“You just happen to carry a First Aid kid around with you?" he asked. 

"Of course." She unzipped the bag as she took a step closer, the move bringing her once again between his legs. 

"You'd be an excellent Boy Scout." 

"I was an excellent Girl Guide." She bit back a sympathetic smile at his confused expression and the wince he made after the move irritated his injury. "It's the Girl Scouts in America." 

Placing his palms on his knees, he angled his face up at her and closed his eyes. "Okay, do your worst." 

Looking down at him so totally at ease in his own skin sent a thrill through her that went straight to her core. Okay, this was it. She was going to have to find someone to shag on the quiet before she spontaneously combusted from being around this man. 

"You okay there, Lady Lemons," he asked, his eyes still closed so that his long brown eyelashes rested on his cheekbone.

"Of course." More than a little frazzled, she reached in her kit, grabbed the one-time use antibiotic, ripped the top of the foil packet, and froze, realizing her mistake the moment the cherry scent hit her nose. 

Nick sniffed, leaning forward as his eyes snapped open. "What is that?" 

"Nothing." Horrified at her mistake, she tried shove the packet down the very bottom of her emergency kit but he snatched it away before she got a chance. 

He held up the packet so the moonlight hit it. Her focus zeroed in on the artwork on the packet depicting a pair of cherries covered in lipstick kisses. Kill her now. Please just let the earth's gravitational pull cease to exist for as long as it took to suck her up into space and the nearest blackhole. 

For his part, Nick managed not to smirk as he read the product name out loud with precise enunciation. "Wild cherry edible lubrication gel." He shrugged. "I'm more of a strawberry man myself, but to each his—or her—own." 

She held out her hand, palm up glad to see that it didn't shake—or at least not much. "May I have it back please?" 

Now he did smirk, a slow, sexy, I-like-the-way-you-think curl of one side of her mouth that made her breath catch. "What else do you have in that kit?" 

Band-Aids. Burn cream. A three-pack of condoms. The usual. "None of your business." 

"Have it your way, Lady Lemons." He laid the foil rectangle in the center of the palm of her hand, setting off a riot of sensations that pulled her whole body tight.

Determined to brazen through this awkward moment, she folded the top of the packet over and dropped the lube into bag—she'd dispose of it later—then she yanked out a one-time-use sized rectangle of foil, read the label three times to be sure she had the antibiotic this time, and tore it open. "Tilt your head back and I'll put this on your cut. It might sting." 

"I don't mind a little of that as long if its all better after." 

She just bet he did. "Are you going to cooperate, or do I have to insist on taking you to hospital?" 

"I'll be good, right up until you don't want me to be any more."

I never meant to say a word, not one single word.

But I did.

And now, because of my blog, everyone knows that Ice Knights hockey star Ian Petrov’s best friend and fellow player is actually his half brother—hello, hockey Hall of Famer dad who couldn’t keep his jeans zipped.

That wouldn’t be such a big deal if Ian knew. He didn’t, and boy howdy is he pissed. And who is he most mad at? Oh sure, he’s upset with his dad and former best friend/brother from another mother, but most of his ire is with me. It’s definitely a case of hating the messenger.

And what could make it worse? How about the two of us being trapped together in a remote cabin after a massive blizzard. Neither of us can leave. Just us, the snow, his resentment, and OMG sexual tension so thick it would take a snowplow to break through it.

I’ve got to get out of here before I do something even dumber than I’ve already done and kiss the sexy, snarly grump with his misplaced anger and perfect pecs. That would be the worst, the absolute worst. That’s why I’m not going to do it. Nope. Really. So why can’t I stop imagining what it would be like?

I can’t believe I have to go home to Nebraska for my sister’s wedding. I’m gonna need a wingman and a whole lot of vodka for this level of family interaction. At least my bestie agreed he’d man up and help. Too bad he had to catch a different flight than me. Then, his plane got delayed. And finally—because bad things always happen in threes—instead of my best friend, his evil twin walks out of the airport.

If you looked up doesn’t-deserve-to-be-that-confident, way-too-hot-for-his-own-good billionaire in the dictionary, you’d find a picture of Grady Holt. He’s awful. Horrible. The worst—even if his butt looks phenomenal in those jeans. Ten times worse? I told my family I was bringing my boyfriend with me...

Now I have to spend the week pretending to be madly in love with the big jerk. Ugh, and share a bedroom. It’s only gonna be a week. I can last that long without killing him or blowing my cover. Maybe. A whisper of a prayer. Oh God, this week just might kill me or I might kill him—either way, this is not going to end well.