Thank you for your continued support. I appreciate it. Thank you Alex :)

Standard disclaimer.

If it's a toss up between men and chocolate, bring on the chocolate!

Mercedes scrambled backwards, or tried to anyway, but the big hand on her ankle held firm.

The hand appeared, to be attached, to an even bigger body...belonging to a male.

Fear and panic bubbled in her throat, and she simply reacted, chucking Quinn's phone at her captor's hooded head.

It bounced off his cheek, without much of a reaction, other than a grunt.

The guy was sprawled flat on his back, half covered in snow. And still holding her ankle, in a vice-like grip, he shifted slightly and groaned.

The sound didn't take her out of panic mode, but it managed to push another emotion to the surface...concern.

Since he hadn't tried to hurt her, she leaned over him, brushing the snow away, to get a better look...which wasn't easy, with the wind pummeling her, bringing more icy snow, that slapped at her bare face.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

The man was non-responsive, his down parka was open, and he was wet and shivering.

Pushing his blonde hair from his forehead, she saw the first problem. He had a nasty gash over an eyebrow, which was bleeding profusely, in a trickle down his temple and over his swollen eye.

Not from where she'd hit him with the phone, thankfully, but from something much bigger and heavier...probably part of the fallen tree.

His eyes suddenly flew open, his gaze landing intense and unwavering on her.

"It's okay," she said, trying to sound like she believed it. "It looks like you were hit by a large branch. You're going to need stitches, but for now I can..."

Before she could finish that thought, she found herself rolled beneath...what had to be...almost, two hundred pounds of solid muscle.

The entire length of her, was pressed ruthlessly hard into the snow, even her hands, which were yanked high over her head, and pinned by his.

He wasn't crushing her, nor was he hurting her, but his hold was shockingly effective.

In less than one second, he'd immobilized her, shrink-wrapping her, between the ground and his body.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, voice low and rough. It would have brought goose bumps to her flesh, if she hadn't already been covered in them.

"Mercedes Jones," she said, struggling to free herself, but she'd have had better luck, trying to move a slab of cement.

Breathing hard, eyes dilated, clearly out of his mind, the guy leaned over her, the snow blowing around his head, like some twisted paragon of a halo.

"You have a head injury," she told him, using the brisk, no-nonsense, 'I'm-In-Charge' tone, she saved for both the ER and her crazy siblings. "And you're hypothermic."

And he was getting a nice red spot on his cheek, which she suspected, was courtesy of the phone she'd hurled at him.

'Best not to bother him with the reminder of that.'

"I can help you, if you let me."

He just stared down at her, not so much as blinking, while the storm railed and rallied in strength around them.

He wasn't fully conscious, that much was clear.

Still, testosterone and dark edginess poured off him, emphasized by his brutal grip on her.

Mercedes was cataloging her options, when the next gust hit hard enough, to knock his hood back, and with a jolt, she recognized him.

Mysterious Cute Guy.

At least, that's how he was known around Lucky Harbor. He'd slipped into town six months ago, without making a single effort to blend in.

As a whole, Lucky Harbor wasn't used to that. Residents tended to consider it a God-given right, to gossip and nose into people's business, and no one was exempt.

All that was known about the man, was that, he was staying in a big rental house up on the bluffs.

There'd been sightings of Mysterious Cute Guy at the Love Shack...the town's bar and grill...and also at the local gym. He was also spotted, filling up some classic muscle car at the gas station.

But Mercedes had only seen him once in the grocery store parking lot, with a bag in hand.

Tall and broad shouldered, he'd been facing his car, the muscles of his back straining his shirt, as he reached into his pocket to retrieve his keys.

She'd watched, as he slid his long legs into his car and accelerated out of the lot, just barely catching a flash of dark Oakleys, a firm jaw, and pouty lips.

A little frisson of female awareness, had skittered up her spine that day, and even wet and cold and uncomfortable beneath him, she got another now.

He felt much colder than her, making her realize, she had no idea how long he'd been out here.

He was probably concussed, but the head injury would be the least of his problems, if she didn't get him warmed up and call for help.

"Let's get you inside," Mercedes said, ceasing to struggle beneath Mysterious Cute Guy, hoping that might calm him down.

She got no response, not even a twitch of a single muscle.

"You have to let me up," she said. "I can help you, if you let me up."

At that, he seemed to come around a little bit.

