was fricking freezing and Harper Day was bruised and bleeding. Only one way to handle a stubborn, reckless, and injured woman.
Sam hauled her over his shoulder and carried her to his truck.
Meanwhile, she continued to admonish her Hollywood client while simultaneously stroking the dude’s ego. “Don’t worry, love, I’ll spin this crisis by noon. Hold on.” She glanced at Sam with those killer baby blues as he placed her in the cab. “Would you mind going back for my purse?” Holding the tissues to her temple, she flashed a quick smile. “Thanks. You’re a doll. No, not you, Chico. I mean … What? No, I can’t pop over for a drink. I’m out of town. Now listen…”
Everything about this woman rubbed Sam the wrong way. Why the hell he still had a hard-on for her was a mystery. Except she frickin’ oozed sex and Sam hadn’t had any in a long while. Yeah. That was it.
Crossing over to Harper’s upended car, he visualized cooling his dick in the snowdrift while sending a text of his own to Rocky:
YOU OWE ME
THIRTEEN
Regardless of the icy roads, Luke broke the speed limit and ran a couple of stop signs in his haste to get to the Pine and Periwinkle.
In anticipation of having Rae over for a baking lesson, he’d spent the morning cleaning his house. Sure Rae had maintained a frugal lifestyle the year she’d spent in Sugar Creek, but he assumed she typically lived in places as posh as her mom’s Bel Air mansion. Luke lived in a modest three-bedroom Colonial on a ten-acre plot southwest of town. He couldn’t do anything about the rustic décor, but he could collect rogue chip bags, beer bottles, discarded T-shirts and socks, and, as much as he hated the chore, he scrubbed the downstairs john. He’d been drinking coffee and surveying his baking supplies when he’d gotten the troubling call from Rae.
“Luke, I—”
“You’re not calling to cancel, are you?”
“No. Yes. I’m sorry. I’m sick. I’m … I’m worried.”
She’d sounded weak and shaky and her earlier warning rang in his ears.
The first trimester … it’s iffy.
“On my way.” Luke grabbed his coat and hauled ass. He’d never been a pessimist, but he kept thinking the worst. He would’ve been concerned for any woman and any baby. But, dammit, even though he didn’t wholly trust her, Luke had a soft spot for Rae. And apparently, his feelings ran deeper than he’d imagined regarding her baby. His baby. He felt a whole new kind of sick as he jumped in his SUV and peeled onto the road.
Ten minutes later he skidded up to the Pine and Periwinkle Inn. Two minutes later he stood on the fourth floor in front of her door.
He knocked. “Rae, it’s Luke.”
Silence.
Chest tight, he tried her cell.
No answer.
“Dammit.” He glanced across the hall, eyed the stocked housekeeping cart and the wedged open door. He peeked inside. Viv Underwood was making up a guest’s bed. “Viv. Hey.”
She looked over her shoulder, ponytail bopping. She smiled. “Luke. You aiming on coming in here and taking advantage of me and this bed?”
He forced a smile of his own. “Nice thought, but no.” Luke had dated Viv awhile back. She was fun in the sack, but too clingy. He’d eased out of the relationship, wanting to spare her feelings before she was in too deep. “I need a favor, hon. Can you let me into room 412?”