In From the Cold #1

Pulp Friction 2014

Cold Snap

Professor of Literature Finn Lorensson is unashamedly a

romantic. In his own words, he's a white knight in search of a

charming prince to save. In fact, he's doing a good deed by

stepping into the breach for his long-time friends and landlords

at Mountain Shadows when a voice on the phone sends him

tumbling headfirst into love/lust/fascination.

Four months later, a self-absorbed Dr. Cannon Malloy shows up

in the flesh and has the poor grace to not remember their

conversation. That could be because he's running from his past

and too busy looking over his shoulder to appreciate what's right

in front of him.

A winter storm and circumstance conspire to bring them

together, but it'll take more than a charming smile and a pure

heart to bring this frog-prince in from the cold.

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PULP FRICTION PRESENTS

COLD SNAP

By

LEE BRAZIL

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and incidents are products of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously. As such, any resemblance to any persons,

living or deceased, businesses, events, or locales is coincidental.

Cover Art by © Laura Harner

Cover art photo : © Andrey Kiselev - Fotolia.com

Editing by Jae Ashley

Copyright January 2014 © Lee Brazil

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Trademark Acknowledgements:
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following
trademarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

AutoZone: AutoZone Parts, Inc.
Band-Aid: Johnson & Johnson Corporation
Ferragamo: Salvatore Ferragamo S.P.A.
FTD: Florists’ Transworld Delivery, Inc.
Ghostbusters (namely, Stay Puft Marshmallow Man): Columbia Pictures Industries,
Inc.
Google: Google, Inc.
Grumpy (the dwarf): Disney Enterprises, Inc.
Shelby: Carroll Hall Shelby Trust
Snow White: Disney Enterprises, Inc.
Sorel: Sorel Corporation
Subaru:

 

Fuji Heavy Industries Ltd.

Tylenol: Johnson & Johnson Corporation
Under Armour: Under Armour, Inc.
Volvo : Volvo Trademark Holding AB Corporation

Cold Snap

Chapter One

"I fucking hate Arizona." It was supposed to be hot in Arizona. Dry. Desert.

Cannon Malloy shivered in his thick down coat and sniffed. His car was literally buried

under snow. Not even the roof was visible. The university's maintenance crew had made

sure of that.

Tentatively, he reached out and brushed at the mound of snow that covered his

’66 Shelby. The dry powder scattered easily enough, but the icy wind blew it right back

at him. It stung like someone had thrown a handful of tiny knives into his face, making his

eyes tear and his chapped lips crack.

Frigid water seeped into his boots, wetting his socks and chilling his feet. He

rocked, feeling his body lose its grip with calm as he began shivering and shaking,

swaying back and forth. "Fucking cold." He groaned. Turning his back to the wind and

the car, he dug in his pocket for his cell phone and hit the first number as if by instinct.

While the phone rang, he studied the car next to him enviously. Even with six

inches of snow on its roof, it was reassuringly visible. Visible, and somehow familiar. Had

it been there when he’d parked that morning? A shiver that was not weather-related

racked him.

There must be thousands of SUVs like this in Flagstaff alone, let alone in the

state. When would he stop jumping at shadows? Thinking everything familiar was

suspect?

Unlike his own car, the university maintenance crew had apparently been unable

to bury the SUV.

Then again, maybe they hadn't tried. Maybe he'd gotten special treatment. And

maybe he'd brought a healthy dose of paranoia to Flagstaff with him?

That had to be it. He dismissed his concern as someone finally answered the

phone.

"Cannon?" Rory's voice sounded sleepy, as though he'd awakened the man. It

was possible. Seven o'clock in Flagstaff was the same as nine in Atlanta.

"Sorry to wake you." He felt foolish now. How the hell could his friends in

Georgia help with his car buried in a snowbank in the university parking lot in Flagstaff,

more than half a country away?

"We weren't sleeping. What can we do for you?" A low-pitched growly rumble

from the background made Cannon blush as he realized that there were other reasons for

that low tone of voice than sleep.

"Nothing. I'm sorry I called. My car is buried in snow and I should have dialed

roadside assistance, but my thumb slipped." Liar, liar, pants on fire , he sneered at

himself, staring into the dark, clear sky and blinking back tears that had nothing to do with

the cold air biting at him and everything to do with loneliness and missing the friends he'd

left behind. "Say hello to everyone from me. I've got to go so I have enough battery

power to call the tow truck."

He turned off his phone and sagged. "Do tow trucks even dig out cars?" he asked

the still night.

"Actually, no, they don't. And if that little death trap is your car, you don't want to

be driving it in this weather on these roads anyway."

At the vaguely familiar voice, Cannon jerked upright and nearly lost his footing

spinning around.

Then his jaw dropped open and his mind went blank. Holy crap. "Hi," he

murmured, sweeping the man who stood grinning widely at him with a long, assessing

glance. Cannon was tall, but this guy was taller by at least two inches, and where he was

lean, the newcomer was broad, wide as Chance's friend Marcus in the shoulder, narrow

of waist and…How was it that Cannon was freezing his ass off dressed in layers like an

Eskimo and this guy seemed to be getting by with a tailored wool suit, shiny black boots,

and cheery red knit cap and black leather gloves?

The grin split into a wide smile revealing pearly white, slightly crooked teeth. Blue

eyes twinkled and Cannon swore he could get lost in the classically handsome features.

"I'm Dagfinnr Lorensson, professor of literature. And you are Cannon Malloy?"

Dagfinnr? What kind of name was that? Startled, Cannon blankly accepted the

gloved hand and shook it weakly. "I'm…I just started, actually. Taking the place of Dr.

Redfern while she's on maternity leave." How the hell does he know my name? For the

second time, he found himself tamping down panic. Damn…Maybe his friends were right.

Maybe it wasn't distance he needed but a psychologist.

"Ah. You'll be heading up the neurosurgery clinic then?"

It's a staff parking lot, he reminded himself briskly, nodding shortly. He's not

stalking you. They caught that guy back in Atlanta. This is different, just friendly

interest in a new co-worker. "Yes. I was working late, getting the lay of the department

before the interns are back tomorrow. I knew it snowed, but…" He waved behind him in

the general direction of his poor car, unable to take his eyes from the smiling face in front

of him.

The man's perfect rose-colored lips pursed into a moue of displeasure. "Yes, it

can accumulate quite quickly. Well, there's nothing for it, not tonight anyway. This sort of

weather makes the roads out toward my place impassible, so I intend to stay in town at

the Weatherford. Perhaps you'd like to join me?"

Cannon's cheeks were burning again, and his fingers twitched to push back his

hair, but he couldn’t because he was wearing a cap and he'd just look like an idiot. The

man didn't mean for him to join him in his hotel room anyway, just that it was advisable

for him to get a room at the hotel. "I should really make arrangements to get my car out

and go home."

"You aren't going to make it. The roads are a mess and out in the country where I

live, they won't even plow until Monday." The man waved over his shoulder and Cannon

followed the gesture to a reassuringly large vehicle that rose from the snow piles with a

majestic presence, as though defying Mother Nature to bury it. "Come on. I'll give you a

lift and we can go somewhere warm, out of the cold." The vehicle in the back honked,

purred to life with a gentle hum as the man clicked a wireless starter.

Warm sounded good. Georgia was warm. Even now, it was probably fifty

degrees and sunny. "You think the Weatherford will have a room for me?" His teeth

clinked together embarrassingly loudly as he talked, and he resisted the urge to wipe his

nose with the back of his hand.

"If they don't, my suite has two beds and you're more than welcome to the

hideaway sofa bed."

A sense of disappointment that was entirely inappropriate swept through Cannon.

Of course the man didn't find him attractive. He looked like a brown and blue, all too

unhealthily pale, Stay Puft Marshmallow Man in his inadequate winter wear. "That sounds

great."

He followed Professor Lorensson to the massive vehicle, eyeing it with

appreciation. "I guess I should get something like this."

"It's a Volvo. Handles great, but you can get by with something smaller, just not a

classic like that one you're driving, maybe a Subaru."

Startled at the constant reminders that the man seemed to know too much about

him, Cannon stopped with his hand on the door of the Volvo. "My Shelby? You've seen

it?"

"How could I miss it? It's a beauty. The winter roads will ruin it though. If you

don't have an accident in the ice and snow, then the salt and sand will be hell on your

paint job. Best place for a car like that in this season is in a heated garage."

Fuck. "Yeah, I didn't think of that. I'll pick something up." The door beeped and

he pulled it open, sinking into the leather seat with a sigh of pleasure. "Something with one

of those gadgets so it's warm like this when I get in would suit me nicely."

Lorensson laughed softly and slipped the car into gear, backing easily through the

accumulated snow and exiting the parking lot onto a still busy street. "Keyless entry and

remote start are definitely benefits. But you know—" He turned and studied Cannon

earnestly.

Cannon nibbled his chapped lips and fought not to squirm. "Yes?"

"Color is the most important thing to consider." His attention reverted to the road

and Cannon let loose the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Holy fuck, being

around this guy was…

What the man had said seeped into his frozen brain. He blinked. "Color? You're

fucking with me." The obscenity slipped out from between his chapped lips, lay between

them raw and ugly and blatantly sexual. He bit his lip and ducked his head in

embarrassment. That made it quite clear what was on his mind, didn't it? Why couldn’t he

have said shit, or damn, or elbows and galoshes like his sainted dearly departed

grandmother? No. He had to say fuck, because fucking was at the edge of his mind since

this snow god had walked up beside him in the parking lot.

"Red and yellow will get you pulled over way more often. That's why I bought

black."

"I don't believe you." This man screamed intellectual from his neatly cropped hair

to his three piece wool suit and gleaming leather boots. "I can't believe you bought it for

anything other than the most practical reasons."

"I did. I chose the black for practical reasons and the remote starter and the other

features as well."

The SUV slipped through traffic like a knife through butter, pulling to a smooth

stop in a space near the entry to a grand Victorian-esque building that reminded Cannon

a lot of Atlanta. It had the architectural flare of the past that he found himself yearning for,

and not the stucco and mission look he'd come to expect in Arizona. Glowing icicle lights

dripped from the railings and gutters in a seasonal display of goodwill. In the harsh

January cold it should have looked tacky, instead it looked warm and welcoming. "This is

nice," he muttered, hating to step back into the cold.

