3
Dave
A knocking woke me. I sat up in bed and listened. At first, all I heard was the roar of the storm and the whistle of the wind through the forest, but then there it was again. Thump-thump…thump. My first instinct was that one of the shutters had come loose and was banging on a window downstairs. But then I heard the doorbell.
I jumped out of bed, put on my flannel pajama pants and then hustled down the steps. I wasn’t concerned about waking Grandma Katrina—she’d been out cold for three hours, and without her hearing aids in she was stone-deaf, a fact she often used to her advantage when someone started talking about something she didn’t want to hear. So I wasn’t worried about waking her—all my attention was, instead, focused on whoever the hell was at my door in the middle of the worst blizzard in New Jersey’s history. From the landing, I could see a shadow outside. Without an instant of hesitation, I switched off the security system and flung open the door.
A blast of cold air and blowing snow pelted my bare chest. When it cleared, I saw that there was someone there—I knew immediately it had to be a woman from her height, barely taller than my shoulders. She was bundled up in a big puffy parka, with fur around the hood. I couldn’t make out her face because it was in shadow from the porch light. “I’m so sorry to bother you,” she said, her voice weak and raspy, “But I was in an accident and…”
She took one step toward me, but it was as if her knees went out from under her, and she began to fall. I reached out for her, catching her before she fainted to the floor. I hooked my arms around her body just in time, and though she’d begun to sink to her knees, I had her. I scooped her up and carried her inside, slamming the door shut with my shoulder, one arm under her shoulders and the other under her knees, newlywed style. But it was dark, and I still couldn’t make out her face. What I knew for sure, from the feel of her hips on my bare arm, was that she was frozen damn near solid. I carried her into the living room and laid her on the big leather couch in front of the fireplace. Her boots and pants were crusted in snow, and clumps of ice stuck to her leggings all the way up to her thighs. The fire I’d lit earlier was still burning, low but bright, and when I unsnapped her hood, I finally saw her face.
She was stunning. Her cheeks were a raw, tender red from the wind, and her nose, too. But that just made her somehow even more beautiful. I put my fingers to her neck and felt for a pulse, just to be sure she was still with me. Her heartbeat was steady but not very strong. She was shivering hard, and I noticed that the curly tendrils near the nape of her neck were damp. I pulled off her hat and found that her lovely dark brown hair was damp with sweat and melted snow. I pieced it together in an instant—she must have gotten in a wreck and trekked through the storm for help. But it was below zero and dropping. She’d slogged through at least a mile of snow, so she’d gotten sweaty in spite of the cold. Somehow, I flashed back to some survival show I’d seen once. It’s not the cold that’ll kill you. It’s the sweat.
I turned on the reading lamp on the side table and saw then that there was a thin trickle of blood from a cut on her forehead. As gently as I could, I checked to see if there was any more damage. The cut was surrounded by a bump, like maybe she’d smacked her head on a steering wheel. Not a windshield though, I guessed. The damage wasn’t bad enough to have been caused by a pane of glass, and thank God for that.
Crouching beside her, I pulled her up to sitting, supporting her with my arm. I unzipped her parka and pulled one sleeve off and then the other. She slumped against my body, and by keeping her close to me, I was able to get the parka all the way off. Underneath, she was in a gray hoodie, with what looked like… I squinted. A cupcake on the front? Definitely a cupcake, and under that a logo that said:
PRINCESS PASTRIES
Gently, I laid her back down and positioned a pillow behind her head. I’d never been so grateful that I hired an interior designer. Since I’d moved in, I’d cursed all the damned throw pillows, but now they came in handy. When I was sure that her head was supported, I pulled off her snow-crusted boots and put them aside. I grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and another from the wingback by the fireplace, wrapping her up tight. When I did, I noticed that her hoodie was damp with sweat, too, and her shivers were getting more and more violent.
Fuck.
I stood up and thought about what the hell to do next. I wasn’t a guy who’d had a shitload of experience with extreme weather situations—like I said, I’m from motherfucking Newark—but I knew I had to get her warmed up, and fast. I put three more logs on the fire, and a couple of Firestarter sticks just to get it all roaring as quickly as possible. With the increased amount of light, I could see she was actually starting to turn blue around the lips.
