Take My Breath Away. Christie Ridgway

“Are you going to be all right in your cabin?” she said to Ryan.

      He didn’t spare her a glance. “I don’t think your brother would welcome me, too, would he?”

      Brett didn’t have a kind word for anyone, not since he’d returned home, scarred in places you could and couldn’t see. Poppy rummaged through her purse, peering into the dark cavern of it for paper and pen so she could give Ryan her cell phone number. “I’ll return tomorrow to assess the damage—and I hope with somebody who can fix the worst of it.” Yes, she very much hoped her small cushion of cash was going to cover what needed to be covered.

      “Uh-oh.” Ryan slowed the SUV. “I don’t think you’ll be returning tomorrow.”

      “What?” Poppy frowned, still hunched over her purse as she focused on finding something to write on.

      “I don’t think you’ll be returning tomorrow,” he repeated, bringing the SUV to a full stop. “Because you’re not going anywhere today, except back to my cabin.”

      At that, Poppy’s head shot up, and in the beam of the headlights she saw the tree that had fallen across the private road that led to the resort, a good two miles short of the turnoff onto the highway.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      FUCKING MARCH, RYAN thought, as they did the reverse dash from his vehicle to the cabin’s front door. By the time they were inside, all three of them were dripping, though Poppy had to be worse off than he since fifteen minutes before she’d arrived wet already. The dog returned to the towel he’d taken to the fire on his first visit. Ryan made his way toward the bedroom with the suitcases, Poppy at his heels.

      “Time to get into some dry clothes,” he said over his shoulder. “You can have the bedroom.”

      “I certainly will not.” She yanked one of the bags from his hand. “I’ll change in the bathroom.”

      “It’s too small for you and your suitcase.”

      She ignored his warning and strode into the shoebox-size tiled room, then slammed the door. A few minutes later, a thump followed by a yelp told him her elbow had connected with the wall.

      By the time he heard a couple more less-than-mysterious bumps, he’d changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt. A pair of thick socks were on his feet.

      Standing in front of the fire, he saw her exit the bathroom, a scowl on her face. She stowed her suitcase inside the bedroom, then shot him a fulminating look. “But I’m not sleeping in there, you got that?”

      He gazed back at her. She was dressed in a similar style to himself: sweats and T-shirt, with a pair of fuzzy slippers on her feet. “You’re pretty bad-tempered for a woman at my mercy.”

      “At your mercy?” she repeated, waving a hand. “Don’t forget I have Grimm.”

      At the sound of his name, the dog lifted his big head, assessed the situation through half-closed eyes then returned his skull to the floor with an audible thunk.

      Ryan looked at the pet, looked back at Poppy. “Oh, I’m very afraid.”

      “Well, I’m not afraid of you, either,” Poppy said. She glanced around the room, then her gaze settled on the window, as the storm continued to rage outside. “It’s not letting up.” She sighed.

      “It’s not, no.”

      “Still, I’m going to call a guy from town. He’ll get out here with a chain saw and clear the tree....” Her words trailed off.

      “Once the storm lets up,” he finished for her.

      She sighed again, then rummaged in her purse for her cell phone.

      The hail continued to rattle the roof as she murmured into her phone and he went into the kitchen to rustle up some dinner. It was early, but what else was there for them to do? He thought it wiser to keep busy. So he heated soup, sliced cheese, threw some crackers onto a plate. Grimm shambled into the room and when Poppy finished her call she arrived as well with a plastic container of dog kibble.

      They all began to eat.

      Ryan pretended he couldn’t smell the sweet fragrance from her still-damp hair over the aroma of the tomato soup. When they cleaned up at the sink, he acted as if he wasn’t aware of her small female body under those layers of thick cotton. He was successful enough to relax his guard when they returned to the living room fire. As he bent to stoke it with a new log, he didn’t even think about the basket that he’d discovered in the corner of the room the day he’d moved in.

      So he was startled when he turned to find her poking among the pile of DVDs of movies and sitcoms that went back ten years and more. “What are you doing?” he asked, hoping like hell it hadn’t come out like a squawk.

      She glanced up at him. “I found this bunch at a yard sale and brought them back for potential guests. I saw you have a laptop. We could watch one on your computer. It would give me a chance to bone up on pop culture.”

      “Outdated pop culture.” Hadn’t he seen the first season of Heaven Come Early there? If they watched, maybe she wouldn’t recognize his just-turned-teen self as one of the stars of the popular dramedy, its title based on the George Bernard Shaw quote “A happy family is but an earlier heaven.” Still, there was no reason to chance it. If she discovered who he was, word might get out and then his privacy would go poof! He saw her fingers brush over a DVD of Main Line, the last movie he’d made before he’d retired from on-camera work. “I thought you said you liked to read.”

      Her quizzical look signaled he must sound a little desperate. Ryan tempered his voice. “The only good light is in here and I want to get back to my George R.R. Martin.”

      “So then I’ll take the laptop to the bedroom—”

      “I thought you had an aversion to the bedroom.”

      Yes, desperate. But she didn’t push any more, instead crossing to her purse to pull out a paperback. Without another word, she settled at one end of the sofa. Realizing he’d boxed himself into a corner, Ryan retrieved his own book and took the opposite place.

      Even the dramatic events of the seven kingdoms couldn’t keep his eyes off that basket of DVDs. He should have buried them somewhere when he’d first spotted them. Not that he regretted that part of his life. He’d been a child of Hollywood—well, Malibu, really—with his father a well-known and well-respected stunt director, his mother a successful makeup artist. He and Linus and their pals had started making movies at an early age and during a dinner party his folks threw, a casting agent had seen their latest and wondered aloud if Ryan wanted to try for the part in an upcoming show.

      It had seemed like a great way to get out of school, which was damn boring in seventh grade.

      A teen star had been born.

      He’d gotten a kick out of it, to tell the truth. He’d enjoyed pretending he was someone else and it had taken a while for fame to catch up with him...years before it smacked him hard in the face. But by the time he was twenty-one, twenty-two, he didn’t like the long hours wearing heavy makeup, the bullshit from the suits, the celebrity press that wrote ridiculous stories probably planted by studio publicists. The women who came for his face and stayed for his fame.

      And he’d garnered enough money to stop making films in order to actually make films. And cable series and TV movies.

      Maybe people would have forgotten him and he could have gone on to live a nonnotorious life. But then came that March. Fucking March.

      “You could scare small children with that expression you’re wearing,” Poppy suddenly said.

      He never wanted to be around small children again. So he grunted, and turned a page he hadn’t read.

      But her comment returned Poppy smack-dab to the center of his consciousness. He cast a sidelong look at her, watching the firelight play over her innocent angel face,