"Yes, I like it. They've got some of the best food in the state, too. Perhaps after

you check in you'll join me for dinner?"

Was that a hint of innuendo? Just the slightest trace of throwing out a lure? "I…"

Flustered, he squirmed. He'd come to Arizona to find himself, to be gay and open, away

from the burdens of his past, and here he was going into a full-fledged panic at the first

sign of imagined interest from a man!

When Lorensson exited the car, Cannon heaved a sigh and followed suit. He

couldn't very well sit there any longer when the car's owner wasn't, could he?

They walked in companionable silence to the front entrance, and Cannon

scrambled for witty conversation, still uncertain whether he wanted to encourage the

man's interest or not. He hadn't managed anything more than another comment about the

weather when Lorensson came to a stop in the center of the lobby.

Cannon had an impression of blue, comfort, hominess, before his mind went into

a sort of tailspin by the touch of one leather-gloved hand on his arm. He swore he could

feel the heat of that touch through all the layers of down and polyester of his coat, the

wool blend of his suit jacket and the cotton of his shirt, the thin long-sleeved tee he wore

next to his skin…it all might have been nonexistent.

That touch made his breath catch and his heart still, his eyes widen and a faint

bead of sweat sting his upper lip. Holy crap…galoshes and elbows… "Oh," he

whispered meeting Lorensson's eyes.

A warm blue haze clouded the depths, more than a hint of desire, and

amusement. Those eyes invited him to laugh, and to linger. "My room is booked and I

picked up my key this morning. I'm going to go up and get changed into something more

comfortable. I'll meet you in the bar in an hour if you'd like to have a drink and dinner

with me."

Cannon nodded dumbly, watching as the professor loped off at an easy stride

toward the stairs and took them two at time until he disappeared from sight. Only when

not a glimpse of well-dressed man was visible was he able to shake off the miasma of lust

and approach the check in podium. An amiable staff member in a black vest and old-

fashioned, blousy looking white shirt greeted him with a pleasant, understanding smile.

"Friend of the professor's?" he asked, logging into a desktop computer.

"We just met, actually." Cannon studied the young man with interest. He was

slim, slightly shorter than Cannon, but gave every appearance of being well-muscled

beneath his loose fitting clothes, and he was gay. Cannon knew it from the sparkle in his

eye or the smile on his lips or the twinkle of a diamond in his ear, this boy was gay. Had

he slept with the professor? Was Cannon just caught ogling another man's boyfriend?

"He's my advisor. Not that I wouldn't mind jumping him, but well, good advisors

are hard to come by in the English department, and everyone knows Finn doesn’t mix

business and pleasure."

"Finn?" Cannon pretended to be only mildly interested as he dug out his credit

card and driver's license.

"Sure that's what he asked us all to call him." The man looked up with a quick

smile. "I've got you in a room with a private bath on the third floor, just near the Zane

Grey. All you'll have to do is walk outside and meet him."

"I…" He accepted an old fashioned key in place of a key card and fumbled his

wallet back into his pocket. "Thank you."

Chapter Two

The door slammed into the

 

wall, rattling the windows and practically shaking the

walls. Before he could caution Cannon about the thin

 

walls

 

and the need for quiet, Finn

had an armful of awkward gangly limbs at odds with the fluid grace of a man who'd made

a puffy down coat look like a ballet costume. The reminder of Cannon looking like the

Stay Puft Marshmallow Man made him smile.

The man who’d appeared at the dinner table had been lean and sophisticated, his

conversation witty and intelligent. The bumbling, frustrated, shivering helpless man he'd

met in the parking lot had disappeared, and while he'd been charmed and pleased to find

himself with a date who could discuss the decline of the English language, foreign films,

and the joys of a soft jazz band, Finn had been disappointed as well.

Even when he'd deliberately tried to bring back the confused Cannon of their

parking lot encounter by reminding him that they weren't strangers, Cannon had remained

polite and casual. And blank. He'd clearly forgotten all about Finn. The phone

conversation that had stirred his fantasies had apparently been so far from memorable for

his companion, that Cannon hadn't even remembered his name! It wasn't until Finn invited

him to use the diminutive of his name that Cannon had finally connected all the dots and

even then, Finn could tell that the memory wasn't strong.

Cannon wasn't who he was looking for, at least not this Cannon. The one he'd

built in his mind, the one he'd imagined over the phone while making the arrangements for

Cannon to pick up his keys to the cabin at Mountain Shadows from Jillian, with the

hesitant voice and stuttering, the tentative almost timid way of talking, the one who'd

needed an epic hero to take charge? That man was clearly all in his imagination.

With a mental shrug, he consigned his vision of himself as the conquering hero,

saving the world and his man from all manner of life's little traumas to the realms of

fantasy, and determined to enjoy what he'd found. A hot, willing bed partner who

evidently had a lot of energy to work off.

Cannon’s lips on his were desperate and hard, kissing, biting, grinding against his

lips until Finn had no choice but to open his mouth and suck him in or push him away and

chastise him. Hunger burned a soft, insistent flame in his belly, urging him to give in, to

give Cannon the fast hard loving he obviously wanted so desperately.

There would be time before Sunday afternoon rolled around and they had to

head back to Mountain Shadows. Time enough for long slow loving, for breakfast in bed,

and more of that soul feeding conversation that had kept them in the dining room until the

manager coughed discreetly and smiled at them weakly.

There would be time to…Cannon's hands burrowed under his sweater, digging

under Finn's waistband, and he sucked in a sharp breath at the icy touch. Cold fingers

filled the space he'd left, seeking and closing around his cock.

"Commando?" Cannon breathed. "I like it. Ready…" The murmur wasn't really

conversation, more commentary, so Finn stared at the wall over Cannon's head, while

Cannon looked down, working his fingers along Finn's length, creating icy trails of

sensation that left a flaring heat in their path.

The cool touch was strangely compelling, inciting his passion, but at the same time

clinical and methodical. A dexterous thumb brushed over his tip, he bit his lip and leaned

hard into the wall, feeling it press into his shoulders. He'd thought to indulge a bed

partner's tastes, and instead found himself spiraling out of control. If he didn't slow down

the pace of his own arousal, he'd orgasm embarrassingly fast.

"One…two…" He continued counting, staving off pleasure as long as he could so

Cannon could explore as much as he wanted to.

Cool air brushed over his groin, and he realized that Cannon had opened his

trousers, brought his cock out into the open air. Finn switched to Norwegian when he

saw Cannon's tongue, a wet pink beacon of intent, poke between his lips.

"Tre, fire, fem, seks …"

"God yes, sex…please?" Luminous blue eyes met his and Finn's breath

whooshed out in shock. Cannon's eyes were full of heat and need and uncertainty he

probably wasn’t even aware of.

He gathered his own intentions again. His heart exulted, his entire being suffused

with pleasure that went beyond the physical. He'd been right. So fucking right. Cannon

put on a good front, but those eyes couldn't hide shit from someone who could see.

"Yes," he whispered. Putting his hands on Cannon's shoulders, he absorbed the shudder,

the sudden relaxation of tension in the thin wiry frame.

They understood each other. And while his soul crowed and his mind was busy

forming plans and acknowledging

 

dreams

 

he'd never voiced his entire life, Finn's body

took control, pushing Cannon to the edge of the bed, tugging the man's shirt from the

waistband of his pants, tossing it to the side in a manner that would have appalled his

normally disciplined self. He dragged a fine leather belt from its loops and gave it a

considering pause, watching Cannon's chest heave and his pearly teeth catch his lower

lip.

Another time.

For now, he felt an immediate need to claim this man, to assuage the fire of lust

that Cannon clearly felt as well.

Cannon's storm of movement had stilled, he'd become almost docile, lifting his

hips to allow Finn to tug off his trousers, ducking his head as he rolled down his

underwear. When the older man was nude, Finn nudged him backward on the bed and

stripped off his own garments as he watched a blushing Cannon scrabble backward until

he bumped the headboard of the bed.

Pausing a moment with his jeans in his hand, he tipped his head to the side and

offered reluctantly, "We don't actually have to do this, you know. It's more than I'd

expected, more intimate." He added as confusion deepened Cannon's flush.

"I want it." The mumble was all parking lot man, no sophisticated urban socialite.

"Then it's yours." He jerked his chin toward the nightstand. "In the top drawer,

there're condoms and lube. Get them."

"That's awfully cocky, don't you think? Were you that certain I'd be putting out?"

Cannon seemed displeased by the idea, but he obediently retrieved the requested items.

"Well, not certain, no. But you could say I was hopeful of some company this

evening." Finn folded his own clothes neatly and turned his back to set them on the chair.

"Where's the second bed?"

Finn glanced over his shoulder, gratified to bust Cannon staring at his ass.

"Pardon?"

"You said there were two beds, and I could have the hide-a-bed if they didn't

have an extra room?"

Chuckling softly, Finn approached the bed, the heavy weight of his erection

swaying. He took in Cannon's hands clenching in the sheets, the way his Adam's apple

bobbed as he swallowed. Pleased, he addressed the red herring thrown his way. "Oh,

well, I lied."

Luminous blue eyes blinked at him, Cannon's lips worked silently. Finn was on

the bed between his legs before Cannon found his voice again. "You seduced me on

purpose?"

Closing his hands on slender ankles, Finn adjusted Cannon's body so that he

could creep closer, so that when he leaned forward and brushed his mouth over Cannon,

their erections rubbed together.

Cannon's breath caught and his body shuddered, and Finn knew he had his full

attention again. "Not hardly." He saw the acknowledgement of their mutual attraction in

Cannon's suddenly slack expression as he ground against Cannon's leaking cock. Moving

with steady purpose, he reach over for the condom and lube, licking and sucking at

Cannon's narrow lips, feeling them moisten, swell, and part under his attention. When he

finally had enough of kissing, he leaned upright, staring down with approval at the changes

in Cannon's face. Cool and urbane were long gone. Now, he was hot, sweat beaded on

his brow, his lips were plumped from kissing, his eyes melted into deep pools of arousal.

