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but I hear him walking away.
    I bend over—I feel safe doing that where he can’t see—and take a look in the under-the-sink cabinet. Spare toilet paper—good to know—cleaning supplies, and a trash can, but nothing else. I straighten and mutter, “I guess I’m done in here.”
    Forcing myself to ignore the insistent throbbing of my ankle, I open the door and work my way back toward the living room, but as I reach the end of the hallway, a sharp bolt of pain zooms up my leg and I fall to the wood floor, landing on my behind.

Chapter Six
    Drake races to my side. “Are you okay?”
    Mortified, I feel tears of humiliation pushing into my eyes. “I’m really not . . . helpless.” My voice hitches on the last word, which seems to negate my statement.
    He laughs, which infuriates me. 
    “I don’t like you,” I say, sounding like a petulant four-year-old. But his laugh confirms all my beliefs about men—they only want one thing, and as soon as they get it, they move on when something better comes along. They don’t care about me at all.
    He just laughs a little harder. “I’m sorry, Ashley.”
    Despite my irritation toward him, my name in his mouth gets my attention. I like the way it sounds, even though he is laughing at me. “What’s so funny, anyway?”
    “This whole thing.” He gestures to the general space we occupy. “You standing in the middle of the road during a blizzard, me finding you in the snowbank, and to top it all off, you wearing my t-shirt, which is about twenty sizes too big.”
    I don’t see what’s so funny about all of that, but I use the moment to take a deep breath and collect my emotions.
    “Can you walk?”
    I glare at him. “Obviously not.”
    He stares back, like my glare doesn’t intimidate him at all. Then he smiles confidently and his voice drops an octave. “May I carry you? Or are you going to crawl?”
    That confidence puts me over the edge—like I’m going to swoon at his feet just because he’s breathing. That, plus his laughter. “I’ll crawl, thanks.” The look of surprise on his face boosts my spirits. My answer is clearly unexpected. Good.
    Any pretense of being nice vanishes from his face. “Fine.”
    First he tries to run me over, then he laughs at me, and now he’s mad at me. Typical.
    I want to begin crawling—I'm cold and want to get back under my blanket—but he hasn’t moved, and I'm not about to have him watch my progress from behind. “Go ahead,” I say, motioning for him to go in the living room.
    He stares at me impassively. “Ladies first. I insist.”
    I stare back, but he is good at staring contests, and I look away first. A shiver races through me, and I begin to feel more desperate to wrap that blanket around my shoulders and bare legs. Fine. If he wants to look at my ass while I crawl, then . . . fine.  
    Trying to keep my backside lowered so his view will be hindered—which is pretty much impossible—I get up on my hands and knees and awkwardly began crawling forward. 
    After about five seconds Drake storms past me and into the living room. “You are one stubborn woman,” he mutters.
    I ignore him, but find it much easier to crawl when I'm not worrying about a peeping tom having a prime view of my ass—but at least I'm wearing my lacy black panties. It doesn’t take long for me to reach the couch, and I use my good foot to propel myself onto the couch. I wrap the blanket around myself as I curl up in my corner, and after a moment shivers course through me as my body starts to rid itself of the chill.
    “Why don’t you come sit in front of the fire?” Drake asks, patting the area rug next to him. “It feels really nice.”
    “I’m fine over here, thanks.”
    “Suit yourself.” Then he turns around and faces the fire, ignoring me.
    Glancing toward the window, I notice it’s getting dark outside, which means the temperature will soon drop. The thought makes me aware that the blanket isn’t really doing enough to warm