Chapter Five

Dezarae woke to the sound of a tree branch snapping. Well, we either have an ice storm or it is still snowing out. Sitting up, it took a second to realize she was in her own bed. “What the hell?” Turning on the bedside light, she glanced around.

There was no stranger in her room. She wore the exact clothes she had been wearing when she went to sleep on the couch.

The couch.

So why was she here? Did I sleepwalk?

Swinging her feet to the floor she slipped into her slippers and headed for the door. The clock had six-thirty displayed on it. Where is my mystery man? A bit hesitant, she moved up the short hallway and stopped.

Sleeping on her couch, which was too small for his big frame, was her gray-eyed Southern stranger. He was crammed onto her furniture in a way that didn’t look very comfortable.

Her dark eyes started at his feet, moving up until she halted, for staring back at her were the intense gray ones of his. Blinking rapidly, Dezarae moved into the living room, stopping before him.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Watching you watch me,” he replied smoothly.

Dezarae tried to ignore the spread of heat in her cheeks. “I mean, I went to bed here. I left you in my bed.”

Those eyes darkened as he muttered, “My little firebird, if we were in bed together you wouldn’t be leaving.” In a louder tone that she could hear he said, “I moved you back there around three.” He sat up, exposing his muscled torso to her, which made her knees weak until her eyes hit that tattoo. “You shouldn’t have to give up your bed for me.”

She was still having a hard time pretending she hadn’t heard his comment. But she had and now that image was burned into her brain, overriding her aversion of the tattoo on his chest. “I took the couch because I can fit comfortably on it,” Dezarae stated.

“I’ve slept in way more uncomfortable places than a couch that I am too long for.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” he assured her.

“Great, that’s great!” she said, her dark eyes wide and her hands spread.

Raising a dark brow, he responded sarcastically, “Nice to know my uncomfortable sleeping situations are amusing to you.”

Dezarae shook her head as she crouched down in front of him, her darker hand covering his lighter one. “No, that’s not it. Not at all. You remembered.”

His eyes widened as the truth of her words sank in. “I did. I did!”

“Anything else?”

“No,” he said, disappointed even as his body reacted to her touch. “I don’t know how or where I know it from, but I know for a fact I have slept in worse conditions. It’s just not clear.”

“Well,” Dezarae spoke as she stood and retrieved her hand. “It’s a start. Let’s go see if we can find you something to wear.” ’Cause I keep looking at your chest and I may find myself looking at that flag in a whole different light. Then again, I already do.

Dezarae led him down the hall towards her spare room. She had to lead or all she would think about would be how good he looked. Not that walking in front of him changed those images.

It worked out, though, because unbeknownst to Dezarae her visitor was enjoying the view of her in front of him. As he ogled her, she opened the closet to show him a few stacks of folded clothes. “I think you should find something in here that will fit you.” Dezarae backed up so he could walk in. “I’m gonna make some breakfast. Feel free to use the shower; there are clean towels in the cabinet.”

“Thank you.” He turned towards her in time to catch her heated glance as her dark gaze took in his half-naked body.

“You’re welcome,” she replied, and went to the kitchen to start breakfast.

While the quiche cooked, Dezarae bundled up to go outside. There were still practically whiteout conditions. There hadn’t been a snow in the area like this in years.

Standing on her porch, she realized there was no way she was going to town. She could get to her workshop and CB the sheriff at least. That way they would know she had a visitor and would be aware of the accident.

Grabbing the rope, she made her way slowly across her yard. It was a bit of a struggle to force open the side door against the seemingly gale-force winds but soon she was in.

She hit the lights, silently thanking her foresight in having backup generators installed so the building was always warm, and headed for the CB radio that was at the end opposite to where she was, by the main doors.

Turning it on, she began transmitting. “Sheriff, you out there? This is Phoenix, come back.”

A very deep voice reached her waiting ears. “Phoenix, you okay up there, girl?”

“Fine, Dale, fine. Look last night on my way home I passed an accident. There is nothing left of the car except pieces. There was a survivor. He’s here w—”

“He? Damn it, Dez, you know better than that. Who is he?”

Dezarae smiled. Sheriff Dale Ship was her surrogate father. He was sixty and didn’t look a day over forty. He took her wellbeing very seriously.

“As I was saying,” Dezarae began again. “He is here with me. He is about six-four, one hundred–ninety, dark-brown hair cut short, and gray eyes. Oh, and a tat: an anchor, and a chain sitting on a rebel flag.”

“Why are you telling me this? Are you sure it was a rebel flag?”

“I know what a rebel flag looks like. Yes, I am sure. I am telling you because he doesn’t remember his name. He had a head wound and I didn’t find any form of identification on him. See if anyone reports a description like that. I will check in with you later today.”

“One more thing,” Dale said.

“Go ahead.” She waited for him to say what he needed to.