Casually, Finn set about preparing them, opening and sliding the condom down

his length, anointing himself and Cannon's entrance with the slick oil. Cannon shuddered

under his touch until his lashes fell and his breath came so fast Finn felt compelled to ask,

"You've done this before, right?" It was a foolish question to ask a man some years his

senior, but…something about Cannon in his bed seemed virginally awkward, not just

uncertain.

"Right." Cannon nodded jerkily. "Yes. A few times…not recently. There was

someone once, but…he had someone else."

Ahhh….A lost love, a disappointment as the classic writers called it. Bending

down again, Finn kissed Cannon's brow tenderly. "I'll be careful." I'll take care of you.

There won't be anyone else…

In true heroic fashion, he determined to make Cannon forget his old lover, make

this sex so good that Finn was all he'd remember. He pressed his latex covered cock to

Cannon's opening and braced himself on his elbows. Cannon's cock brushed against his

bare belly, the newly waxed flesh hypersensitive.

Cannon gave an odd little noise, something between a whimper and a moan, and

before Finn could begin to apply the gentle pressure he had in mind, Cannon's heels dug

into his back, dragging him down, forcing him in.

Cannon's cry was nearly feral, his body opened, and Finn sank to his balls into

slick velvet heat.

"Faen!" he cursed, body jerking. "Cannon! What the hell?"

"Fuck me, Finn. I need it."

He blinked back the waves of sensation, forced himself to ignore the demand of

his body. He could not let Cannon control him, them, like this. Every instinct he

possessed told him it would be a mistake. "I won't hurt you. You don't deserve to be

hurt, whatever that drittsekk you were with before told you."

Wild blue eyes blinked roundly back at him for a second, then Cannon shook his

head. "Chance? He didn't…" Again the man lapsed into silent lip twisting. "I can't talk

about that, I just really need this…Please?"

The please tipped the balance, and Finn was back in the frame of mind to indulge

his lover's wants. There would be time for tender and slow, he promised himself, gritting

his teeth and dragging his cock back to the tight ring of muscle.

Cannon made that noise again, and his still body became almost impossible to

hold as he wiggled and arched, his damp cock sliding over the muscles of Finn's

abdomen, his chest heaving.

Sliding a hand under Cannon, Finn attained leverage and position to allow him to

move more freely, and drove forward. The long drawn out moan Cannon released was

music to his ears, and he fell into a hard deep rhythm, withdrawing nearly to the point of

separation and surging back in again.

Keeping his gaze locked on Cannon's face, he worked his hips, fighting back his

own lust until he felt Cannon's body seize, his muscles stiffen. Finn's breath came fast and

hard, his chest heaved, his lungs felt like they were on fire as he struggled to keep up his

pace. Give the man what he wants, then teach him to give you what you want, he

ordered himself.

He trembled and shook as Cannon's body clenched around him, a spray of hot

liquid smeared across his belly and spasms of ecstasy shook Cannon. The second shot

dribbled between them as Finn shuddered into his own release, plunging deep into the

clinging depths and groaning as rippling muscles milked his orgasm from him.

He caught himself on his elbows as his body relaxed in the aftermath, rolling to

the side and gathering Cannon's awkward frame against him. Cannon stiffened as though

unused to such contact, but then relaxed.

Finn lay in the semi-darkness of the room, listening to the way their hearts

seemed to beat to the same rhythm, tangling their legs together. He liked the way Cannon

fit in his arms, liked the contrasts of the man, the sophisticate and the novice, the self-

reliant surgeon and the helpless snowbound marshmallow man.

Cannon's breath evened out, and Finn smiled when he realized the man had

relaxed so much he'd fallen asleep. "I think I'll keep you this way, all soft and warm," he

whispered, letting his own eyes close. A nap before lesson one in how Dagfinnr

Lorensson liked to make love was probably well-advised.

Chapter Three

Waking up in a strange bed wasn't exactly a first for Cannon Malloy. Waking up

next to a Nordic god of a man? That was new. And so wrong. But warm…Cannon

cuddled a little closer and squeezed his eyes shut. If he could force himself back to sleep

before the voice of reason started speaking, he could enjoy this longer.

Too fucking late .

You know

 

nothing about this man. You let a man you just met fuck you into

unconsciousness, begged him to do it even!

His ears burned at the memory of his voice pleading…Oh god…

He'd learned nothing about self-preservation from the incident in Atlanta.

Serial killer. Stalker. The dead vagrant on his living room floor.

Charred, burned bodies in wrecked cars. Even knowing the killer had been

caught, justice had been served, he couldn't dismiss the fear, the wretched uncertainty

and suspicion.

Logic told him he was safe. He just couldn't trust anything…anyone.

Cannon's eyes snapped open and his vision adjusted to the dim morning light. He

extracted himself carefully from under a muscular tanned arm. Fine gold hair, not as

white-blond as the hair on Finn's head, dotted that arm, and his fingers positively itched to

stroke it, to feel it scratch against his fingers. He scrambled off the bed with a muffled

whimper as he realized he wanted to touch a lot more than the arm that had held him safe

and warm through the night, pinned to the hard muscled body of an athlete, a young, lusty

athlete who put Cannon to shame and even made Chance look like a sloth by

comparison.

He had to get out of here, get his car, and go home. Or back to his cabin, which

was as close to home as he was going to get any time soon. His suit pants were on the

floor, and his wallet was in the pocket, shirt on the floor, underwear…He cast a frantic

glance at the gently snoring man on the bed and dropped to his knees to peer under the

bed.

Underwear.

Fuck the socks.

Fuck. Just. Fuck.

Turning his back on the bed and the spineless urge to crawl under the covers and

pretend he wasn't an adult with a logical mind, he dragged the pants on, shrugged into the

shirt, and tiptoed to the door. He winced as the old floorboards creaked, then shook

himself. The whole hotel creaked. It was ancient, and though the remodeling was well

done, the bones of the building were old and sound carried.

The whole fucking hotel probably heard him screaming in ecstasy.

Worse, at least the closest neighbors had heard him begging.

Ears burning, fingers trembling, Cannon thanked the god's that his walk of shame

was at least short as he'd been given a room just a few doors down from Finn's. He

darted into the hall and down to his room, where gathering his belongings took only a few

minutes.

He stood with it all in his arms, poised to run for it, when he remembered that he

had no car to escape in.

Dumping his clothes, coats, boots, and cold weather gear on the unused bed, he

dropped to the floor. Cannon dragged in deep breaths and squeezed his eyes shut as he

ran his fingers through his hair over and over again. He was shaking, but not from the

cold. When he'd entered the room yesterday, the first thing he'd done was turn the heat

up as high as he could. In these early morning hours, it was almost too hot for comfort.

The cell phone he'd left behind the night before beckoned him. It held the answers to all

his problems, and not just a lifeline to his friends in Atlanta.

The sun hadn't even risen yet, he needed a snow shovel to dig his car out, a taxi

to drive him to his car, and…Google could find it all for him, if he could just pull his shit

together. The bone-deep chill he hadn't been able to shake since—if he were honest, and

it seemed his voice of reason was determined to be heard today—since long before he'd

left Atlanta made him shiver. His fingers trembled, a jittery reaction not even visible to the

naked eye, but he could feel it. He held the hand out in front of himself as though to prove

it once again. Clenching the hand in a tight fist, he snorted, then chuckled darkly in the

dim room. Atlanta's finest neurosurgeon, taking a job in a teaching hospital for a

semester? Outrageous, his colleagues had declared.

His superiors had been outraged, he'd just received a promotion that most of his

peers would have killed for.

If he'd gone back into an operating room, death would have been inevitable. The

surgeon's hands that had saved lives, the hands that had crafted a career he'd sacrificed

genuine love for, had failed him.

So he ran.

And he was going to keep right the fuck on running.

Cannon pushed himself upright until he stood among the mess of his belongings.

Ignoring them all, he crossed the small patch of carpeted floor and turned on the shower.

Billows of steam rose, and he stepped gratefully into the scalding heat, immediately

ducking his head to burn away the thoughts he didn't want to think.

Ten minutes to shower the cum off his belly wasn't going to make any of that

easier to deal with, but at least it would reduce the number of reminders of his behavior

with Finn Lorensson to the ache in his ass.

And the smile that danced behind his closed eyelids while he shampooed his hair?

Well…it would fade too.

***

By the time he pulled off the highway into the Mountain Shadows driveway,

Cannon had a list of thirty-seven reasons he should have stayed in Atlanta. Over half of

them were related to snow, ice, and winter in general.

The driveway was better cleared than most of the highway, he thought bitterly,

relaxing his white-knuckled grip on the Shelby's steering wheel slightly. It hadn't taken him

long on the road, once he'd dug his car out, salted the pavement around it, and driven it

gingerly out of the university parking lot, to realize that Finn Lorensson was one hundred

percent correct.

His beloved Shelby was a death trap in these conditions.

And these conditions would kill his car.

Top of his to-do list was to buy or lease a replacement vehicle and find a garage

to winter his baby in. Better yet, he recalled the call he had in to a contractor to do some

remodeling work on his cabin. Siggy would probably be able to construct a garage

attachment to the cabin for his car. Making a mental note to bring it up at their Monday

morning meeting, he slowed down to take the curves in the drive.

The countryside had been beautiful in the photos on the website. Green and lush,

not so different from Georgia. He'd liked the idea of being out from the city. All his life

Cannon had lived in cities, lived with crowds, conveniences, crime, exhaust, and

manicured parks. Topiaries where trees were forced into balls and hedges looked like

boxes. The wild freedom of pine trees that weren't triangles and maples that glowed with

color and life had enthralled him.

So he'd taken the lease on the cabin for the duration of his visit, and he'd had no

idea what he'd been letting himself in for. A kitchen too tiny to cook in, no secured

parking, and noise.

A lot of fucking noise.

Not reassuring mechanical noise, like whirrs and hums of air conditioners and

heaters, or the clanks of medical equipment. Nope. The first night in his new place he'd

lain awake listening to scratching, crunching, skittering noises. Whistling, thumping, hissing

noises.

