The scowling mountain of a man filling the doorframe looks as though he’d rather shoot me than help me, but I’m too desperate to care.

“I’m Lissa,” I say, wiping rain from my face. “I’m staying at one of the rental cabins up the road.” Though road is a generous descriptor for what’s basically a pitted, rutted, rocked-over/caliche path now that the early monsoon rains in West Texas have sunk their wet teeth into the area. “My car got stuck when I tried to go into town for supplies.”

His eyebrows lower and intensify his glower as he takes in my ragged appearance.

My romance-writing brain is already cataloging details. His beard is thick but not horribly long, his dark hair overgrown, and his shoulders are so broad they could hold a football team. He’s exactly what I’d imagine a mountain hermit would look like—if mountain hermits were devastatingly handsome in a rugged, frowny way.

A dog appears at his side—a three-legged beauty who walks as though she’s new to it. She nudges my hand, and I gratefully pet her head, relieved at the welcome even if it’s not from the human homeowner. 

The man’s eyebrows shoot back up. Green. His eyes are a sparkly pure green.

“Come in,” he barks, stepping back. “Before you catch pneumonia, croak, and cause me all sorts of paperwork.”

I stumble inside, so relieved I don’t care if I’m not really welcome. The cabin is a mix of messy man and cozy home—wood floors with a few streaks of dried dirt and obvious pawprints from earlier today, a stone fireplace that’s not lit but ready, and several pieces of big, hearty furniture.

“You’re soaked through,” he says, pointing. “Bathroom’s that way. Towels in the cabinet. I’ll find you something to wear.”

“Thank you so much, Mr.…?”

“Hannon. No mister.”

My back tingles with the weight of his gaze as I escape to the bathroom. The three-legged dog follows me and I feel a bit guilty closing the door in its face. I peel off my dripping clothes and wrap myself in the large beach towel from the top of the short stack. The mirror reflects my disaster zone of a face—mascara everywhere (at least the dark smudges mask the exhaustion beneath my eyes), hair plastered to my skull. The skin both pale and flushed. (That last part no doubt due to him. Who knew a sexy bear of a man was my type? I sure didn’t.)

“Blech.” I stick my tongue out at myself. What a first impression.

A knock at the door makes me jump.

“Clothes,” comes the rough bark. When I crack open the door, his large hand passes me two pieces of rolled fabric. “Give me yours to toss in the washer.”

“Thanks.” I open the door enough to toe the dripping pile back into the short hallway. I know my bare shoulder is visible but I try to keep the rest of me hidden.

He scoops up the drenched pile, gives a command to the hovering dog I don’t recognize and they both retreat.

Back in the safety of the bathroom, I pull on his gift of clothing. There’s a black T-shirt, faded to dark gray and buttery soft, and a flannel shirt I pull on over it that falls to the middle of my thighs. That and two pairs of thick socks which I tug on gratefully. That’s it. No panties, no boxers. Nothing else to cover the girly bits and I’m both aghast and delighted at the secret thrill that shoots between my legs knowing I’m about to walk back out and see him while not wearing any panties.

When I emerge, he’s in the kitchen area, his back to me.

“Thank you for letting me in.” I keep to the edge of the room. “I was starting to think I’d have to eat leaves for dinner.”

He turns, and I catch flames firing deep in his eyes when he sees me in his clothes. The heat of it flushes me all over.

“Sit.” He nods toward a kitchen chair. “You said you were hungry.”

I sink into the chair, surprised I haven’t toppled over. The three-legged dog settles near while another, older canine watches from across the room.

“That’s Ruger by your feet,” he says, placing a mug of steaming coffee in front of me. “The old guy over there is Cyclone. They’re retired military dogs.”

“They’re beautiful,” I say, reaching down to stroke Ruger’s head. “Are you military too?”

“Was.”

Hannon moves around the kitchen with surprising grace for such a large man, pulling out bread, cheese, and—praise heaven—a Hershey’s bar.

“It’s old.” He slides it toward me.

“It’s perfect.” I grab it as though it’s gold. “You have no idea how much I needed this. I’ve been trying to write a romance novel since I got here, and chocolate is essential to the creative process.”

He freezes. “A romance novel?”

“I know, I know. Silly, stupid dream,” I say quickly. “But I saved up for nearly two years to take this time off. To dedicate myself to finally getting it out of my head and on paper without distractions. But after a couple of false starts, well, I guess it’s writer’s block. Feeling all the pressure of getting it done and my vacation clock ticking. Then all the rain and I ran out of food and now this…” I gesture vaguely toward where I think my car is getting the bath of its life. I rip open the wrapper and take a big bite just as a loud clap of thunder rattles the house. I swallow my second bite before I feel brave enough to meet his gaze. “Stuck car. Burdening you. And all because of my stupid dream.”

“Not silly,” he says quietly. “Not stupid. No dream is too unimportant not to pursue.”

That unexpected pearl coming from him, he places a grilled cheese sandwich in front of me, and when I reach for the plate, our fingers brush. A zip shoots up my arm. His eyes meet mine, and I know he felt it too.

Is now when I tell him I’m not wearing any panties?

Because, with the chocolate bar in one hand and his touch still affecting the other, being stranded doesn’t seem like such a disaster after all.