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some point since the storm started because there was a path that led off to a long garage. I estimated that at least six feet had fallen. Another gust of wind blew, sending me reeling back inside.
    In just that short amount of time, I’d managed to let in a fair amount of snow. I brushed off my head and shirt and wrapped my arms around my middle. I hadn’t taken a vacation in two years, but as soon as possible, I was going away for a month to somewhere warm. Not warm. Hot. Really hot. Someplace where the locals didn’t even have a name for snow.
    After going upstairs and adding my bra and socks to my outfit (in their appropriate places, of course), I returned to the kitchen. The smell of fresh bread had spread throughout the house. Corbin held a wooden spoon loosely in one hand, and he stared out the window into the white nothingness.
    “I hope you have movies,” I said. “Lots of them. And a guest bedroom.”
    “Plenty of movies, and I’ll sleep on the couch,” he said easily. “I’ve also got video games, board games and a small gym. Plus tons of food, firewood, candles, and a backup generator.”
    That sounded perfect for a romantic snowed-in weekend. Too bad I was stuck with a ruthless criminal.
    Said ruthless criminal carefully poured olive oil into a shallow plate and set it on the table. “Or are you a butter girl?”
    “Whichever.” I could see the bread inside the oven, a plump golden loaf. My mouth watered. I could practically taste it. The oven timer said four minutes to go, but I wasn’t sure I could wait that long.
    Corbin dropped rigatoni into the boiling water and set another timer. “Keep an eye on that.” He went off.
    I took advantage of the lack of supervision and looked around the kitchen. A butcher block full of knives sat on the counter, pushed back into a far corner. Couldn’t take one of them without leaving a gaping hole. I rifled through drawers, looking for something to stash away for later, in case I needed a weapon.
    “What are you looking for?”
    I jumped. “You’re… really quiet,” I said, trying to calm my racing heart.
    “I am.” He was giving me that look, and not the good one. The slightly angry one that I’d seen earlier when I refused to come downstairs.  
    “Oh, there it is,” I said as I opened the drawer where the pot holders were—I had noted it during my search. I opened the oven just seconds before the timer went off. Warm, fragrant air rushed over me. I pulled out the pan and placed it on the counter.
    With an abrupt motion, Corbin crossed the kitchen and pulled a knife out of the block. He turned toward me, his movements graceful. Too graceful. He knew how to handle himself in a knife fight. Then he smiled and handed me the knife, handle first.
    When I grabbed it, he held on, that intensity in his eyes again.
    “Don’t cut yourself,” he said.  
    “I’m not in kindergarden.” I jerked the knife from him and turned away, my heart pounding in my throat. My hands shook as I sliced the bread and arranged it on a platter, then handed the platter and knife to Corbin.
    “Thanks,” he said. He slid the platter onto the table, now free of medical supplies. I followed the bread with my eyes, feeling every bit like a hungry house cat.
    “Dig in.”
    That was all the encouragement I needed. The bread was hot, crunchy, chewy… I didn’t bother with the olive oil until my third slice. I looked up and found Corbin watching me. He seemed different than before. Not amused. Not angry. Guarded.
    The possibility that he knew what I was pushed itself to the forefront of my mind. I needed to inspect my wallet, to try to determine if he’d dug deeply enough to find the business cards. “Where’s my coat?”
    “Hanging in the closet. Why?”
    “I should call my brother. He might be looking for me.”
    Corbin frowned. “There wasn’t a phone.”
    “Seriously?” I was pretty sure I’d had it when I left the car.
    The timer went off. Corbin rolled up his