Slowly, he drew back, rising up off her, until he was on his knees, but he didn't let go of her, his hand was still manacling both her wrists.

His eyes were shadowed, and it was so dark outside, she couldn't see their color. Actually, she couldn't see much of anything, but she didn't need a light, to catch the tension coming off of him in waves.

Mysterious Cute Guy's brow furrowed.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

"It's you who's hurt," Mercedes replied.

"No, I'm not."

'Such a typical guy response. He's bleeding and nearly unconscious, but he isn't hurt. Good to know.'

"You're bleeding, and we need to get you warmed up, so..."

He interrupted her, with an unintelligible denial, followed by another groan, just before his eyes rolled up.

In almost slow-motion, he began to topple over and Mercedes barely managed to grab onto his coat, breaking his fall with her own torso, so he didn't hit his head again.

But he was so heavy, they both fell.

"Oh my God," came Quinn's quavering voice. "That's a lot of blood."

Mercedes squeezed out from beneath him and looked up, to see both Quinn and Santana, peeking out from between the fallen tree branches and the door frame.

"Holy shit!" Santana said. "Is he okay?"

"He will be." Mercedes scooped Quinn's phone from the snow and tossed it to her. "I need help. I told him I'd get him inside, but my car's better, I think. My phone's there, and I have reception, so we can call for help. And I can turn on the engine and use the heater to warm him up."

Santana leaned over him, peering into his face.

"Wait!" She looked at Mercedes. "You know who this is, right? It's Mysterious Cute Guy. He comes into the diner."

"You never told me," Mercedes said.

Santana shrugged.

"He never says a word. Tips good though."

"Who's Mysterious Cute Guy?" Quinn wanted to know.

"When you get reception on your phone, pull up Lucky Harbor's Facebook page," Santana told her. "There's a list of Mysterious Cute Guy sightings on the wall there, along with the Bingo Night schedule and how many women managed to get pulled over by Sheriff Hot-stuff last weekend. He's engaged now, though, so it's not as much fun, to get pulled over by him anymore. But at least, we have Mysterious Cute Guy, so it doesn't matter as much."

Quinn fell silent, probably trying to soak in, the fact that, she'd landed in Mayberry, U.S.A...or the Twilight Zone.

Mercedes wrapped her arms around Mysterious Cute Guy from behind, lifting his head and shoulders out of the snow and into her lap.

He didn't move, which wasn't good.

"Quinn, get his feet," she said. "Santana, take his middle. Come on."

"It's karma, you know that, right?" Santana said, huffing and puffing, as they barely managed to lift the man...actually, dragged, was more like it. "Because, you promised, you'd go for the first Mr. Wrong who landed at your feet. And here he is. Literally."

"Yes, well, I meant a conscious one," Mercedes replied.

"He's going on the list," Santana said.

"Careful!" Mercedes admonished Quinn, who had dropped his feet. But it was too late. With the momentum, they all fell to their butts in the snow, with Mysterious Cute Guy, sprawled out over the top of them.

"Sorry," Quinn gasped. "He weighs a ton."

"Solid muscle though," Santana noted, being in a good position to know, since she had two handfuls of his hindquarters.

Somehow, squinting through the snow and pressing into the wind, they made it to Mercedes' car.

She hadn't locked it, she had in fact, left her keys in the ignition, which Quinn shook her head about.

"This is Lucky Harbor," Mercedes said, in her defense.

"I don't care if it's Never Never Land," Quinn told her. "You need to lock up your car."

They got Mysterious Cute Guy in the backseat, which wasn't big enough for him by any stretch. So they bent his legs, to accommodate his torso.

Then, Mercedes climbed in and put his head in her lap.

"Start the car," she told Santana. "And crank the heat. Get my phone from the passenger seat..." she said to Quinn. "...and call 9-1-1. Tell them we've got a male, approximately thirty years of age, unconscious, with a head injury and possible hypothermia. Give them our location, so they can send an ambulance."

They both did her bidding, with Santana muttering,

"Domineering little thing," beneath her breath.

But she started the car and switched the heater to high, before turning towards the back again.

Her dark hair was dusted with snow, making her look like a pixie.

"He still breathing?" she asked,

"Yes," Mercedes answered.

"Are you sure? Because, maybe he needs mouth to mouth."

"Santana!"

"Just a suggestion, sheesh."

