Page 12 of Braving the Storm

I reach out to take it. Her soft palm fits perfectly inside my calloused, rough grip, and another of those tingling sparks shoots up my arm as our hands make skin-on-skin connection.

“Just call me Storm.”

There’s a glint in her eye. “Ok… Uncle Storm.”

Fuck my fucking life.

Chapter 5

After settling on our roommate truce, Uncle Storm—or do I call himStorm,I still don’t know—announces that he needs to head out to the ranch where he has work booked for the day. Which makes me realize, with a jarring thud, I don’t know anything about this man’s life, other than having heard glimpses of his past as a professional rodeo star. A world champion at one time, no less, from what I remember being mentioned when I was young.

There were times he’d come visit the house and meet with my father in the years when they were still talking, and I remember overhearing snippets of conversation. Snatches of words the two of them exchanged about things like winning buckles and prize money, and usually what sounded like my father trying to shove business advice down his brother’s throat.

I know nothing about ranches or rodeos. I also don’t know anything about surviving how cold it is here. Never in my life have I lived somewhere with seasons, not even for a brief experience while on vacation. Our family trips were always the same. Tropical destinations, calculated to perfection, whereby my dad could spend his entire time on the golf course rubbing shoulders with the wealthy and powerfulboy’s club.

“Could I come with you today?” I dry my hands on a tea towel with frayed edges and at least five holes in it. After he cooked breakfast, it seemed the minimum I could do was wash up the dishes.

Steely blue eyes meet mine from where my uncle is busy collecting his phone and keys before lifting his coat by the fleece collar.

“Out to the ranch?” He furrows his brow.

“Uhh. Well, sure… but also, if it’s at all possible, could we maybe go into town on the way there or back? I arrived in the dark, and I think I’m going to need some groceries and things…” I trail off once more, god I seem to be unable to finish a sentence around this man. Feeling a little foolish as I hear myself say those words out loud, because I’ve got a perfectly good rental car, don’t I? Which means I’m independent. An adult capable of getting myself around. For fuck’s sake, I even made it here in the first place, despite all the odds and ice-bound elements stacked against me.

Except, in the cold light of day, I now feel extremely nervous about driving, especially when I’ve never faced snow or frozen roads from behind the wheel before.

My uncle, however, seems like he’d handle it as easily as breathing.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek before my brain can start commenting on how easily he handledotherthings, too…

“Sure. Might as well show you where to find everything in Crimson Ridge.” He shrugs, then, in a soul-stealing moment, his eyes drop down my figure.

Heat floods my pussy, lavishing me with a traitorous sweep of tingling sensations between my thighs.

“Is that what you’re planning on wearing?”

I open and close my mouth, glancing down at myself, confused and determined to ignore the visceral reaction my body just had to his eyes being on me.

“Yes?” It comes out as a question.

“Nope. Absolutely not.” He grunts and stomps past in thedirection of the bedroom, crashing around in there for a minute before returning with a thick flannel shirt and heavy coat. Dropping both items on the counter beside me, he carries on toward the door and picks up a tan-colored cowboy hat—one I didn’t even notice hanging on a hook behind the door before now—shoving it on his head.

Do not stare. Briar, don’t you dare. Do not let yourself be swept away by how unbelievably hot yourunclelooks covered in tattoos and with his sexy leather cuff on his wrist and wearing too-tight wranglers. Ignore, with every ounce of self-restraint you possess, the fact he’s now gone and added a motherfucking cowboy hat into the mix.

Screw my miserable life.

“Put those on, and for the love of god, I hope you’ve got something less flimsy to wear on your feet because I ain’t dealing with you losing toes to frostbite on day fucking one out here.” Then he’s out the door, taking his perfectly fitted jeans with him, calling over his shoulder before the door slams. “I’ll be waiting in the truck.”

I’ve hadthe grand tour of Crimson Ridge.

It took all of five minutes.

This place is reminiscent of a quaintHallmarkysetting. I’m sure there are a hundred movies where the city girl goes to a town like this and gets swept off her feet by a volunteer firefighter, his eight-pack abs, and a golden retriever named, ‘pumpkin spice.’

Folks wave for no apparent reason. Even people passing each other on the road driving in the opposite direction of one another. What the fuck? I genuinely didn’t think people did that kind of thing.

Back home, the unspoken rule is to avoid eye contact and look the other way. Strangers are exactly that. Strangers.

I’ve picked up groceries, winter-appropriate layers, and twodifferent kinds of boots—one pair in a chunky work style, the others are some proper black cowboy boots because my uncle looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel when he saw my white sneakers—and the whole time I’ve had to do so while drowning in his masculinity.