Free Baby, It's Cold Outside by Heidi Rice, Kate Hardy, Aimee Carson, Amy Andrews Page A

sure, certain, safe.
    Her fingers clutched at his nape as she pressed her cheek against his collarbone and felt him swallow against her ear. The frantic punch of her pulse finally began to slow a little, as did the pitch and roll in the pit of her belly.
    “The store’s got a backup generator,” he said, the gruff, matter-of-fact tone more soothing than any lullaby as his hands continued to stroke. “It’ll kick in any minute.”
    “T-thank you,” she stammered, her teeth still refusing to cooperate.
    She flattened herself against the hard planes of his chest, trying to push closer. To take more of the comfort he offered and stop the shaking.
    “Try humming.”
    “S-s-sorry?”
    “It’ll stop your teeth from chattering.”
    “O-okay. What s-should I h-hum?” she asked, only to recoil when he laughed.
    What was wrong with her? Had she regressed into childhood and lost the ability to make the simplest of decisions?
    “How about ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town’?” he suggested, cutting neatly through her panic attack. “I’ll sing, you hum along.”
    The seasonal song came out in a husky baritone, not particularly strong, but pitch-perfect. She couldn’t say the same for her humming.
    His large hands bracketed her hips to hold her steady while they stood together in the inky blackness, and he chanted the silly lyrics while she hummed tunelessly along. A wave of strong emotion washed over her as her teeth finally lost the stuttering chatter: partly relief that the horror had begun to retreat into the black hole it had lurched out of, but mostly bone-deep gratitude, that Ryder Sinclair with his big hands and rough baritone had managed to catch her before she’d tumbled down the black hole after it.
    Santa was making his list and checking it twice for the second time before the emergency lights finally flickered on with an electric hum.
    Kate blinked a couple of times, but as soon as the broad expanse of Ryder’s chest became visible in the pearly glow, she dropped her arms and took a small step back, utterly self-conscious.
    Ryder kept his hands curled loosely around her waist, halting her retreat as he peered at her, the intensely blue gaze shadowed with concern. “You okay?”
    She nodded, sure the blush burning up her neck was probably vermilion.
    “Thanks for not leaving me here.” She dropped her chin to stare at her toes. “I’m not too keen on the dark,” she murmured, the understatement of the century.
    He gave her a reassuring squeeze before letting go.
    “I’m not sure I could have gotten away from you without losing an arm.” The wry amusement helped a little in dousing the nuclear blush. “But you’re welcome.”
    She risked a look at him, saw the puzzled frown, and her stomach twisted into a knot of apprehension.
    Please don’t ask.
    She shouted the plea in her mind, trying to communicate it telepathically. But as she waited, gagging at the prospect of having to answer the question he was about to ask, the incongruity of the situation occurred to her. After two years of dating Benedict, he’d never had a clue she had a paranoid fear of being in the pitch-dark, because she’d gone to all sorts of ludicrous lengths to keep the shameful secret hidden. And after only fifteen minutes in Ryder Sinclair’s company, he’d witnessed the worst of it.
    The realization that Ryder had reacted with a lot more patience and compassion than Benedict would have was equally incongruous—and made two even more sobering thoughts occur to Kate.
    Why the heck hadn’t she dumped Benedict, long before he’d had the chance to dump her?
    And maybe Ryder Sinclair wasn’t a total jerk after all.
    …
    Why are you so frightened of the dark?
    The question registered in Ryder’s brain and hovered on the tip of his tongue, but as her gaze darted away a second time and the flags of color on her cheeks became radioactive, he stopped himself from asking. Even though the need to know suddenly felt like a lot