Fucking fuck, fuck, fuck.
Getting an ambulance to come was out of the question in this weather, and asking Google about hypothermia would eat up time she didn’t have to spare. I knew there was only one thing I could do in that moment, only one thing that I could do fast enough to make a difference. I had to get her out of her damp, cold clothes before it was too late. I had to get her warmed up. In order to save her life, I was going to have to undress her.
I busted ass back up to my bedroom and turned on my closet light. I grabbed two of my hoodies and one pair of flannel pajama pants. I snagged a pair of socks and the heavy down comforter off my bed. Then I bolted back down the stairs.
She was still unconscious on the couch. I pulled off the throw blankets, taking a deep breath as I considered where to start. I peeled off her wet socks first, revealing a pair of small, delicate, and ice-cold feet. Next, I pulled off her pants, doing my goddamned best to disregard the lacy panties, the creamy white thighs, the small birthmark on the side of her left leg, and the smoothness of her skin. I tossed her snow-caked leggings aside and pulled my spare PJ bottoms onto her. She was swimming in them, tiny compared to me, but still—it was something. I cinched up the tie and then put a pair of my athletic socks on her, giving her feet a couple of rubs to warm them up with friction.
I wrapped her bottom half in the comforter, bracing her limp body with my hand to her back. I unzipped her hoodie and then pulled her slightly sweaty thermal shirt off over her head. Underneath, she was in a light pink bra, and for one second I thought, You can’t take that off, man. You gotta leave it. She’s a total stranger. You can’t be taking off her goddamned lingerie, you douchebag. But as I had her up against my chest, I could feel that even that was damp with sweat, the slightly padded cups wet and cold. So I fucking bit the bullet. I held her close, unhooked her bra at the clasp on her back, and cradled her in my arms, pulling it away from her without tipping her body backward. I didn’t look at her breasts, even though I could have, because that was way the fuck over the line.
But goddamn, was she beautiful. The light from the fire sent long shadows over her face, over her full lips. I pulled her right up against me and rubbed her back to warm her up. Using my free hand, I grabbed one of my hoodies and put it on her. I didn’t bother with putting her arms through the sleeves. There was no time for that. As I zipped it up, I did see her breasts, but I willed myself to ignore how full they were and how perfect and the very faint tan line that was still there, probably left over from summer. I took the second hoodie and wrapped that around her, too, zipping it up all the way to the delicate hollow of her neck. Her head slumped back limply as I laid her back down gently on the throw pillows. She looked like a little girl, almost, wearing my too-big clothes. Tiny and frail and well and truly in the danger zone. Still, she shivered, an unconscious and involuntary chatter that made her teeth clack against each other.
I pulled the comforter up to her neck and tucked it in around her sides, wrapping her hourglass figure in the blanket, jamming my hand under her body to envelop her in a tight cocoon. But then, standing there over her, I knew there was one more thing I could do. There was one more way to warm her up: with my own body heat. If she woke up while I was holding her, she might freak the fuck out. But at least she’d be warm. Angry and weirded out she might be, but at least she’d be alive.
Untucking the blanket, I made a gap for myself next to her. Keeping her facing the roaring fire, I climbed over her, with one knee to the sofa cushions so that I was straddling her. Then I slipped in behind her, almost pushing her to the edge of the couch—it was hardly big enough for the two of us together. But it was good enough, and as I enveloped her with my body, I nestled my face against her sweet-smelling hair. I used all my size and weight to do what she couldn’t, and I willed all my body temperature into hers. I pulled the comforter around us both; I pulled her hips into mine, aware of her curves—so feminine, so perfect—underneath the loose flannel pants. I focused on her breathing, which was regular but shallow, and I felt wave after wave of shivers tear through her. I slipped my arm out from the comforter to turn off the lamp above us, plunging us into just firelight. Moving a lock of her hair aside, I held her as close as I’d held anybody in years. Crisscrossing my arms in front of her chest, I watched the flames and held her tight to reassure her, even in her unconsciousness, that she was safe and that I would look after her. And then I prayed like hell that she was going to be okay.