Wild Ice by Rachelle Vaughn Page B

this area. I’m sure you’ve seen one,” she insisted.
    He shrugged. It either meant he hadn’t seen one or he was indifferent.
    “ You‘ve probably seen one and you just didn’t know it. They’re solid white, with long feathers. Most people confuse them with storks.”
    He nodded in acknowledgement and she accepted that was all she would get from him was a series of nods, shrugs and grunts.
    “It’s a funny name for such a magnificen t creature,” she admitted. “There are two all-white species actually. The great egret and the snowy egret. One has black feet and a yellow bill and the other has a black bill and yellow feet. They both have yellow eyes. They aren’t storks though. That’s a common misconception. They’re actually in the Ardeidae family with herons and bitterns. Generally, the name heron is used for the darker plumaged birds, white the white species are called egrets…” She was babbling and she knew it and there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Once her nerves took over and the floodgate opened it was all over.
    “Here, I’ll show you the difference.” She reached for her backpack to get her field guide to show him a picture and knocked the ice pack from her ankle. He leaned over to replace it and she leaned over to show him the photo at the same time. They bumped heads, her floppy hat knocked into him and he grunted.
    “Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry!” Her hand flew up to rub her forehead and she accidentally smacked him in the face.  He pulled back and she put her hands on his arms. Partly to steady herself, but mostly so she wouldn’t inadvertently hit him again. The muscles in his arms were corded and rippled with sinew.
    The man looked down at her hands and stepped back. The cold, piercing look he gave her chilled her to the bone like a full body-sized ice pack. He checked his forehead for blood—luckily there was none—before shoving his hands into his pockets.
    Mel scrambled up from his bed and rushed over to see what the fuss was about.
    “I’m really sorry. I should go.” Lauren shoved the field guide back into her pack and zipped her fingernail inside the zipper. “Ouch!” She shook her finger and examined the torn fingernail. Great. One more injury to tack on to the running tally.
    “Thank s for your help,” she said again. Forgetting about her injury—the ankle one—she stood up and put all her weight on her foot. Instead of making the grand exit she envisioned in her head, she collapsed in pain.
    Before she realized what was happening, he scooped her up again and carried her toward the door. “I’ll give you a ride home,” he grunted.
    “You don’t have to do that,” she protested stubbornly. Then she clamped her mouth shut. How else was she going to get home? Ride over to the cottage on Mel’s back?
    “Where do you live?” he asked, carrying her through the kitchen. He already knew the answer, but she didn’t need to know that.
    Mel forgot about his snooze and was hot on his master’s heels.
    Lauren sighed and accepted the idea of him carrying her, yet again . “The cottage next door,” she mumbled.
    In the garage, h e deposited her into the passenger seat of his fancy black SUV. The same one she’d seen that first day by the mailbox. The same one that drove by her kicking up a trail of dust in its wake. Of course it was. It made perfect sense that he was the one who couldn’t be bothered to slow down or wave back to her.
    “You stay here,” he told Mel.
    Lauren interpreted it as, “You’ve already caused enough trouble already.”
    Mel whined , but obediently sat on his haunches and looked heartbroken as they pulled out of the garage.
    Lauren bit down on her tongue so she wouldn’t be tempted to fill the silence during the short ride to the cottage.
    After parking next to her car, he picked her up again and carried her inside. She tried not to notice how his body heat seeped through his shirt. She’d never had a man carry her