And it was so fucking dark.

Another project that Siggy was taking on for him. He needed an outdoor security

light, so he could park when he got home late and walk to his front door without killing

himself. Pulling into the allotted space, Cannon sighed. He was home, and it was only

noon.

Finn must have been awake for hours by now.

Stop thinking about him,

 

he ordered himself, pushing out into the cold. He

circled around to the back of the car to remove the all-weather cover he'd gotten at

AutoZone and froze. Icy cold seeped into his boots, torturing his sockless feet.

He didn't care. His gaze locked onto the strange marks, the indentations in the

snow. "Hello?" he called. There was no answer but the hushed slide of a pile of snow

falling down the roof. Cautiously, he stepped forward, keeping his keys at the ready in his

hand.

The tracks circled his A-frame cabin, darting inward at each window and then

outward, creating an odd, almost floral design. His head whipped around, Cannon noted

only a single trail of tracks from the road.

There weren't any vehicles in sight, and he couldn’t see anyone, which seemed to

indicate that…"He's in my house." Son of a bitch!

He stumbled through the snow the few steps to his car and threw himself into

gear. His heart beat loud and erratic in his ears, and all he could think of was getting to

the lodge and calling the police. Switching on the engine and grinding the gears, he

slammed the car into reverse and backed out onto the slushy road.

It purred into first gear and he sped down the road, keeping one eye on his

rearview mirror, watching for the man, the monster, to emerge from his house and follow.

Get to where there were people, call the cops…Trees blurred by, Cannon reached for

his phone, the tires hit a slick patch and he spun out, a dizzying whirl as he three-sixtied,

once, then a half turn shot him forward, burying the nose of the Shelby in a tall drift of

snow.

His head slammed forward, hitting the horn which began to blare, warm blood

trickled down his forehead. Cannon weakly pushed upright, stared blankly at the bank of

white cushioning his windshield. His cracked windshield.

He'd dug himself out already, hadn't he?

Wait…

The door was wrenched open and a hard hand closed on his arm. Cannon

turned, relaxing as he looked into familiar blue eyes. "Finn. Thank you for dinner. It was a

lovely evening." The polite words were out before he winced, remembering what he'd

done after dinner.

An impatient sigh that tweaked a memory Cannon wanted buried, a memory of a

brown-haired cop, issued from the plump red lips. He knew those lips intimately, didn't

he? "It was lovely up to a point. I agree. What the devil are you doing? Driving like a bat

heading to hell on these roads?"

Suspicion wiggled its way to the front of Cannon's mind, and he struggled briefly,

trying to wrench his arm from that tight grip. What the devil was Finn doing here? He was

supposed to be at the hotel until Sunday.

"Are you stalking me?" he blurted as soon as the obvious answer occurred to

him. "Did you break into my cabin? House?"

Blue ice shadowed the concerned eyes, and Cannon regretted his outburst until

common sense reminded him that the ability to feign emotion well was characteristic of

psychopaths. "I might ask the same of you, Cannon Malloy. But the answer is no, this is

my home. You've just conveniently wrecked your little car in my driveway, trapping us

both."

"Your home?" He glanced over Finn's shoulder to see another of the charming A-

frame cabins, much like his own only larger. "You live at Mountain Shadows?" he

repeated dumbly.

"I do. And you, my friend, need a doctor."

"I am a doctor."

"Unless you can stitch your own forehead, you need another doctor."

Cannon smiled, shifting woozily. "Well, that's okay then. You're a doctor too." He

was rather proud of that. A lot of his MD friends mocked academic degrees, but Cannon

respected anyone who could handle the intense study required for an advanced degree.

"Indeed I am, but I must confess that the sight of blood and bone does nothing

for me. And my sewing skills are limited to attaching a button." Finn insistently tugged and

pulled until Cannon stood, leaning shakily against his car.

Cannon blinked into the afternoon sun. "God, it's bright out." He raised a hand to

wipe a trickle of hot sweat from his forehead, and when it came back bloody, his gut

clenched.

"Yes," Finn murmured, wrapping an arm around his waist. "Lean into me and

we'll go inside and call Scott down at the lodge. I'd call a tow truck, but Scott has a plow

and a hitch and he can tow you out. I'll drive you to the hospital and you can get checked

over."

"You can't drive my car." Cannon concentrated on walking. Ice was tricky, he'd

learned that to his own peril the first time he'd climbed the steps to his new office.

"I wouldn't dream of it." Finn maneuvered him around to a shoveled walk that led

to the front door, painted a cherry red.

Leaning on Finn made the walk a hell of a lot easier, though. "You're easy," he

mumbled, putting one foot in front of the other.

"Thank you. You're a bit of a challenge, if you want my honest opinion."

"Honesty is best." He knew that. Had had that particular lesson hammered home

over the last year, watching his ex and his friends. "Honesty saves lives."

Chapter Four

Settling Cannon on a cane barstool at his breakfast counter, Finn grabbed his

phone and a tea towel off the polished granite countertop he'd convinced DJ and Pauline

to let him install when he'd signed the last lease. He thumbed the office number, praying

that Scott or Robby or even Jillian would be around to hear it ring.

Scott picked it up, sounding out of breath and impatient. "Scott? It's Finn

Lorensson over at…"

"I know where you are. Can I call you back? Some idiot drove into a snow drift

and is blocking a driveway and half the road and some guy has called back five times

wanting me to do something about it."

"That's why I called, actually." He dampened the towel in cool water and then

wrapped it around an ice pack. "The idiot is your latest resident, Cannon Malloy, and the

driveway in question is mine. I presume that the calls are from Rowe, who can't stand

having his routines disrupted, and, er…his escape path blocked."

Now, he had all of Scott's attention. "What can I do?"

"Can you bring the truck and help me get his car out? He's going to need stitches

and I think he might have a concussion." He passed the makeshift ice pack to Cannon

who stared at it blankly until Finn ripped it out of his hands and pressed it to his forehead.

Cannon flinched and winced and whimpered, but held the pack in place when

Finn pressed his hand over it. "I need to call the police." He stared at Finn, who shook his

head.

"No police, Cannon. You don't want to mess with paperwork over an accident

that's all your own fault."

"Call an ambulance. I’m on my way." Scott's voice dragged his attention back to

the phone.

Finn sighed. "Scott, I've got a hell of a lot more experience driving up here than

the ambulance, and I can get him to the hospital a lot faster. The last ambulance that came

up here had to be towed. If we can unblock my driveway, I'll take him in."

"Okay. I'm on my way."

"Scott?" he called before the other man could hang up.

"Yeah?" That harsh impatience was back. The cold must be hell on the man's

injury.

"Can you bring Jillian? I need someone to watch him while I dig the car out."

The line went dead just as Cannon threw up all over Finn's countertop.

"Faen," he swore softly as a startled expression crossed Cannon's face.

"Cannon? Here, let me help you."

***

Cannon docilely allowed Finn to lead him to the bathroom, which really wasn't

big enough for two tall men. No way could he get Cannon upstairs to the much larger en

suite in his loft bedroom.

"Finn?" Cannon's voice was small and worried.

Pausing in wiping the man's face, Finn tipped his chin up. "What is it?"

"I really don't feel very well."

"I know." He kissed Cannon's cheek lightly, then returned to wiping the vomit

and blood from his chin and forehead, respectively. "Here, let me have that."

Cannon surrendered the ice pack and sat blinking in the bathroom's incandescent

light. His skin was clammy and pale, but he'd been fairly white when Finn had seen his

whole naked body—Finn shuddered at the memory—last night. The bleeding was slow

and sluggish, and it was possible that the injury wasn't as bad as Finn had first thought.

The vomiting and clammy skin, though, were cause for concern.

"Okay, Cannon? Look at me." Deep blue eyes blinked at him hazily. "I'm going

to take your shirt off, and then I have some butterfly bandages in a first-aid kit upstairs.

I'll get you a clean shirt, and then I'll tape you up. You stay here."

Cannon nodded, his throat worked as he swallowed, and Finn glanced around

frantically. Finding the plastic trash can tucked into a corner between the sink and the

shower, he grabbed it and plopped it into Cannon's lap. "There. Now, if you feel like

throwing up, go ahead. Don't fight it."

"No fighting, okay. But, Finn, he's in my house. He shouldn't be in my house."

"Who? Never mind." Standing upright, Finn backed out of the tiny space and

tried to reassure Cannon. "I'll take care of it. Don't worry, okay?"

He jogged up the narrow stairs at a faster than safe pace and had to check

himself from stumbling at the top. A bright red sweatshirt with a glittery white snowflake

on top of a stack he'd intended to donate to a local charity caught his eye and he grabbed

it. His brother had given it to him for Christmas a few years back, a joke between the

two of them. It would keep Cannon warm.

As he headed to the cabinet where his medicinals and linens were stored, he cast

a quick glance out the windows. Scott should be here soon, and the sooner they got

Cannon to a hospital ER the better.

The trip down was faster than up as he missed the first step entirely and slid

down the rest on his ass, bumping and thumping and probably achieving a spectacular

case of rug burn. He regained his footing and lurched to the bathroom, jerking his sweater

down and his jeans out of his crack as he went.

Cannon was where he'd been left, leaning over and holding his head in his hands,

staring into the trash can and muttering to himself, "Why does this shit keep happening to

me?"

"You drive like a maniac?" Finn offered, setting the sweatshirt on the narrow

counter and the first-aid kit on top of it.

"I am a very good driver, actually. But I meant the stalker. He's not the first one."

Suddenly Cannon clutched Finn's arm and jerked upright. "Unless he is the same one. Oh

my god, Finn, what if he followed me to Flagstaff?"

"Then we'll vanquish his ass back to Atlanta. Tilt your head back. Jesus. Cannon,

you dripped blood…" Sighing, realizing he was expecting too much, Finn eased Cannon

back until his head rested on the wall and reached for a washcloth. He wet the soft

terrycloth in warm water and dabbed the new streams of blood from the injury. "Okay.

Hold these." He passed the packet of bandages to Cannon, who gripped them so tightly

the cardboard box crumpled. Shaking his head, Finn began opening little packets and

applying the tiny butterfly strips in short intervals over the wound. It took about eight

before he was satisfied that the skin would stay in place. "There."