Quinn ended her call to dispatch.

"They said fifteen minutes. And they said, try to get him warm and dry. Which means, one of us needs to strip down with him, to keep him warm, right? That's how it's done in the movies."

"Oh my God! You two..." Mercedes said.

Santana turned to Quinn.

"We're going to have to give her lessons, on how to be a Bad Girl, you know that, right?"

Mercedes ignored them and looked down at her patient. His brow was still furrowed tight, and his mouth grim.

Wherever he was in dreamland, it wasn't a happy place.

Suddenly, the muscles in Mysterious Cute Guy's shoulders and neck tensed, and he went rigid.

Mercedes cupped both sides of his face, to hold him still.

"You're okay," she told him.

Shaking his head, he let out a low, rough sound of grief.

"They're gone. They're all...gone..."

The three women stared at each other for a beat, then, Mercedes bent lower over him.

"Hey," she said gently, knowing better than to wake him up abruptly. "We've got you. You're in Lucky Harbor, and..."

He shoved her hand off of him and sat straight up so fast, he nearly hit his head on her chin, and then the roof of the car.

"We've called an ambulance," she said.

Twisting around, he stared at her, his eyes dark and filled with shadows.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Fine."

"Really? Because, the last time you said that, you passed out."

He swiped at his temple and stared at the blood, that came away on his forearm.

"Goddammit!"

"Yeah. See, you're not quite fine..."

He made a sound, which managed to perfectly convey, what he thought of her assessment, which turned into a groan of pain, as he clutched his head.

And Mercedes forced him to lie back down.

"Be still," she ordered.

"Bossy," he muttered. "But hot."

'Hot? Did he really just say that?'

Mercedes looked down at herself. She was in wrinkled nurse's scrubs, fake Uggs, and she had no doubt, her hair was a disaster of biblical proportions.

She was just about the furthest she could get from hot, which meant, that he was full of shit.

"Mr. Wrong," Santana whispered to her.

'Uh huh, more like Mr. All Wrong.'

But, unable to help herself, Mercedes took in his very handsome, bloody face, and had to admit it was true.

She couldn't have found a more Mr. Wrong for herself, if she'd tried.

Sam drifted half awake, when a female voice penetrated his shaken-but-not-stirred brain.

"I'm keeping a list of Mr. Wrongs going for you. This one might not be able to make it to this weekend's auction."

"Stop!" said another woman.

"I'm just kidding."

"I still vote we strip him down." This was a third woman.

'Wait! Three women? Did I die and go to orgy heaven?'

Awake now, Sam took stock. He wasn't dead. And he had no idea who the fuck Mr. Wrong was, but he, was very much 'going to make it'.

He noted, he was stuffed in the back of a car...a small car...his bad leg cramping, like a son-of-a-bitch.

His head was pillowed on...he shifted, to try to figure it out, and pain lanced straight through his eyeballs. At that, he licked his dry lips and tried to focus.

"I'm okay," he said.

"Good," one of them repeated with humor. "He's fine, he's okay. He's also bleeding like a stuck pig. Men are ridiculous."

"Just stay still," someone close, said to him. It was the same someone, who'd earlier told him, that he'd been hit by a branch. Though, it felt more like a Mack Truck.

Given where her voice was coming from...which was directly above him...it must be her very nice rack, that he was pillowed against.

Risking tossing his cookies, he tilted his head back to see her.

This was tricky, because...one, it was dark, and two, he was seeing in duplicate.

Her hair was piled into a ponytail, on top of her head. And half of it had tumbled free, giving her...both of her...a mussed-up, just out-of-bed look.

Looking a little bit rumpled, she wore what appeared to be, standard issue hospital scrubs, hiding what he could feel, was a very nice, soft, female form.

She was pretty in an understated way, her features delicate, but set with purpose.

'A doctor, maybe.'

Except, she didn't have the cockiness that most doctors held.

'A nurse, maybe.'

"I know, it looks like you've lost a lot of blood," she said, "But head injuries always bleed more, often making them appear more serious, than they really are."

'Yeah. Definitely nurse.'

He could have told her, he'd seen more head injuries, than she could possibly imagine.

One time, he'd even seen a head blown clear off a body, but she wouldn't want to hear that.

Her blessedly warm hand touched the side of his face and he turned into it, trying to think.

Earlier, when he'd woken up from the nightmare, he'd gone to work on the Shelby, before taking it for a drive.

