Dillon Alexander has been Kit Derby’s nemesis since third grade, when he beat her in the school spelling bee. They’ve been competing ever since, driving each other to be the best at everything from science fairs to bake sales. While working together one night during their senior year, they stopped bickering long enough to share an emotionally charged kiss. But a tragedy that same night left them both racked with guilt, driving Dillon out of town and leaving Kit determined to keep her distance.

Now an emergency room physician, Dillon has returned to their hometown of Chance, Nebraska. Soon he and Kit fall back into old habits, sparring in public while trying to stay out of each other’s arms. But when a blizzard traps them overnight at Kit’s grandmother’s farmhouse, the real competition begins: Who will be the first to give in to the feelings they’ve denied for a decade?

“Get in the truck,” he said resignedly. “But I swear, I’d better not hear one word bitching about the cold.”

She did as she was told and stubbornly refused to so much as shiver as the arctic air hit the thin material of her pants. She had a coat on—though admittedly, the red wool was more for fashion than true protection against the elements, too.

Dillon got in and cranked the heat without a comment. So she didn’t comment, either. Like with a thank-you. Instead she sat, hating that he could make her act like a twelve-year-old. He reached behind the seat and pulled out another knit cap and a pair of heavy work gloves.

“At least put these on.”

She looked at the items, then up at him.

“I know they don’t match your outfit, Doc. But I don’t want you to lose a finger. I like you having all ten.”

She felt her eyes widen. Because when he said stuff like that, her mind flooded with memories. How could it not?

Something most people didn’t know about Chance’s very own superhero, Dr. Dillon, was that he was a dirty talker.

“You should not say stuff like that,” she admonished, taking the hat and gloves. “If we’re going to be living here and working together, we have to put all of that behind us.”

Dillon draped an arm over the steering wheel and twisted to face her. “Say stuff like what?”

“That you like my fingers.”

His gaze grew mischievous, and Kit worked to control her thundering pulse as the impending sense of oh crap washed over her. Dillon was a big, smart, demanding, badass know-it-all. And that got her going. Despite her best intentions and all the self-talk she knew and taught patients. But when he got charming and playful, her resolve—and her panties—seemed to just dissolve.

It was very rare that he was anything but serious and bossy and determined. Which was probably why his fun-loving side was so potent.

“Why, Dr. Derby, I have no idea what you’re referring to. I meant that as a professional who needs to do a lot of writing and typing, you need all ten fingers to do your very important job for this town. What did you think I meant?”

She huffed out a breath and pulled on the hat and gloves. “Bullshit, Dr. Alexander,” she told him. Then decided that there was no reason not to be very direct and clear in her communication with him. That was what she would have advised a patient in her position, after all. “You were referring to liking things I’ve done with my hands . . . with you . . . in the past.” She faced him. “Like letting you lick hot fudge off them, and when you wanted me to touch myself, and, of course, the hand jobs.”

The air in the cab of the truck heated easily twenty degrees as Dillon sat staring at her. Kit bit back a smile. She felt rattled when she was around him on a regular basis. It was nice to know that she could make the superhero doctor speechless.

Finally he shook his head, then pulled off his hat and gloves and tossed them onto the seat between them. “Thank you for that. With those memories, I’m not going to need anything else keeping me warm for a while.”