"Done?" Cannon's voice sounded stronger, more focused.

Finn glanced down and saw that the man was watching him. Unable to resist,

even after having been ditched like six-day-old, leftover Thai food, he kissed the pinched

lips. "Almost. I'm going to cover it with gauze and a couple of these." He held up two

large, square Band-Aids.

"That should do until we get to the ER." Cannon started to nod, but the

movement was aborted with a wince.

Sympathetically, Finn patted his shoulder. "Would you like some aspirin? I'd offer

you a shot of good whisky, but I think you might have a concussion."

"I'd love a shot of whisky, but I think you might be right about the concussion,

which rules out the aspirin as well I'm afraid."

Finn stilled. "I did not know that."

"It makes the bruising worse. But if you have Tylenol?" Cannon's lips twisted in a

wry, self-deprecating grin. "Not that I'm a prize to look at, anyway, but…"

"Nope, sorry, no Tylenol. But nothing. You're feeling better if you can fish for

compliments." Finn finished applying the last bandage and rose to his feet, wincing. He

made a mental note to add Tylenol to his electronic grocery list. He had his own bruising

to worry about.

Cannon's eyes narrowed in concern, another sign that his senses were returning?

"Are you okay?"

"Fine. I slipped on the stairs is all." He held out the red sweatshirt. "Here you go.

Sorry, your coats and things were covered in blood and vomit, but you can wear this for

now. It seemed appropriate."

The doorbell rang, and he spun on his heels, but not before he got a look at

Cannon's face as he caught the word "special" on the back of the sweatshirt. Finn grinned

slyly to himself as he went to open the door to Jillian. Would Cannon appreciate the

joke? Or would his arrogance lead to him taking it as an insult? "Hi, Jilly. Thanks for

coming over. The patient is back in the bathroom. Can you find it?"

"Sure I can." With a small smile the brunette turned and walked down the hall to

the bathroom.

Finn grabbed his hat and gloves from their pegs and listened as he donned his

cold weather gear.

"What does that mean? What did he mean by that?" His question was answered

as he heard the man's querulous voice in the background.

"It means your attitude is wrong. Like you think you deserve praise or whatever

by virtue of your existence, though I would guess, since it's his shirt, it's Finn's attitude

that's in question." Jillian's answer was just as clear, and Finn smothered his chuckles as

he reached the front entryway.

"I've never heard that before." Cannon's voice carried from the bathroom easily.

"I imagine he picked it up from the students at the college." Jillian's soothing tone

came in response.

Through the front window where he'd left the drapes opened to capture the

winter sun, he caught a glimpse of Scott, standing, arms akimbo, staring at the sports car

buried to the windshield in a six foot drift of snow.

He realized he was whistling when Jillian smiled her timid smile, before glancing

over his shoulder. "Scott said you needed me?"

"Just need someone to keep an eye on my guy while I help Scott dig the car out.

***

The hazel-eyed man stood, hands on his hips, cursing. He looked narrow-eyed at

Finn. "That is a goddamned shame to do to such a beautiful car."

Nodding solemnly, Finn indicated the snow shovel he'd kept by his front step

since October. "It is. I warned him about driving out in the countryside, but…" He

shrugged. "What's done is done. Should I shovel or are we going to just hitch it up?"

"I'm going to be completely honest with you, Finn. I am freezing my ass off out

here and my leg doesn't like this weather. I'm opting for the fastest possible extraction,

which in my book is hooking it up and dragging it out." Scott nodded shortly, grimacing

as he swung away to climb into his truck.

While the resort owner backed his truck up and back in a multi-part turn

complicated by the tall snow drifts, Finn used the shovel to scrape snow away from the

vehicle, hoping to ease the inconvenience for Scott, who he couldn't help noticing still

limped. When the truck was turned around, Finn tossed his shovel aside.

Hooking up the sports car to the winch was simple enough. They worked in

companionable silence, threading the chains around the axle and behind the bumper of the

Shelby. When the car was secured, Finn exchanged rueful glances with Scott. "He's

gonna need a new paint job."

Scott snorted, lips twisting in a grimace. "I've seen worse. He's lucky if a paint

job and a new windshield are the extent of the damages. Why in the fuck would anyone

not used to these road conditions be driving like that? He had to be doing sixty to get

himself buried under there that far."

Frowning, Finn studied the car. "He said something about someone in his house. I

think. It's hard to say, he's awfully confused, perhaps concussed, and wasn't making

much sense."

"I'll check it out." Scott didn't sound pleased by the option, and Finn shook his

head.

"We've been enough trouble. I'll do it. They're probably going to want to keep

him for observation overnight at the hospital, so when I get back, I'll go over there and

see. I can tell you there wasn't any traffic on this road between the last plow you did and

when I arrived home today."

"Why'd he come this way, anyway? You're the last house out here."

Finn shrugged. "I don't think he was coming to see me.

 

It seemed to me, he was

just running from something."

"I don't like the sound of this. We had some trouble with another tenant, had to

evict him. He's a really nasty customer. Maybe you remember him? Carl? If he's still

hanging around…"

"Yeah, he's a sorry excuse for a human being. You'd think a man who had

everything…beautiful partner, child, all this…" He shook his head. The world wouldn't

need princes if there weren't so many villains. "I think Cannon's imagining things, honestly.

I'll check it out."

"If you find anything, anything at all, do me a favor and call me or Robby. I'd like

to avoid trouble with the police. Now"—Scott brushed his hands together and studied the

Shelby—"are we ready to put our handiwork to the test?"

Finn nodded. "Go ahead and back up slowly. Raise it even slower as you go."

He caught Scott's amused glance and grinned. "My apologies. You've done this before?"

"Sort of. You?"

"He's not the first idiot to drive too fast on this road. Nor the first to slide into a

snow drift."

 

Just the first one I've cared about.

 

"Not all of them are this lucky. There

was a couple, a few years back, some young people from the college who DJ and

Pauline rented one of the smaller cabins to for a weekend. Went off the road between my

place and Rowe's, with no real reason to be on the private loop in the first place. Maybe

they missed the signpost. No one found them for about three days, until the blizzard

ended." He shuddered. That hadn't been one of the resort's finer moments. Rowe never

came out, so he didn't notice them. Finn had been sick with the flu, so he never knew. By

the time the kids were found, hypothermia had claimed one of their lives and the other

one, the girl, had died in the hospital a day or two later. "Cannon was damned lucky he

went off here and not somewhere else."

"I hope he appreciates it. I'll take this thing to the garage at the lodge so it isn't

blocking the road. When he's alert enough to arrange a tow truck to take it to the

mechanic, let me know."

Chapter Five

Monday morning arrived too soon for Cannon's convenience. He hadn't managed

to bury his embarrassment over the weekend's events yet, and he had no choice but to

face Scott, and possibly even Finn, who he'd avoided at the hospital on Sunday by

checking himself out against medical advice and taking a taxi to a hotel, not the charming

Weatherford, but a dubious little mom and pop motel on Route 66 that smelled of

lavender and bubblegum and had sheets like sandpaper. The proprietor had been kind,

and the room warm, and he'd been lucky to get it as skiers had been flooding the area in

the wake of the recent "powder accumulation".

He couldn't avoid Finn forever, but he needed time to settle his nerves and figure

out how to explain himself to the man. How fucking bad was his luck lately that his one-

night stand turned out to be not just a colleague from the university—that was bad enough

in retrospect, but he'd figured they wouldn't meet much on campus—but also a close

neighbor? He'd known the name Finn sounded familiar, and maybe pretending to

remember why hadn't been his smartest move, but he'd been lust-blinded that night at the

Weatherford, there just wasn't any other explanation for how he could have failed to put

together what Finn was saying and realize that of course he lived at Mountain Shadows if

he answered the phone there. Who else would the owners ask to look out for the place

but a resident?

He'd asked the bleary-eyed desk clerk for a wakeup call at the crack of dawn,

gulped a gallon of foul 7-Eleven coffee and met a car dealer at a Subaru lot by eight. By

nine, he'd driven off the lot with more confidence in a newly leased four-wheel drive

behemoth of a vehicle. It responded well, but sitting up high after driving the Shelby

exclusively for

 

so

 

long made him feel like a hippo in a tutu.

Finn Lorensson was right though. He felt immeasurably safer driving this car. The

roads didn't seem anywhere near as dangerous, though he couldn't bring himself to break

forty on the highway and slowed to a near crawl when he took the Mountain Shadows's

exit.

The closer he got to the resort the faster his heartbeat, and he couldn’t tell what it

was that created the reaction. Take your pick, he sneered at the white-faced man in the

rearview mirror. The return to the scene of the accident would be traumatic, seeing the

damage to his beloved car, going to his house and finding…

Surely to god if someone were in there they'd have gone by now?

He breathed a sigh of relief when the lodge came into view and pulled into the dirt

lot. It was well cleared, and the lodge appeared as welcoming as it had on the day he'd

picked up his key two weeks ago. God, was it

 

only

 

two weeks?

Cannon checked his watch. Ten-fifteen. He was

 

only

 

a few minutes late, and

judging by the huge, penis-compensation truck boasting of "Siggy's Reconstruction", his

appointment was still there. Good. Taking his contractor down to the cabin would get him

out of the lodge quickly.

Turning off the truck’s engine, he jumped down, wincing at the landing. His head

ached, of course, from its contact with the steering wheel. It was the aches and pains in

his other muscles that had surprised him.

Crossing to the front door of the lodge, he already missed those damned heated

seats. It was the first thing he'd asked for, the one thing he'd insisted on at the dealership,

in addition to four-wheel drive. He opened the front door and stepped inside, grateful for

the warmth of a cheerful fire. Cannon stamped his feet to throw off as much of the wet as

he could before crossing the neatly polished flagstone.

"Could you remove your boots please?" The sweet voice was familiar, and

Cannon glanced around the room until he found Jillian, the woman Finn had called to

babysit him, standing by a small cart with coffee, bowls of individual creamers, and piles

of napkins. They were supposed to have met before that, when he checked in and picked

up the keys, he recalled, but she'd called at the last moment, telling him she had an

emergency and the keys would be under the doormat. Her gaze traveled from him to the

right, and he followed it to find a stark white, hand-printed sign advising visitors to

remove their boots.

