“Little? There’s got to be three freakin’ feet of the damn stuff out there.”
The phantom voice started clucking like a chicken.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Ashamed over caving so easily to her inner bitch, Lilly snatched her cross-country skis from where they were leaning on the porch rail and stomped down the steps. She propped the poles against the door of her SUV and lined the skis up parallel to the vehicle. Giving the cabin behind her a final longing glance, she wedged the toe of her boot into the top binding on her right ski. The stubborn clip refused to lock in place. Grinding her teeth, she wiggled her foot, trying to force the boot into the binding. The ski slid out from beneath her, knocking her flat.
Dazed, she blinked against the snowflakes drifting onto her lashes. “This is a great sign. I’m not even on the stinking skis and already I’m falling on my ass.”
It was pretty damn ironic—and pathetic—that she possessed not one iota of the grace her species was supposed to be gifted with. Anchoring her boots into the thick snow, she inched her way upward and grasped the Escape’s door handle before hoisting into a standing position. Cautiously, she dragged her boot over to the left ski and clicked it into the bindings. She let go of the door and momentarily basked in her grand achievement. Until the skis crawled forward. Flailing her arms, she made a grab for the poles and managed to wrap her fingers around their straps before the momentum of the skis plowed her halfway down the drive.
Digging the spiked ends of the poles into the snow, she wobbled to an unsteady halt, the tips of the skis touching. “Oh God, I’m going to be the first known fatality caused by cross-country skis.” Despite the certainty of her dire prediction, she tightened her grip on the poles and set her chattering teeth in determination. As head events coordinator for the Lynchat Foundation, she needed firsthand experience with all the activities they’d have at their disposal if—no, when—Dante sold his property to the organization. Even if said activity killed her. Which in all likelihood it would.
Burrowing her chin deeper into the scarf tucked around the lower portion of her face, she unlocked her knees and hesitantly glided one ski forward. When she didn’t immediately topple over, she attempted the same maneuver with the other ski. Before she knew it she was shuffling along the winding driveway. “I don’t freakin’ believe it. I’m actually doing it!” Since no force on earth would convince her to let go of the pole for even a second, she settled for mentally pumping her fist in victory.
Rather than risk a collision with any vehicles she might encounter on the main street, she decided to chart a course along the perimeter of the property line. Forking away from the drive, she shush-shushed her way through the alley of pines. Other than the fact her nose resembled a block of ice and she no longer felt her butt, she was sort of enjoying the moment. Grinning, she lengthened her strides, injecting a little more oomph in her pace. Unfortunately, she didn’t count on the pitch of the terrain suddenly taking a steep, downhill slant.
The skis adopted a will of their own as they picked up speed. She grappled desperately with her poles, but the damn skis seemed determined to hurtle her to an imminent death. Horrified, she stared at the rapidly approaching drop-off for the ridge. In one last-ditch effort at self-preservation, she speared the poles into the snow. Apparently that was the wrong thing to do.
She took off like a rocket, her scream muffled by her scarf as she flew over the side of the ridge.
“What the fuck?” Lowering the volume on his radio, Dante frowned at the skis protruding from the snow-laden branches of the giant blue spruce bordering the Prescott’s land. He slowed his pickup and peered out the passenger window. When he caught a glimpse of a fur-lined silver hood buried in the dense greenery, he shook his head and shifted into park. He jumped from the cab of his truck and ambled to the base of the spruce. “How original. A cat stuck in a tree.”
“Go to hell.”
He tucked his thumbs in the rear pockets of his jeans and chuckled. “That any way to talk to the guy who’s gonna give you a hand out of there?”
“I don’t need your help, thank you very much.” The entire tree shook, dislodging its blanket of snow as Lilly attempted to extricate herself from the spruce’s tenacious grasp. Several seconds later, her frustrated growl pierced the frigid air. “Fine, I might require some assistance.”
He was damn tempted to hoot in laughter, but he didn’t relish getting a ski cracked upside his noggin for the trouble. “Hold tight. I’ll be right with you.”
“Not like I’m going anywhere,” she huffed.
Zipping his jacket, he returned to his truck and snatched a pair of leather work gloves from the toolbox he always kept in the bed of the pickup. Satisfied he was as protected from the spruce’s scratchy needles as he’d get, he strode to the tree. Peering through the foliage overhead, he assessed the situation.
Lilly appeared to be pinned close to the tree trunk by two branches crisscrossing behind her back, near her tailbone. The angle made it impossible for her to reach her skis, which left him with the task of removing them.
Locating a sturdy branch that would afford him extra height, he climbed upward and fumbled around with one hand until he knocked into the edge of the nearest ski. He smoothed his gloved hand across the slick fiberglass and bumped into Lilly’s boot. Working his fingers lower, he encountered the top binding and pried at the toe clip until it released. He wrenched the ski off, and it plummeted to the ground. Hugging the massive trunk of the tree with one arm for balance, he switched his focus to the other ski. Less than a minute later, it sailed down to join its mate.
He slid his palm up along Lilly’s inner thigh, and he swore she hissed. Not the mean, ornery kind of hiss that usually accompanied a swipe from a sharp-clawed feline. Nope, this sound made him think of slapping body parts and the ecstatic rake of fingernails down his back.
Ignoring the sudden thickening of his cock, he reached behind her leg and snapped off the thinner twigs that impeded him getting to her backside. He discovered the culprit keeping her snared in place. A broken section of branch had poked through her bulky ski pants.
Concerned the sharp tree limb might have lodged into her skin, he pulled his glove off with his teeth and patted the back of her thigh, searching for the end of the branch. He located it—thankfully not embedded in Lilly’s flesh. “I’m gonna have to rip your pants a little more to get you freed.”
“Go ahead. Not like I plan to ever ski again in my lifetime anyway. Something all the trees in the neighborhood will be profoundly grateful for, I’m sure.”
Her dry statement earned his laugh, and she frowned at him. He tossed her a questioning look and continued grappling with the fabric bunched around the tree branch. “What?”
“Nothing. I’ve just never heard you laugh like that before. It actually makes you semi-pleasant.”
He twisted his mouth in a wry grin. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re flirting with me.”
She snorted. “Clearly all this cold air has killed off some of your brain cells.”
Probably. Too bad it was doing nothing to numb the persistent throbbing in his cock. Between the satiny flesh he glimpsed through the gaping hole in Lilly’s pants and the intoxicating aroma pouring off her in waves, his hormones were getting beat to hell.
Hormones. His fingers stalled in mid-rip. “You’re in heat.”
A sharp inhalation sounded above him, and he lifted his gaze to find Lilly staring at him with fire in her eyes. “I take it back. You’re not pleasant at all, you rude ass.”