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I reach over my shoulder and catch the zipper between two fingers, only for it to slip away the second I pull. After three more attempts, I twist harder, trap one arm behind my head and somehow wedge the other beneath the lace bodice.

Now I can’t move either arm.

“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me!”

I hop sideways, trying to shake myself free, but the train wraps around my ankles and my heel lands on the hem as I fall backward, hitting the center of the steering wheel through the open door.

The car horn blasts across the silent mountain, officially announcing my arrival in hell.

Somewhere in the darkness, a dog starts barking. Far below, Chilmore continues sparkling like it hasn’t just witnessed a bride announce her breakdown to the entire valley.

Then a pair of headlights rounds the bend and light floods across the road. A huge black truck rolls slowly towards me with a Christmas tree tied across the top.

I look down at my trapped arms, exposed cleavage and half-detached veil.

Yep. This will be easy to explain.

The black truck pulls in behind my car, stopping at an angle that shields me from the road. Its hazard lights begin flashing, spilling orange lights over the snow, the trees and the bride currently wrestling with her own underwear.

The truck door opens, and I straighten as much as my trapped arm allows.

“No,” I whisper. “Absolutely not. I'm not ready to die. You stay in there.”

The driver does not respect my wishes.

He steps down from the cab just as I wrench my elbow upward. The movement frees my arm, but it also drags the front of my dress sideways until one breast makes a sudden and enthusiastic bid for independence.

My nipple pops into the freezing night air right as the very large man steps down from the truck.

We both stop.

Snow falls through the space between us while my naked boob points directly at him like it has taken responsibility for our polite introductions.

Well. At least I'm getting some action on my wedding night.

The man's gaze drops for half a second before snapping back to my face when he realizes what he's seeing. At least he has the decency to look startled rather than delighted, although the muscle twitching beside his mouth suggests the distinction may not last.

I shove my breast back into the dress.

“It’s cold,” I blurt.

His eyebrows lift as he scrubs at the thick stubble covering his chin. “I noticed.”

“I meant that’s why it…” I wave toward my chest before remembering that drawing further attention to the escaped nipple is unlikely to improve this conversation. “Never mind.”

The man closes the truck door and walks toward me, his heavy boots crunching through the fresh snow. A dark winter coat stretches across his shoulders, and even from where I'm standing, I can see they're broad enough to obstruct a doorway. He's wearing a red flannel that's visible beneath the coat, and dark jeans fit snugly around his powerful thighs.

On his head is a black knitted beanie embroidered with the words ASK ME ABOUT MY WOOD beneath a tiny Christmas tree.

It should make him look ridiculous.

It does not.

He looks warm. Rugged. Enormously masculine. Like the mountain has produced a very sexy answer to every irresponsible thought I have ever had and sent him down here to test whether my poor decision making skills can deteriorate any further today.

Worse, the closer he gets, the more my desperate libido stirs.

Great.