"Jillian?" Her round, womanly figure and brown highlighted hair were familiar, but

he asked anyway, just to be sure. His memories of the events directly after the accident

were vague, somewhat jumbled, but the pale round cheeks and dark brown eyes had to

be familiar for a reason.

"Hello, Dr. Malloy. How are you feeling?" She smiled, but her eyes had turned

dark, and her movements became stiff. "Your guest is in the dining room. I was just

taking some fresh coffee in."

Cannon bent awkwardly, biting off his groan at the way his stiff muscles

protested, to remove his boots one by one. As soon as his feet hit the stone floor, he

sighed in relief. It was warm and toasty, not cold as he'd expected. "Oh, that feels good."

The smile he gave Jillian wasn't the least bit forced, and that was a rarity these days. He'd

been faking emotions for so long, reality felt like a bit of a shock.

You weren't faking it Friday night.

 

He ignored that voice of reason again, and

with the damp leather in hand, checked quickly for a place to put them and discovered

another pair, rugged, steel-toed work boots obviously belonging to his contractor,

parked on a rough-looking green doormat. He set his own boots next to the others and

followed Jillian into the dining room.

A bulky, burly-looking man in an off-white craftsman's coverall, with piercing

blue eyes, a smiling mouth, and rosy cheeks sat in a spindly chair, tipped back with his

stocking feet braced on the table. He talked and laughed softly into a phone. The man

held up a finger and quirked a pale blond brow at Cannon before speaking. "Okay, bro. I

have to go. My client has arrived. I'll come out and see you as soon as I'm done with

him."

"Kindly remove your feet from my clean table!" Jillian barked the order, then

shuddered and turned, fleeing the room.

Siggy rose to his feet, frowning after the departing woman. "Damn. I wish she

wouldn't do that."

"What?" Cannon turned back; he had his suspicions about Jillian's odd mood

changes, the way her efforts at standing up for herself seemed to be followed by timidity

or unease. Maybe he was jumping to conclusions, but he'd seen enough traumatized

people in his twenty years as a medical professional to recognize post-traumatic stress

when he saw it. And maybe he was deflecting? Attributing Jillian with his own feelings

because hers were easier for him to deal with? That might be some of it, he excused

himself, but twice in ten minutes he'd seen her react the same way, like a mouse roaring at

a lion before skittering off.

"Run away." Shaking his head, he turned back to Cannon and held out a blunt,

work-roughened hand. "Hi. I'm Siggy Lorensson, you have to be Dr. Malloy."

"Cannon," he murmured vaguely. Fuck. The man was an incredible contrast to

the suave, sophisticated, wool-suit wearing Dagfinnr Lorensson. "Are you…er…related

to Finn?" What were the odds? Wicked Q. Templeton would have laughed his ass off by

now at how Cannon was stepping from frying pans to puddles to piles of steaming shit.

"My brother." He laughed and threw up his hands in a hold off gesture. "Please,

whatever he did, whoever he failed, don't hold it against me! My big brother is frequently

a pain in the ass, but I assure you, I am the best contractor in this area, licensed, bonded,

and…sober."

Blinking, Cannon assessed that. His instinct was to avoid anything even remotely

associated with Finn Lorensson, at least until he'd recovered his equilibrium from their

encounter. But he didn't have time to find another contractor. "Okay. I gave you a little bit

of an idea of what I want done, but I've added to the list since. I need a heated garage

built onto the cabin in addition to the kitchen enlargement." He gulped, thinking back over

the events of the previous day. "I also want a security light, really bright, outside, so I can

see, and an internet tower. Can you do all that?"

"Whoa!" Siggy shook his head. "Slow down there. That is a lot of work, and

some of it isn't even possible. Why don't we get a cup of this coffee that Jillian made, sit

down, and talk this through slowly?"

Impatiently, Cannon checked his watch. "I only have off until noon. I was

supposed to be at work today, but I needed to meet you, so…" He sighed at the

stubborn expression on the man's face. "Can you get your coffee to go?"

Siggy nodded. "I'll just take a cup and drop it back off before I go. To be honest,

I'd love the chance to talk to Jillian again, apologize for being so…. Frankly, I don’t even

know what I did to set her off."

Rolling his eyes, Cannon replied, "Feet on the table. Germs, disrespect, you're

big, loud, and happy, and she's terrified of all of those things right now." Frustrated with

his rising voice and the nearness of his emotions to the surface, Cannon clamped his lips

shut and ground his teeth. "I used to be married, have two boys in college now. Trust

me…apologize for putting your feet on the table she obviously cleaned, and let the rest

go."

"Okay." Siggy held up a thick white mug with the lodge's logo. "I’m all set. Let's

drive on down to your place. I can tell you before we get there though that the bright

security light is out of the question."

"So is remodeling the kitchen and building a garage." The gritty voice made

Cannon start, and he turned to find a big, scowling man blocking the door of the dining

room.

"Says who?" he demanded, eying the man suspiciously. Was this the person

who'd been in his place?

"The owner."

"Nice try, moose, but I have permission from the owners to treat the place like

my own home. And at my own home, I have a garage to keep my car, a light to scare off

intruders, and a kitchen big enough to cook more than a microwave dinner in."

"Well." Siggy smiled blandly at the man in the doorway. "The security light is

actually against local ordinances. Flagstaff is a 'dark town'. The night sky views are

incredible. Bright lights destroy the effect. You can see the Milky Way from the top of the

hill over there…"

"And one measly security light will destroy the view?"

"One light leads to more lights, and the more lights, the less visibility."

"Well, something has to be done! It's dangerous to be out here. There was an

intruder at my place the other day." His heart pounded just thinking about those strange

footprints in the freshly fallen snow. "What does city ordinance allow?" He had enough

experience of homeowners’ associations in Georgia to know there was no point fighting

that.

"I doubt that there was anyone out there."

Scowling, Cannon turned from Siggy to the man in the doorway. His temper

slipped. "Who the fuck are you again?"

"I'm Scott McGregor, owner of Mountain Shadows lodge. The guy who towed

your car out of a snowdrift so your boyfriend could take you to the hospital, and capable

of breaking your lease without a thirty day notice if you don't change your fucking

attitude. As you would know if you hadn't been avoiding me the last two weeks. I've left

you plenty of messages."

Oh god. Cannon bit his lip, humiliation and embarrassment at his own behavior

escalating as the man limped into the room. He did, quite clearly, recall half listening to

messages and planning to deal with them later, as soon as he got his feet under him. It

was just that between the move, the weather, and the total chaos of trying to adjust to

teaching instead of doing, later hadn't ever arrived. "I…"

"I don't know what you think DJ and Pauline told you, but no alterations are

permitted to the original cabins. There are structural issues involved."

"That's what I was going to tell him," Siggy inserted. "A little more diplomatically."

He smiled at Cannon and shrugged. "Those A-frames, they're tricky little bitches."

A gasp from doorway drew all their attention. Jillian was backing out, Cannon

barely caught a glimpse of her before she was gone.

"Awesome." Siggy groaned. "She's never going to give me the fucking time of day

now."

Scott gave Siggy a dirty glare. "If you expect to be doing much work around here

at all, you'd best clean up your language. No structural alterations, Malloy. Paint, yes.

Plant some flowers, go for it. Nothing that can't be undone when you leave in six months."

Siggy swung on him. "Six months?"

"I only have a temporary post at the university."

"Dude, I wouldn't even be finished with a garage for six months!"

His cheeks were burning with embarrassment, his body ached from the impact

yesterday, and…shaking his head, Cannon recovered the Southern manners he'd been

raised with. He held out a trembling hand to the proprietor. "Can we start over here? I'm

overreacting and off balance, and the reasons aren't related to anything that's happened

here. It's all baggage I brought with me from Atlanta."

Scott unhesitatingly clasped his hand and nodded. "We'll let it all go, and I'll see

what I can do for you in regards to better security and a larger kitchen, if you'll come to

my office. I have to sit down."

Chapter Six

"Okay, Siggy. Come when you're done with your client. I'll make pancakes, just

like mom used to. I have one thing to do." He grabbed his red, rabbit fur lined, wool knit

hat from a peg by the front door. "But it shouldn't take long. If I'm not here when you get

here, you know where the key is."

His brother hung up, and Finn continued pulling on his cold weather gear. With

the Under Armour he wore constantly in the winter, all he needed was a short wool blend

pea coat over his jeans and cashmere sweater. The smooth buttery leather gloves were

more for the sensual pleasure they gave him than anything else. His hands would be just

as warm in his pockets for the short walk to Cannon's A-frame.

A pair of Sorel boots completed his black and red ensemble, and Finn didn't

even question why he was making such a fuss over his appearance. Cannon had ditched

him at the hospital, checking himself out AMA while Finn had been home, making

arrangements for him. The idiot was probably at campus right now, meeting with his staff

or terrorizing interns when he should be home in bed resting.

And as long as there was a small chance that Cannon was home in bed, then Finn

was going to do his best to look like Prince Charming, even if Cannon's rendition of

Snow White lacked something. Smiling wryly, he acknowledged the error of trying to see

Cannon Malloy as a princess. Grumpy the dwarf, maybe but he couldn’t quite see Snow

White ditching Prince Charming not once, but twice. No, that was Cinderella, and even

that hadn't even been her own doing. Poor girl had to leave at midnight or her ride would

turn into a pumpkin and her dress to rags.

Cannon…that was all choice. The first time he'd had no ride or rags to consider.

He'd just run, and given the emotional intensity of the night, maybe Finn could excuse

that. He could certainly understand it and work with it. Winning the fair princess, er…

grumpy dwarf, wasn't worthwhile if it wasn't challenging, was it?

That second time, when Finn returned to the hospital to pick Cannon up the

morning after he had been admitted for observation, only to find Cannon had checked

himself out…that he found a little harder to forgive. It seemed a lot more deliberate. After

all, once you'd cleaned up another man's vomit, you should get some privileges, shouldn't

you?