He'd needed speed and the open road. Of course, that had been before the snow hit, because, even he wasn't that reckless.

He remembers winding his way along the highway, the cliffs on his right, and far below on his left, the Pacific Ocean.

The sea had been pitching and rolling, as the storm moved in long, silvery fingers over the water.

He also remember making it into town...recalls wanting pie and seeing the lights in the diner, so he'd parked.

That's when it'd started to snow like a mother.

He'd gotten nearly to the door, when his memory abruptly ended.

Damn! He hated that.

He tried to sit up, but six hands pushed him back down.

Christ! That'd teach him to wish for a dream about triplets.

Someone's phone lit up, giving them some light, and Sam ordered himself to focus through the hammering in his skull.

It wasn't easy, but he realized, that if he squinted, he could see passed the cobweb vision. Sort of.

Leaning over the back of the driver's seat, was the waitress from the diner, though she was looking a little bit, like a drowned rat at the moment.

The woman riding shotgun next to her, was a willowy blonde and unfamiliar to him...as was the woman whose breasts were his pillow.

"Thanks," he said to her. "For saving my ass."

"So...would you say you owe her?" the waitress asked.

"San," his nurse said, in a warning tone. Then, she shot him a weak smile. "You've had quite a night."

And so had she. She didn't say so...she didn't have to...it was all there in her doe-like brown eyes.

"The ambulance will be here soon," she said.

"Don't need one."

She didn't bother to point out that, he was flat on his back and obviously pretty damn helpless. She just kept her hands on him, her gaze now made of steel, signaling, that in spite of those soft eyes, she was no pushover.

"We'll get you patched up," she said. "And some meds for your pain."

"No," he said.

'Fuck, no!' he screamed internally.

"Look, it's obvious you're hurting, so..."

"No narcotics," Sam growled, then had to grip his head, to keep it on his shoulders.

Grinding his teeth, he rode out the latest wave of pain, then, stars danced around in front of his eyes, shrinking to pinpoints, as the darkness took him again.

"They passed us," Quinn said worriedly, twisting to follow the flashing blue and red ambulance lights, moving slowly through the lot and back out again.

"Did you tell them that we were inside my car, and to look for us here?" Mercedes asked.

"No. Dammit!" Quinn grabbed Mercedes' phone again. "Sorry. I'll call them back right now."

Mercedes looked down at her patient.

He had soft, silky blonde hair, a square scruffy jaw, an old scar along his temple, and a new one forming, right this very minute, on his eyebrow.

His eyes were still closed, and his face white and clammy, but she could tell he was awake again.

"Easy," she said, figuring, she'd be lucky, if he held off getting sick, until they got him out of here.

"What happened?" he said, jaw tight, eyes still closed, his big body a solid weight against her.

It was not uncommon after a head trauma, to keep forgetting what had happened, so she gave him the recap.

"Tree on the head."

"And then, Nurse Nightingale here came to your rescue," Santana told him. "And you said you owed her."

"San," Mercedes said.

"She needs a date this weekend," Santana told him.

"Ignore her," Mercedes said. And over his head, she gave Santana the universal finger-slicing-at-the-throat signal, for Shut It.

But she ignored her.

"If you go with her to the charity auction on Saturday night at the Vets' Hall, you'd save her from merciless ridicule. She can't get her own date, you see."

Mercedes sighed.

"Thanks, San. Appreciate that. But I can so get my own..."

Unbelievably, her patient interrupted her, with what sounded like a murmured ascent, causing Santana to grin and bumped fists with Quinn.

"Five bucks says Mr. Wrong will rock her world."

Quinn looked down at the prone man in Mercedes' lap with clear doubt.

"You're on," she whispered back.

At that, Mercedes gave up trying to control Santana and eyed her patient.

Even flat on his back, he was lethally gorgeous. She could only imagine what he'd look like, dressed to the nines and on his feet.

"She'll meet you at the event, of course," Santana said to Sam. "Because, even though this is Lucky Harbor, we're not giving you her address. You might be a serial killer. Or worse, you could just be Mr. Right."

Another sound of ascent came from Mysterious Cute Guy. Which, actually, might have been more of a moan of disbelief, that he'd agreed to this craziness.

'Right there with you, Mr. Wrong. Right there with you,' Mercedes silently thought.

Stay safe!