The Superfox (10 page)

Before getting out of her car to find out, Tara turned off the iPod, grabbed her phone, and checked the mirror. Her dark hair was up in a messy bun stuck through with a pencil, her sparkly gray eyeshadow smudged around her eyes. Did she look like a woman who'd been too busy thinking about a sex toy to notice she was about to get rammed, no pun intended? Probably not. Her last date, a scrawny hipster who cared more about his mustache than his breath, had said she looked like a librarian. But not a sexy librarian. A children's librarian.

Ouch.

And then he'd called Iron Man a dick and asked if she liked Ayn Rand and John Ringo.

They hadn't had a second date.

A shadowy figure appeared outside of her window, hovering as if aware that knocking was fucking annoying, as it was clear they'd just had a traffic accident in a snowstorm. Tara shrugged into her peacoat, wound on her Marauder's Map scarf, and opened the door on a maelstrom of cold-ass insanity. Inside the Jeep, it was muffled, but outside, the wind was vicious, driving the fluffy snow into her eyes. The figure stepped closer as she slammed the door behind her, and she was able to blink the snow out of her lashes and look up. A tall form stepped to block the wind.

“Are you okay?”

Jesus, he was hot, for a shitty driver. Tall, navy peacoat that matched hers, striped scarf tucked in, well-kept beard, kind blue eyes, and a sailor's cap. With his hands in his pockets, he looked like he was standing on a ship, staring out at the placid sea. She glanced down but couldn't see past his knees, thanks to the snow. She had a tendency to judge men by their shoes.

“I'm a little cold, actually,” she said. “Hoth cold.”

If you could hear a man smile in a blizzard, she heard it. “I could chop your car in half and shove you inside, if you think that would help.”

Which reminded her that he had just hit her car. “Oh, yeah. We need to exchange information. Are you by any chance an axe murderer? Or a convict?”

With a laugh, he pulled his hands from his pockets and held up his fists. BREW was written across the knuckles of his right hand, BAKE across the left.

“I'm a dangerous madman,” he said. “If you're really worried about your flour and hops and sugar. Otherwise, you're probably safe.”

With a smirk, Tara hitched her chin at the Jeep and got in on the driver's side. She'd left the heater running, and it was deliciously warm and dry inside. When the guy didn't immediately slide in on the passenger side, she started to worry that he might run—not that it would be easy. But surely a guy who watched Star Wars wouldn't just leave her stranded? She was about to go outside and investigate when he knocked on the window and opened the door on the blizzard. Tara shook wet bangs out of her eyes and remembered the precious cargo that had fallen to the floorboards.

The cargo he was just about to crush with his black boots.

“Hold on--”

But he'd already slid the laptop and paper bag over, climbed up, and slammed the door. It was suddenly sweltering and intimate in the jeep, and when he pulled off his cap and shook out brown hair that was longer and slicked back on top with an undercut, she could smell his shampoo, cypress and juniper like a crisp fall day at the lake. Damn. The guy who'd rear-ended her was freaking hot.

“I'm Ryon.”

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Welcome to Hothlanta. The safe word is Woookiee.