Under the canopy of the trees they didn’t have the sun’s warmth, and within minutes Milla was shivering violently. Her wet clothes felt like ice on her, and she realized they were in as much danger from hypothermia as they had been from the water. Diaz, with his greater muscle mass, would do better than she at producing body heat, but he, too, was shivering.
He stopped once and wrapped her in his arms, hugging her close so they could share what meager heat they could generate between them. They stood pressed against each other, and she tiredly rested her head on his shoulder. He felt so hard and vital, but he was as vulnerable as anyone else to the chill of these conditions. She could hear his heart thumping steadily, strongly in his chest, sending warming blood through his veins, and after a while she began to feel a little warmer.
“We’ll make it,” he murmured against her temple. “We have a lot to look forward to tonight. Besides, I have a couple of sweatshirts behind the seat of the truck.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” With effort, she straightened away from him. “The promise of a sweatshirt will work miracles.”
The “mile” he’d estimated was a straight line, but unfortunately they couldn’t walk in a straight line. They climbed up slopes, down slopes, always working their way around to the direction he wanted. They had to hold on to trees when the mountainous terrain grew so steep they couldn’t stand upright. What would have taken them twenty minutes on the flat took them over two hours, and twice he had to replace the bark in her improvised sandals. His sense of direction was unerring, though, and eventually they cut the trail that led them back to the truck.
By the time they reached it, the sun had set and twilight was deep, and the day’s warmth had long since fled. Milla could barely walk, she was so cold. She shuffled along like an old woman, every muscle screaming in pain. She kept thinking longingly of the missing backpack and the ground sheet in it; they could have wrapped it around themselves and huddled together, and replenished their body heat that way. Food wouldn’t have been amiss, either; it had a way of revving up the system. She thought of coffee, a big steaming cup of it. Or maybe hot chocolate. Any form of chocolate.
She thought of Diaz, and what would happen between them tonight—if they made it back to the hotel.
Just when she thought she couldn’t go any farther, she looked up and there it was, that monstrosity of a truck. Nothing had ever looked more welcome. “The keys,” she suddenly croaked. “Are they still in your pocket?”
That was the good thing about jeans when they became wet: they clung. What was in the pockets tended to stay in the pockets, even in river rapids. With difficulty, Diaz dug his fingers into his cold wet pocket, and came out with the keys. “Thank God,” she breathed.
The next hurdle was getting into the damn truck.
Diaz tried to pick her up, but couldn’t. Finally he boosted her enough that she could crawl, giggling, onto the floorboard and from there up onto the seat. The situation wasn’t funny, but the choice was either laugh or cry. He had to hold the steering wheel to haul himself up, and he was shaking so hard it took him three tries to get the key into the ignition. But it was warmer in the truck than it was outside, and after it had idled a few minutes, warm air began blowing from the vents. He pulled two sweatshirts from behind the seat; they were new, with the tags still on them, so he must have bought them today to have just in case. His caution amazed her, because there was no way he could have known they’d fall in the river.
He stripped off the sleeveless remnant of his denim shirt and his T-shirt. Milla wasn’t so far gone that she wasn’t interested in the rock-hard expanse of his lightly haired chest, or his ridged abdomen. She pulled off her own blouse and her wet bra, and suddenly he hauled her across the truck seat, wedging her between the steering wheel and his chest as he kissed her. Their bare torsos rubbed together, his chest hair rasping over her chill-tightened nipples and making them tingle. She wrapped one arm around his neck and snaked the other one around his back, pressing her palm to the smooth, thick muscles she found there. This kiss wasn’t shy, or gentle. He kissed her as if he might not wait until they got back to the hotel, his tongue stroking, his teeth nibbling. He rubbed his hand over her breasts, stroking them, learning their shape and softness and how they fit in his palm.
She whimpered into his mouth. It had been a long time since she’d felt this, too long. She still couldn’t quite believe it was actually happening, that Diaz wanted her as she wanted him.
He was shaking when he drew back, but no longer from the cold. “We’d better get dressed,” he said gruffly, and pulled one of the sweatshirts over her head himself. It was a man’s shirt and there was far too much fabric, but she didn’t care. The garment was thick and dry, and she almost wept at the warmth. He pulled on his own shirt, then took off his wet boots and socks and stuck his bloodless feet up to the floor vent so the truck’s heater could blow right on them. She followed suit on the passenger side. The cab quickly heated, but it was at least fifteen minutes before her shivering subsided and her numb feet began to tingle with warmth. Finally he felt warm enough to drive, and by then the darkness was thick around them.
They had a long drive ahead of them back to Boise, and even though she was warm now, she felt drained. He had to feel the same. She put her hand on his arm. “Can you make it, or do we need to stop somewhere?”
“I can make it. When we get back to the highway, we’ll stop at the first restaurant we see, no matter what kind, and get something hot in our stomachs.”