Page 13 of Stranded with the SEAL

He threw back the covers. “You probably have a concussion,” he said, standing. He walked past her, an obvious limp making him no less threatening. As if the strength of his body wasn’t enough to intimidate her, he towered over her like few men in her life ever had. He was six-five, easily, maybe more.

He walked back into the room, placing a mixing bowl on the table beside her. “Just in case,” he said. “How are you feeling, other than the nausea?”

“Like I got hit by a train.”

“That’s not far off. Can you lift your head?”

“Not without fireworks going off in my brain.”

“Understandable, given what happened.”

She swallowed hard against her dry throat, then realized with horror she was close to tears. Her lips began to shake. “What happened, exactly?” she asked.

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

He reached to touch her, and she recoiled.

“I just want to see your head,” he said.

She eyed him warily. “I’m fine.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Olivia.”

“Who are you?”

“Trevor Hawkins. Hawk.”

“Why did you bring me here, Trevor Hawkins?”

He furrowed his brow. “We were in an accident. I came around a blind curve in my truck and there you were, stuck in the snow, standing outside your car. It was too late for me to stop. The impact threw you and you hit your head, which was lucky because both cars caught fire.”

She lifted her hand to her head tentatively. A large lump and a messy scab were tender to the touch. Her hair was filled with hard bits of blood. She thought of her sharp, nasty headache. The nausea and dizziness. “Why aren’t we in the hospital?”

“My cell phone was in my car. I assume yours was, too, and the phone here is dead. I haven’t been able to contact anyone.”

She turned her gaze to the front window, instantly sorry for the movement. “What about a passing car?”

“There aren’t any. Wouldn’t surprise me if they closed the road. We’re in the middle of a blizzard on Warsaw Mountain.”

“Blizzard?”

“Yes. It’s pretty bad.” He stood, walking past her toward a hallway, and she noted a tattoo on his bicep, an eagle and an anchor.

“They have to have a radio or a TV somewhere,” he said.

Warsaw Mountain.

The name meant nothing to her. She lived in… in… God,where did she live?

He walked back into the room, fiddling with a small radio in his hands. His eyes met hers. “You look like you’re going to cry,” he said.

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Was this man her enemy or her friend? She watched as the muscles of his arm flexed with each movement of his hands.

If he was her enemy, she didn’t stand a chance.

Please, let him be my friend.