Thoughts of Cannon occupied his mind all the way to the cabin, where he paused

at the side of the drive, which Scott had done a fabulous job of keeping plowed. Finn

stopped in the roadway and stared at the house. Somewhat smaller than his own, it was

neat, the drapes drawn against invasion of privacy. The front patio needed to be

shoveled, and he made a note to come back and do that after his afternoon online course

discussion was over.

His eyes narrowed as he followed the lines of the shrubs and the house. There

really were strange footprints all around Cannon's cabin. That didn't surprise Finn.

Cannon was odd, but not an idiot. What surprised Finn wasn't the footprints themselves,

but the fact that they led from the road to the door as Cannon had indicated, then seemed

to circle the house, darting in here and there as though the person who'd made them was

peeking in the windows. But they never came back.

Maybe Cannon was right. Maybe someone had broken in and was still in the

house?

He knelt in the snow to examine the indentations. One trail of elongated circles,

not egg shaped, like pointy toes and heels, but just curved edges back and front. Looking

more closely, he realized that the footprints were odd, because whoever had made them

had walked back to the road by stepping in his own tracks…

Smart.

Rising, he glanced cautiously around. No vehicle tracks in the slushy residue of

Scott's plowing. How had the unwelcome visitor managed? Through the tight trees a hint

of glass and gray caught his eye. Hmm…

Crossing the road, he ambled down, sighing in relief and resignation when he

found what he'd suspected, a good hundred feet down the road from Cannon's place.

The same plodding footprints led across the expanse of snow to the cabin that had long

housed Finn's closest and most mysterious neighbor.

Rowen Smithe.

At least he was harmless. Mostly.

Fancying himself as St. George setting out to slay dragons, Finn stepped into

Rowen's boot prints and followed the wavering trail back to the man's cabin. He felt

compelled to talk to Rowen because it would set Cannon's mind at ease to know he

wasn't being stalked, but he also couldn't deny the inevitable curiosity that he had long felt

toward the man.

He'd moved in less than a year after Finn, in the dark of night. Finn's initial efforts

at being neighborly and introducing himself had been ignored, until one day the door he

hammered on cracked open and a husky voice whispered, "Go the fuck away."

It was a start, and after several years, they'd come to a reluctant understanding.

Rowen would answer the door and have a cup of coffee…that he made himself, never

one that Finn brought him, once every two or three months. He'd answer Finn's efforts at

conversation with monosyllables or clipped one-liners, then when fifteen minutes were up,

he'd announce, "Bout fucking time you went home, isn't it?" and disappear through his

own door.

If Finn tried to visit more often, he got the cold shoulder.

He'd visited last month. Christmas Eve afternoon. Tried to give Rowen a

fruitcake he'd baked. And yes, there it was, still sitting on the front porch just where Finn

had left it. Sighing, he brushed snow off the gilt wrapping paper and knocked on the

door.

***

Rocking on his heels, he waited a few minutes then knocked again.

This time, he didn't wait, just called out as loud as he could. "Rowe, I know

you're in there! Come on, we need to talk."

A curtain twitched but the door didn't open.

"I saw that. Come on, it's me. You didn't spend five minutes with me last month, I

can't be back too soon. And this is serious."

Something skittered in his line of vision, and Finn glanced to the left, seeing a

large orange tabby cat darting into the woods. He laughed a bit at his own jumpiness.

"Are you taking in pets now, Rowe?" Deliberately, knowing that Rowe would find it

annoying, Finn kept talking. "Siggy got a cat too. A big black monstrosity that just moved

into his truck one day when he was on a job site. The guy he was working for said he'd

never seen it before, so Sig named it Hershey and it lives in his truck of all places."

He grabbed a broom and began sweeping snow off the two Adirondack chairs

on the front porch. "I told him he was nuts, but he said it gets lonely working out of your

car, and you know Siggy. Well, maybe you don't, but I swear you'd like him."

"I do."

Finn sighed and sank into one of the cleared chairs. "You've got that silent

movement thing down like a ninja."

Six foot of mussed up nerdy, hazel-eyed, glasses-wearing conspiracy theorist sat

in the chair next to him. "What's serious?"

"Did you go over to the new guy's place?"

Rowe stiffened and chewed his lower lip. "What if I did?"

"Why?" He waited, rubbing his gloved hands over the stitches in the hem of his

pea coat.

Rowe stared at him. "His car is too loud and he yells too much."

"He's scared." When he said the words, he knew they were true. "When he saw

your prints, he was so scared, he drove his car into a snow drift by my place."

"I think he's one of them."

Wryly ignoring the blatant accusation—after all Rowe had never explained

exactly who the mysterious and all encompassing "they" were, in all these years—he

explained who Cannon was. "He's a neurosurgeon on sabbatical to work at the university

for six months, Rowe. He's all right. But you have to stay away from there or he'll call the

cops."

"I didn't hurt him."

Sighing, Finn pushed himself upright and stared down at the awkward, closed in

man he'd struggled to befriend. "He hurt himself, but it was kind of your fault, you know?

I just wanted to let you know. Also, I have a dozen new books for you, but I didn’t bring

them with me today because I didn't know I was coming."

Rowe darted from the chair to the doorway, and hovered near the door, his eyes

focused on Finn intently. "You're leaving? I didn't say you had to go."

Puzzled, Finn frowned for a moment. Then he realized he'd broken their pattern,

usually he waited and talked until Rowe threw him out. "Sorry, my friend, my baby

brother is expecting me to be at home to make him pancakes any moment, and after that

I have to tell Cannon that you didn’t mean to scare him. You're welcome to join me?" He

threw out the invitation, knowing it would be refused, as all others had been in the past.

"Tell him to watch out for the lights from the west."

"You got it."

Finn waved, but the door was already shut. He followed the footprints back to

the road and headed for his place. Siggy would already be there by now, hopefully with a

fresh pot of coffee.

Maybe one day he'd just stop asking and go ahead and bring Siggy over. Rowe

already admitted to liking Sig, probably based on all the stories Finn had told him over

the years, so…perhaps better to ask forgiveness than permission in this instance?

His phone vibrated, and he answered it without checking. "Lorensson."

"You had him help dig you out of a snow drift? Are you crazy, thoughtless, or just

criminally selfish?"

"Rob?"

"Yeah. I thought you understood, Lorensson, that Scott's been through a hell of a

lot in the last few months. His recovery is far from complete, and he should not be

overexerting himself!"

"He was limping a little, but…"

"But nothing! The doctor has not authorized a clean bill of health, and since he

spent all that time working outside it's even worse. I've a good mind to go over there and

kick your ass."

Pausing on his doorstep, Finn noted Siggy's truck in the drive next to his own

Volvo. "Please don't. I'm sorry. When the car hit the drift and I saw the blood on

Cannon's face, I called the lodge. I spoke to the first person who answered."

"It didn't occur to you to ask for me?"

"To be honest, no. I just needed to get Cannon to the emergency room as quickly

as possible."

"I’m going to give you my personal cell number. In the future, call me, not the

main office."

"I…" Angry voices in the background cut Finn off, and he waited patiently on his

own doorstep for just a moment. When it became clear that neither Rob, nor Scott, who

seemed to take exception to his friend's intervention, remembered his presence, he

disconnected the call and entered the house.

"Siggy?" The rich aroma of fresh brewed coffee greeted Finn, and he began the

ritual of removing his cold weather gear and hanging it on its selection of pegs by the

door. "Make me a cup, would you?"

"Already done, bro." The rumble of bass that was his brother's voice came from

the kitchen nook.

Finn tugged off his boots and padded over in his stocking feet. He accepted a

mug of fragrant coffee doctored with vanilla and cinnamon, just the way he liked it.

"Thank you." A quick glance around showed that Siggy had not only made coffee, he'd

started a batch of the fabulous Swedish pancakes their mother had made for them since

they were old enough to eat solid food. "And thank you for that as well."

"You want to take over?" Siggy waved a spatula at him.

"No, you go right ahead." Ingrid Lorensson had raised her boys to be

independent, to cook and clean for themselves. Siggy's talents in the kitchen were the

equal of Finn's. "Did you find the apples?"

"I got it covered. I have to tell you about the client I met this morning. You aren't

going to believe what he wanted me to do."

"I thought you wanted me to tell you the story of my fabulous date Friday night?"

Finn stretched out his toes and glanced at the window over the sink. A fat black cat sat

on the ledge, nose pressed to the glass, eyes glinting at him. "I think Hershey wants in."

Siggy glanced over. "Nah. He wants pickled herring."

"You feed your cat pickled herring?"

Siggy shrugged. "He likes it. You got any?"

"I have some fresh fish. I planned to make up a batch this afternoon after my

class. Will he eat that?" He tipped his head doubtfully at the beast on the windowsill.

"Try it. And we can trade stories like we used to when we were kids."

Chapter Seven

His heartbeat was a bit fast, his fingers a little more shaky than usual. Cannon

turned off the engine and stared at the A-frame nestled far back in the trees. The cheerful

red door beckoned him, reminding him of Finn when he'd first seen him in the university

parking lot, all black wool and red knit.

"You can do this," he muttered to himself, releasing the catch on his seatbelt. A

week had passed, a week of fortunately mild weather, during which Cannon had stopped

avoiding Finn Lorensson and started actually looking for him. He hoped that he could

mend fences with his neighbor with a heartfelt apology and some genuine gratitude. He

also thought it would be easier if he just bumped into Finn somewhere public to get those

words out that needed to be said without further embarrassing himself…by jumping the

man and ravaging him or something. His dreams and daydreams had been haunted by

images of the denim-clad Finn tending his injury, cleaning up his vomit. The tenderness of

his touches and the gentleness of his concern etched on his face…those things were true

memories, not confusion from the mild concussion he'd suffered. Those things made him

feel like an even bigger jerk for running out on Finn, twice, than he'd felt before. They

also turned him on. He just couldn’t trust himself to be alone with Professor Lorensson

dressed casually. It was hard enough to resist the sexy professor in a wool suit in public.

