sure they still functioned. He couldn’t
get warm, not that his hostess cared
about his wellbeing.
now with wet clothes and towels.
Hands on her hips, she looked more
than a little edgy. “Why are you here?”
“Your ways…your DEA and other law
enforcement connections, right?” She
leaned back onto the sofa, gaze locked
on the fire. “Maybe I don’t feel like
working, did you think of that? Maybe I
no longer give a damn about the
show.”
“Because I’m here.” He shrugged, the
answer obvious to him.
Yeah, he had thought about that every
step of the way here. He’d needed to
follow her, though, for reasons he
couldn’t explain. He liked her
straightforward, genuine approach to
life, even if it wasn’t exactly politically
correct. She had a gift, too, a true
talent. After she’d tossed a coffee mug
at their boss’s head and told him to go
to hell, he had thought it best to follow
her. If not for the show’s sake or his
future’s sake, then for her own.
He gripped the ends of the blanket
tighter and shifted closer to the flames.
He didn’t want to over-analyze his
desire to make sure she was okay.
“Are you hurt? Was the accident bad?”
she finally asked.
“Thanks for asking.” He looked up at
her before glancing around the cabin.
Simple. Cozy. Completely unlike the
high-maintenance Sierra Daniels he had
come to know. “I couldn’t tell where
the road ended and the ditch began.”
“Spring storms are nasty.” She stood
abruptly, gathered a wet towel and an
empty wine bottle from where they’d
been stashed in a corner, and walked
toward the kitchen again.
“Tell me why you’re here, Alex. The real
reason, not some crap about writing.
Did Charlie send you to find me?” She
loomed in the doorway of what he
assumed was the laundry room
because she’d disappeared there twice
She chewed her lower lip, again looking
over her shoulder as if expecting
someone to burst into the room. With a
long sigh, she stalked back to the living
room, sat on the sofa, and turned her
gaze toward the fire.
“Am I fired? Is that why you’re here?
Do you want to gloat?” she asked after
a long silence.
“I could gloat in Los Angeles from the
warmth of my condo.” He frowned at
the sadness emanating from her. He’d
come expecting a fight, maybe even
hoping for one. “No, I came to write.
We need to figure this out if we don’t
want to be replaced for next season.”
“The show’s been picked up,” she said.
“Barely. They’re talking about
revamping the writers. You heard Sylvia
hasn’t been offered a contract renewal.
If they’re letting the star go—”
“I’m not an idiot, you don’t need to
spell it out for me.” She shoved her
hands through her hair and closed her
eyes.
He couldn’t stop looking at the long
tresses that snaked through her
fingertips. Normally, she kept it in a
loose bun at the nape of her neck. A
few times he’d seen it loose and
flowing down her back, but only when
she’d left the building and headed
toward her car.
“I’m not your enemy,” he whispered
because he felt he needed to say it.
She dragged her gaze toward his. “You
shouldn’t be here.”
“You don’t trust me, I get it. You were
head writer for years and then
suddenly I appear out of nowhere. But
we need to work together, Sierra. I’m
not going anywhere in this storm so,
like it or not, we’re going to hash this
out and create a script that will blow
their minds.”
He stared at her face, saw the conflict
in her eyes and felt she wanted to
confess something. His former DEA
agent instincts told him that she was
hiding something, and despite himself,
he wanted to find out what.
“I’m not exactly a mountain man.”
Shivers rippled over his skin. He’d never
felt so cold in his life.
“I can tell.” She hugged her knees to
her chest and grinned. “What kind of
man are you? I haven’t been able to
figure that out. I know the facts…the
badass former federal agent facts…but
you’ve never struck me as overly…I
don’t know…masculine.”
He gaped at her. Never in his life had
anyone questioned his masculinity.
Okay, so maybe at the moment he sat
wrapped in a faux fur blanket whining
about cold weather, but he’d once
wielded machetes through jungles, for
God’s sake!
“I mean you’re not Mr. MachoCaveman-Grunt-For-Your-Supper Man.”
Her grin widened to a smile when he
continued to stare. “You look so
offended. I love it.”
“You would.” He pulled the blanket
tighter around himself and focused on
the wood snapping inches away from
his thawing limbs. “I don’t suppose
there’s any food here?”
“You show up uninvited, demand that
we write together during our break
from the madhouse, and now you
expect me to make you dinner?”