He stomped over to the stairs. his gaze trained on her foot as it came within a skate’s blade of missing the step. “Don’t move.”
Her eyes went wide with shock but she stayed in one place. “Why?”
“Because you’re gonna kill yourself, and the cops will never believe that you insisted on coming down the stairs loaded down like an overwhelmed pack mule.”
She grinned down at him, showing off a prominent gap between her two front teeth. “Two trips is for losers.”
“And people who aren’t into concussions or breaking their own damn neck,” he grumbled as he hustled up the stairs, getting to her level before she managed to lose the battle with gravity and balance.
He lifted the duffel bag from her shoulder and took the pillow from her grasp, shoving it under his arm before turning and heading back down, his annoyance with himself increasing with each step. Why in the hell was he helping her? He could have been snowed in here by himself, drowning his misery in scotch and stewing in the wreckage of the life he’d thought he’d been living.
Instead, here she was, the reason for his misery—okay, to be fair she was the messenger of his misery, but every time he thought about his dad and Christensen, it was like getting whacked on the back of the head with a two-by-four. Being mad at Shelby hurt less.
He let out another harsh, angry breath.
“Are you always this surly when you’re helping people?” Shelby asked, trailing behind him, all darkness except for the ridiculous comforter and her voice that sounded like she’d just taken a partial hit of helium.
“Yes.”
“Then you could at least have the decency to not look all Witcher hot while you do it.”
That stopped him cold and he turned around, glowering. “What is Witcher hot?”
The beginnings of an amused smile tilted the corners of her mouth upward. “Do you grunt?”
Okay, he wasn’t sure where this was going, but he didn’t like it. “Occasionally.”
She shot him an oh-really look. “In the past twenty-four hours, you’ve grunted so much that I can tell the difference between their meanings. Plus, you just did it, like, five seconds ago.”
He let out a huff of breath that rumbled in his chest as he dropped the duffel at the end of the oversize couch. It was a massive piece of furniture that had to have been custom-made. Roughly ten feet long, it ran the span of the living room with each end being bracketed by two chaises wide enough to be an extra-wide twin-size bed. It wasn’t as good as separate rooms while he was snowed in with her, but it was better than freezing his ass off in a snowbank.
“See!” Her triumphant tinkling laugher filled the cabin.
“I did that on purpose.” Not really, but he wasn’t going to admit that to her. “I don’t do it otherwise.”
She let her head fall back and laughed as if he’d just told the world’s funniest joke.
“Absolutely no one believes that. You are a grunter. A scowler. An eyebrow raiser.” She waved her hand in his direction with enough enthusiasm that the comforter nearly fell off from around her shoulders. “And you like to stand with your arms crossed when you’re wearing a Henley so we all know without any doubt just how big your biceps are.”
“What’s a Henley?” That came out of his mouth, but all that was running around his head was that she’d been checking out his muscles.
“What you’re wearing. What do you call it?”
He looked down. “A shirt.” He’d gotten the Henley because it was soft and comfortable. Because he hated shopping, he’d gotten twelve of them in three shades. Between these shirts, his collection of sports-related T-shirts, and a healthy collection of workout stuff, he was pretty much set when he wasn’t in uniform on the ice or in one of the stupid suits Coach insisted they wear before and after games. She thought it showed off his guns, huh? He crossed his arms again, being sure to tuck his hands under his biceps to really set them off. And bingo, he saw it. A rusty chuckle escaped. “Never noticed that before.”
“Believe me,” she said, her cheeks a little pink. “Other people did.”
Other people, huh? Or maybe just Shelby? Did his chest puff? Did he flex a bit? Did he start getting thoughts he didn’t need to have? Yeah, he did. Sue him. “Why does it make you so mad?”
She rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t.”
“It sure seems to bother you.” Yeah. He wasn’t convinced, especially since she wasn’t looking at his face. Nope. Her gaze had traveled lower. “Or maybe it’s more that it gets you hot and bothered?”
Did he sound like his grandpa saying that phrase? Sure shooting (another PopPop special), but he leaned into it, enjoying feeling something other than seriously pissed off for the first time in weeks.
Her cheeks flamed. “You’re obnoxious.”
“And hungry.” He waited a few seconds to see if her blush could darken any more. “Which is why I am about to make us dinner.”
“I think I liked you grunty better.” But that twitchy trying-to-fight-off-a-smile of hers was back.
“Steak,” he said, figuring it was time to get back
