Baby, It's Cold Outside by Jennifer Greene, Merline Lovelace, Cindi Myers Page A

possibility of this happening,” she agreed.
    “The point is—I didn’t use anything. I didn’t have anything on me.”
    Her expression turned pensive. “I’m on the pill. Not because I’ve been sexually active or because there’s anyone in my life right now. But because I was raised to be the Ultra Girl Scout.”
    “Always prepared.”
    “That’s the theory. But I can’t say I was remotely prepared…for you.”
    Silence seemed to fall. The fire, the generator, the storm—the same sources of background din were just as prevalent…yet somehow all he heard at that moment was the intense, intimate silence between them.
    “Are you going to regret this?” he asked her.
    “Never. I will never regret this,” she said fiercely. “You? Are you regretting we did this?”
    “Are you kidding? Not in this life.” He lifted a gruff hand, pushed a tangled curl from her brow, aware she was still touching him…aware he couldn’t seem to stop touching her. “But…”
    She froze the minute she heard that “but,” jumped in before he could possibly finish the comment. “But, of course, this was all just a moment’s craziness. No one has to know. Neither of us are going to make too much of it. Why would we?”
    “Why would we,” he echoed, and couldn’t fathom why his pulse suddenly clunked. “It’s not as if you had any interest in staying in Alaska.”
    “Or as if you had any interest in moving back to the lower forty-eight. Good grief. I don’t even know where your home used to be.”
    “Used to be Denver.”
    “Whew. A long way from Boston.”
    She was still smiling, but his pulse kept skidding down a long, dark luge run. She seemed in a major hurry to shut down the possibilities for them. He should have been in an even bigger hurry.
    Pretty damned ridiculous to imagine how they could be a couple when this was all over.
    God knew how the idea had even popped in his mind.
    “Is your back okay?” she asked suddenly.
    “My back?”
    “The burns. I think I should look at it again—”
    “I think you caretake more than enough people without adding me to the list.” Damned if he wanted to be another responsibility in her life. “I’ve got an idea.”
    “What?”
    “Steak. Cooked on the fire—”
    “We still have stew left over from yesterday.”
    Yeah, they did. He’d tasted her stew. “Doesn’t steak sound good? Smothered in onions and mushrooms? Maybe see what else we can conjure up from that huge pantry? Make a real feast?”
     
    F OR A WOMAN WHO’D NEVER HAD a silly side, Emilie couldn’t remember laughing so much. The steaks were juicy and sizzling and fabulous, slathered with onions and mushrooms and some kind of sauce he’d concocted. Dessert was some kind of bread pudding he threw together—took a lot of rum—that he served with a flourish and a candle on top.
    The lodge had a major liquor stash, but usually nowine. He’d scrounged around, though, found a bottle for her in the back of a cupboard, and after wiping off a couple inches of dust, opened it. She took one sip and sputtered it all over the floor. Apparently it had turned into vinegar.
    She could drink some of her father’s whiskey—aged thirty years, the good stuff—but only by holding her nose.
    He made Irish coffee to top off the meal, although by then, he was lying on the carpet, with his feet up on a log, watching—as he put it—her eating bird bites.
    “I’ll bet you’ll be done by midnight,” he said with awe.
    “Would you quit teasing? I was starving. I practically ate like a wolf, shoveling it in.”
    “Ah, yeah. That’s you. Uncouth. No manners. Just a pig at the table.”
    “Thanks.” She lifted a napkin and delicately dabbed a corner of her mouth. “People have always teased me for being fastidious.”
    “You?”
    “That’s the thing. I’m free to let out my closet pig with you.”
    She thought he’d be ill. He started choking, and then laughing, and couldn’t seem to stop.
    She sank back