Christmas at Roosevelt Ranch by Elise Faber

Author:Elise Faber [Faber, Elise]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781637490051
Publisher: Elise Faber
Published: 2020-12-13T18:30:00+00:00

Seven

Dale

They sat for a little while in quiet before he propped himself up and attempted to pick that lock again.

With no success.

Because he had no fucking idea what he was doing.

“I think you can give it up,” she said a few minutes later.

“Said no man ever,” he quipped, but he did give it up, sinking back down and trying not to flash her. He should grab some more towels, give her something to warm up with, and it wasn’t like he was roasting with just the strip of cotton around his waist. Not to mention the chance of flashing.

The shower space was well-heated and still humid from his shower, but it was cold outside, and he knew that would seep into the room pretty soon.

He should move, maybe try to bust down that door.

Except . . . he didn’t want to move. He wanted to stay next to this woman and untangle all of her secrets.

She shivered.

And his wants didn’t matter.

Pushing to his feet, he was across the room in seconds, opening the cabinet and pulling out the stack of towels. He crossed back to her, passed several over, keeping one to cover his upper body.

“Wh—”

“You’re cold.”

Her expression went blank.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said. “We’ve done enough sharing for strangers.”

“For strangers trapped in a room together for the interminable future?”

“Yes, that.”

He nodded, covered himself with the towel and leaned back against the wall. “So, want to sing your favorite Christmas carol?”

Her eyes shot to his then narrowed.

Probably because he was laughing his ass off.

“Hilarious,” she muttered.

“If it makes you feel better, I’m sure someone will miss us sooner or later and come looking.”

“It’s the later part that worries me.”

“We’ll be fine. Bundle up in those towels, and we’ll work on being patient.” He smiled. “And if patient doesn’t work, I’ll put my foot at risk and try to kick down that door.”

She made a face.

“In the meantime, we pass the time.”

Wide eyes on his. “Pass the time how exactly?”

“Well . . .” He grinned. “I supposed we’ll have to make . . .” There went those wide eyes again, drifting to his face, lips parting. “Small talk.”

She groaned.

“Christmas carols?”

Another groan.

“Random trivia quiz?”

“Better.”

“Sitting in quiet and fantasizing about the food inside?”

A beat. “Fine.”

He tucked the towel around her shoulders, settled back. “Fine,” he said. “Let me tell you all about Melissa and her incredible—”

“Do not say French silk pie.”

“French silk pie.”

She swatted him. He laughed.

And the conversation flowed. No awkward pauses. No hesitations and weird blips. For hours, they just talked. About food and then movies and then TV shows—surprisingly, even though she said she worked all the time, she’d seen a fair amount of them.

Probably plane rides.

But eventually, their conversation lulled from their favorite places to travel into comfortable quiet, their sentences coming few and far between, the odd yawn punctuating a sentence.

“You cold?” he asked.

She’d slumped, her side pressed to his, her chin slipping forward to rest on his chest. That was pretty much all he could see of her, seeing how the rest of her was covered by the towels.

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