But it was time. He'd gone to the lodge office twice to consult with Scott

McGregor about options for improving the security at his cabin. Turned out the best

option was relocating to an entirely new cabin. The new one was significantly larger and

had the added advantage, or disadvantage, of being closest to Finn Lorensson's place.

Both times he'd seen the contractor's truck at the lodge and exchanged friendly banter

with the man. Siggy had never mentioned his brother though, and Cannon was too

ashamed of his behavior to bring Finn into it. He couldn’t quite see explaining to the

good-humored craftsman that he'd had a one-night stand with his brother and then

walked out on him. He didn't even like thinking about the way he'd felt that night.

Giving up on bumping into Finn at the lodge office, he'd checked the staff parking

lot upon arrival and departure at campus every day with no luck. He'd even cruised the

Zane Grey bar at the Weatherford on Saturday night. Finn wasn't there either.

Cannon had consulted Rory and Chance, and despite their thinly veiled laughter,

confessed his sins. Rory told him exactly what he'd expected: "Be persistent." Chance

told him to quit trying to engineer a casual meeting and knock on the guy's door.

So here he was, on Sunday morning, with an offering of peace, hoping to

apologize for his behavior and thank Finn for being his savior. Cannon glanced at the

passenger side seat of his new SUV. If gas station roses could be considered appropriate

for anything, it was a sordid apology for acting like an asshat.

He'd wanted a brilliant bouquet of flowers, the sort of FTD non-descript stuff that

you could order online or at any florist, but he'd waited too late. The flower shop was

closed, the grocery store boasted only a few wilted blooms in cellophane wrapping with

yellow ducks on them.

Showing up empty-handed seemed wrong, but he wasn't sure the fiery red and

orange blooms that he'd picked up while paying for his gas were appropriate either. What

kind of message did roses convey? Probably not gratitude. Still, carrying the roses would

keep his hands occupied, and if they were occupied carrying flowers, they wouldn't

clench on Finn's shoulders and drag him into Cannon's body, wouldn't hold him captive

for a kiss or touch him in places that were entirely inappropriate for an apology.

"You can do this," he repeated more firmly. Snatching up the roses in one hand,

he stepped out of the car. The sun disappeared behind a cloud, and he looked up warily

to gauge the cause. He wasn't prepared for another epic snowfall.

Sure enough, fuzzy gray clouds obscured the sun, and an icy wind picked up.

Ruefully, Cannon looked down at his wool suit and highly polished dress shoes. So much

for looking sophisticated and attractive. The first flakes of snow fell as he walked up the

path, stinging his eyes and making his lashes heavy.

Cannon sighed and knocked on the door, resigned to getting sopping wet while

he talked. The puffy down coat he'd eschewed for the occasion at least had the

advantage of being waterproof. So much for vanity.

The door opened to reveal a denim- and sweater-clad Finn, unsmiling. His broad

shoulders blocked the way in, and Cannon was left to wonder if he'd come at an

awkward moment. "Cannon, I wondered if you would approach or just…"

"I…" His gaze met Finn's blue eyes, cool and reserved, and he flinched. He'd

earned that distance, he supposed. "I looked for you this week."

An ironic, pale brow flicked upward. "I'm not hard to find if you want me. My

car in the drive announces my comings and goings quite well."

"I didn't come here. I looked…down at the lodge and on campus." In the face of

Finn's narrowing eyes, he had no choice but to duck his head and accept his cowardice.

"I…wanted to talk to you in public."

A warm hand closed on his, prying the flowers gently from his grasp and tugging

him over the threshold. "Going out isn't a good idea in this weather. And thank you. No

one has ever brought me flowers before."

"They haven't?" Cannon blindly followed Finn into a warm, vibrant home. Newly

wise to the ways of the weather, he kicked off his Ferragamo loafers and nudged them

over to dry on a floor mat under a series of pegs. He was pleased to see that among the

garments hanging there was a puffy down coat nearly identical to the one he'd worn at

their first meeting. "So you do get cold," he blurted as he peeled off his own wool blend

trench coat.

Finn laughed and took the navy blue garment from his hand, draping it over a

spare peg. "You thought I didn't? But for the grace of Under Armour, I'd be bundled in

so many layers you'd have to peel me like an onion to see the color of my shorts."

"That's…" The words stumbled to a halt as Cannon was sidetracked by visual

images of a wickedly smiling Finn stripping off layer after layer of clothing in an erotic

tease just for him. "I…Someone must have brought you flowers before."

"Not really." Finn directed him to a long, plush sofa in front of a roaring fire. "I'm

more, well…Let's say the boot is generally on the other foot for me."

Blinking uneasily, Cannon settled on the sofa and watched the fire. "I need to

apologize and to say thank you." The sofa cushions dipped as Finn sat next to him, not

too close, but close enough that when he leaned forward to speak, Cannon caught a whiff

of familiar cologne, close enough that he fancied he could feel the heat of Finn's body as

well as that of the blaze in the hearth.

"Apology accepted, thanks as well. Neither is necessary. When you know me

better, you'll realize that."

"Realize?" Good god he didn't think he could live next to this man. "I think"—he

swallowed hard—"since we're going to be neighbors, that the best thing we can do is to

agree to forget about that night and…try to be friends."

A trick of the flickering firelight made Finn's classically handsome face appear

flushed and dark. "I was remiss, the other night, in indulging you."

His pulse throbbed with portent. Cannon shook his head, suddenly fuzzy with

arousal. Everything seemed to come to a grinding halt, and his gaze locked on Finn's full

lips. "What?" he murmured, unable to make sense of the man's words when the same

need that had overwhelmed him in the university parking lot reclaimed his senses.

"You were so needful, so hungry for touch, and I made the mistake of indulging

that need. I let what you wanted distract me from what I knew you needed." Finn slid a

little closer on the couch, and Cannon nearly swallowed his own tongue, his mouth went

so dry.

"I'm not sure I know what you're talking about." The words sounded strange, like

they were whispered through sand. He coughed to cover his uncertainty.

"I'm sure you do not." His lips brushed dryly over Cannon's, once, then twice,

before he retreated to the far corner of the sofa. "You wish to start over. Very well then,

so do I."

A long, lean hand tipped with cleanly manicured nails, buffed to a shine was

extended. "Hello. My name is Dagfinnr Lorensson. I hear that we will be neighbors, and

this pleases me."

Cannon accepted the hand reluctantly. As expected, an almost electric heat

spread from the touch through his body. Finn felt it too, he could tell by the faint hiss of

his breath. Cannon dropped the hand as soon as he could and sat upright. He wouldn't

cringe, no matter how much he wanted to. "Don't be silly. You know my name, I know

yours. I just…meant we should forget about anything else."

"I don't want to forget it. Things may not have gone the way I wanted them to,

but I very much enjoyed our time together."

Gulping, Cannon scooted back until the arm of the couch prevented him from

going farther. "Nevertheless, I think it's for the best. I didn't come here to get involved

with someone, just to find myself."

"Are you lost, my dear?"

"No!" He bolted off the sofa and stood, rocking on his heels. "I…I'm not used to

being out and open. I just got divorced, came out, got dumped by my lover, and tumbled

into a relationship that wasn't quite what I wanted. I just need time to find out what I do

want." His pounding heart and watering mouth knew what they wanted…but he couldn't

let go of the idea that he wanted something like what Jeremiah and Z and Archer had.

Not quite, he wasn't interested in having a master. He'd learned well enough from the way

Master Peter had overwhelmed him that he didn't want discipline and punishment. He just

wanted …what?

"Ah. I can give you time, Cannon. I don't normally rush into things." Finn leaned

forward, and outside the orange firelight, Cannon could see sympathy and understanding

in his eyes. "Why don't we do that? Spend some time together, become friends, get to

know each other?"

"I…You're okay with no sex?" He wasn't sure if he wanted the answer to that to

be affirmative.

"Of course, Cannon. You don't know me well either, but that will change as we

spend more time together. Sex? It's not all about sex, Cannon. It is never all about sex."

"You…" He was scrambling now, trying to hide the shaking of his hands, not the

fine tremble that never disappeared, but an outright shake that spoke of total lack of

control. He wanted to both run away and to throw himself at Finn, to dive into the layers

of winter gear that he'd worn at their first meeting and strip down to his bare skin and beg

for something he couldn't put a name to. "Please…" he whispered, unable to look away

from those bright, compelling blue eyes.

Finn's breath caught, his chest expanded and his nostrils flared. "I like to hear a

man's voice crack when he says please. I like to hear the soft desperation in the way he

breathes. I like to see his skin flush and his chest heave.

“I like to know he wants what only I can give."

Panic set in, but something strange inside reached out to that confidence, just as it

had to Master Peter. Did he dare give this man a chance? Before he knew what he

wanted himself? What if Dagfinnr Lorensson had the answers to the questions that

clamored continually inside Cannon?

"I can answer your needs, Cannon. I promise you."

His gaze darted to the door and back. "I don't know what I want."

Finn shook his head, smiling softly. "It doesn't matter what you want. I see what

you need, and I can give it to you."

"I… Can't we be friends? Neighbors?"

"We will be. Friends, neighbors…and eventually, when you're ready, lovers."

TO BE CONTINUED

superiorz.org

About Pulp Friction 2014

Laura Harner ~ Lee Brazil ~ Havan Fellows ~ T.A. Webb

The Pulp Friction 2014 Collection. Four authors. Four Series. Twenty books. One fiery

finale. Spend a year with an eclectic group of strangers brought together through

circumstances, as they are tested by life, and emerge as more than friends.

The strongest bonds are forged by fire, cooled in air, smoothed by water, grounded in

earth.

Although each series can stand alone, we believe reading the books in the order they are

released will increase your enjoyment.

Round One:

Firestorm (Fighting Fire: 1)

Cold Snap (In From the Cold: 1)

Blown Away (Whispering Winds: 1)

Higher Ground (Earthquake: 1)

Round Two:

Controlled Burn

Cold Comfort

Blown Kisses

Moving Earth

Round Three:

Backburn

Cold Feet

Blow Hard

Tremors

Round Four

Flare-up

Out In The Cold

Blown Chance

Aftershocks

Round Five:

Radiant Burn

Cold Day in Hell

Final Blow

Terra Firma